#or maybe I'm just trying to make a puddle into a pool.

[crimsonfeatheredraven]

You know what? I think Jason should be a bit more unhinged about his death. I'm not talking about death jokes or "did you die?" comments or even the angst filled moments that we've been getting, which I respect in their own right.... but I'm thinking more along the lines of him carrying dirt from his grave around in a little pendant that he wears around his neck 90% of the time... using his coffin as a table or bookshelf...having a stain glass window in his actual apartment that has a depiction of the angel that stands over his grave...

I wish he would be allowed to actually enjoy his second life more...but I also think it be interesting to see him have a more macabre fascination with his death without linking it to Bruce...

[vioartemis]

Savior

(Tara Carpenter x fem! Riley! reader)

Summary: After you witnessed your dad's death, you weren't yourself anymore. But maybe all hopes weren't lost... Request are here and here (I have no idea if that's what both of you wanted ._.) Warnings: angst, blood, death (English isn't my first language, I'm sorry if there are mistakes or if something doesn't make sense TvT)

When your friend Tara got attacked by someone in a Ghostface costume, you immediately went to your dad for advice; he had dealt with Ghostface 4 times already, he was in the best position to help.

He told you the rules, the must do... everything you need to know. Of course, he tried to convince you not to stay here, to go with your mom in New York until it was over. But you were stubborn, almost as much as your mother - who, by the way, you were sure was not going to stay where she was with a new Ghostface in Woodsboro.

It was his advice that led you to stay in the hospital with Tara while everyone else was gathered at Mindy and Chad's.

"Don't let her alone, she's going to need support. The police are here to protect her, but she has no one to support her mentally." your dad had told you.

So you were here, sitting in an uncomfortable chair beside her, trying to distract and comfort her. You were not the best at it, but you tried. And she appreciated it. She was glad you were with her.

She was even more glad when the weird noises started. When no one answered her "hello?". When after that, exiting the room to reassure yourselves and find the police officer had become necessary. When you got back in her room, livid, after finding said officer's dead body.

You too were glad you were here to push her wheelchair towards the elevator and make sure she was okay.

Then, Ghostface attacked. You tried to throw things at him, buying Tara more time so she could reach the elevator. But soon, you got overpowered. Fortunately, at that moment, Sam and your dad arrived.

Dewey tried to shoot the killer, and knocked him out, before the 4 of you went to the elevator. Just as the doors were about to close, your dad stopped them, and stepped out, saying that Ghostface must be shot in the head.

As soon as he got out of the elevator, you knew it wasn't going to end well. And yet you thought you could change that and followed him.

Of course, you were wrong.

Your presence didn't prevent Ghostface to kill your dad. If anything, you were sure he took more pleasure doing it knowing you were here, helpless.

You felt as if everything was in slow motion. You knew you need to move, do something, anything, to save him. But it didn't matter how much you wanted to move; you were paralyzed by fear, by shock. Your body wasn't responding anymore.

You weren't even sure you were conscious, until you felt warm tears rolling down your face.

It was a nightmare. It had to be.

You were going to wake up soon, and everything would be okay.

You were trying to convince yourself, but deep down, you knew. You knew it was real.

The knife sinking in his chest, the blood staining his shirt and splattering on the floor, his body lying in a pool of blood... it was all real.

You couldn't take your eyes away from his bloody form, still hoping to see him sit up and shoot the killer. You were so desperate you hadn't noticed Ghostface coming toward you until you tasted blood in your mouth.

And even then, with a knife in the stomach, you were still not reacting.

The arrival of police officers didn't change anything; you were staring at your dad's corpse, dried tears on your face, a puddle of blood forming around you.

The rest of the day was a complete blur for you. You were unable to say what happened after your dad died, nor how you survived that night.

<><><><> ♡ <><><><>

A year after that day, you were still not doing so much better.

Your mom being always moving for her work, you moved out with Tara and the others to New York.

They had learnt pretty quickly not to let you alone; you almost got run over by a car at least 3 times when crossing the road and seemed to have no will to live whatsoever.

Truth was, you didn't care whether you lived or died. You were already dead inside. You didn't take any pleasure in doing anything. Nothing seemed to be able to make you feel better.

Except for Tara.

She was the only one you opened to since you dad died. The only one to make you feel safe. To make you feel anything at all.

And then, Ghostface appeared again, just when you started to think it things would get better, and your mom was between life and death.

All the progresses you had made with Tara were reduced to ashes.

"Y/n...?"

You looked up, hearing Tara's soft voice, as she placed a hand on yours.

"Don't worry, she's going to be okay. She's strong, she'll survive this. Now you must focus on yourself. I don't want to lose you..." she paused, seemingly thinking of how to phrase what she wanted to say "I know it's hard for you since last year but... Y/n, I- you're very important to me... much more than you could imagine..."

When she looked at you, her dark eyes were filled with something you never saw in them before. You were not quite sure what it was, but it was here.

As always when you were with her, your heart started beating faster. At this moment, it was like a bubble had formed around you. Nothing else existed anymore. It was just the two of you.

"I really want to kiss you right now... Is it okay...?"

You nodded slightly, almost instinctively.

One of Tara's hands snaked to the back of your neck while the other went to your cheek. She pulled you down a bit as she tilted her head up.

When your lips finally met, you felt a pleasant warmth flow through you. Her lips were soft against yours. The kiss was gentle, yet full of love. It felt right, so right.

"Tara, Y/n, we-"

You pulled away as you heard Sam's voice, a slight blush spreading across your face.

"Jesus, Sam...!" Tara hissed at her sister

"I'm sorry I ruined your moment, but we have other problems right now.. It was a trap, we're locked here, Kirby-"

She got cut off by Ghostface barging in the room, stabbing Tara in her back before any of you could react.

You felt something snap in you.

The barrier your father's death had built in you collapsed the moment Tara grunted in pain.

You couldn't protect your parents from Ghostface; this time, you would do anything to protect Tara. She lit up your world when you were alone in the dark. She gave you a reason to live, something to fight for.

And you would put all your strength in this fight.

As Tara fell in your arms, Ghostface tried to stab her again. You kicked him in the stomach, making him stumble a few meters away.

You took this opportunity to drag Tara towards the door, following Sam who already opened it. The three of you made your way to the main part of the shrine, when Ghostface jumped right in front of you.

He tried to stab you, but luckily you dodged the knife.

A chase started in the shrine; Ghostface was behind you, he didn't seem to give up, and was soon going to catch up to you.

With both Carpenter sisters' help, you managed to make him fall to the ground after throwing the popcorn machine to him. Tara even kicked him in the face -which you found kinda hot.

You grabbed a heavy object on the counter and were about to slam it on Ghostface's head, when you felt a blade sink in your side; another Ghostface had come from the shadows, and now both of them were stabbing you.

Tara tried to help you, but Sam held her back.

"Go." you managed to say, blood dripping down your chin, right before the two killers pulled their blades out of your abdomen

You fell forward, face first, and everything turned black.

When you regained consciousness, you were laying in a puddle of blood, alone. Your wounds hurt so bad. Every inch of your body hurt; you just wanted to lay here and sleep.

But a scream in the other room made your heart stop. Tara. She was in danger. You needed to get up and help her.

As much as you wanted to, your body didn't seem to want to move.

"Come on...! Just fucking get up Y/n...!" you told yourself, with gritted teeth

With a strangled scream, you managed to stand up. But you were weak, you could barely stand without something to support you.

Despite that, you started walking to the main room; the thought of Tara being in danger was enough to give you strength.

And when you saw Quinn attacking the brunette, you didn't feel the pain anymore. Or you didn't pay attention to it. The only thing that mattered was to save her.

You made your way towards them, grabbing a brick on a pile, and once you were close enough, smacked Quinn's head with it. The shock sent her to the floor, and she dropped her knife.

You were quick to take the weapon and grabbed the redhead by her hair. Even in this position, she had a wide, crazy grin on her face.

"Oh, Y/n. You're tougher than I thought. But are you strong enough to kill me before I end your girlfriend's life? Not so sure" she said, as she shoved two fingers in one of your wounds

You clenched your teeth not to give her the satisfaction of hearing you scream in pain.

"It hurts, doesn't it? I wonder if it will hurt that much when I'll sink my blade in her-"

"Don't you fucking dare." you growled, glaring at her

"Or what? You'll kill me? I don't think you will. You're too good for that. Your father wouldn't want that, would he? He's gonna be pissed from where he is if you-"

You didn't let her finish her sentence. In one swift motion, you slit her throat. Blood splattered on your face, before she fell to the ground.

You looked at her for a second, making sure she was really dead, before turning to Tara.

"You okay?" you asked

"Y-yeah, thanks to you..."

You nodded at her words.

"Great"

Immediately after saying that, your legs couldn't hold you anymore, and you collapsed on the floor, passing out again.

An undefined period of time later, voices around you made you open your eyes. You were on a stretcher, oxygen mask on your face. Surprisingly, you still were alive.

The paramedics made you exit the shrine, and Tara rushed to you as soon as she saw you. She took off your mask and kissed you, but quickly stopped when she realized you might need that oxygen.

"I was so worried about you..." she whispered

"I don't know why... I'm perfectly fine" you said jokingly

She rolled her eyes, but you could see she was smiling.

"I'm happy you've regained your will to live"

"It's all thanks to you..." you replied with a smile "Really, if I hadn't fell for you... I don't think I'd still be here"

"So I'm kinda like your savior, hm?" she asked with a slight smirk

"Yeah, you can say that" you chuckled

Tara's grin only got wider at your words. She placed a soft kiss on your forehead, before whispering

"I love you"

"I love you too, Tara"

[quickiesgirl]

Distraction - Joel Miller

Paring: Pre-Outbreak!Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

Warning: 18+, Smut, Dom/Sub, Car sex(ish?), Vaginal Fingering, Hand Kink, Dirty Talk, Older Man/Younger Women, Established Relationship, My Shitty Writing.

A/N: I've had this idea in mind for a few months and I'm pretty pleased with how it turned out so I hope all the slutty Joel lovers enjoy.

Kinktober 27 - Car Sex

Romantic oldies played on the radio as you sat in the passenger seat, chin weighing in the palm of your hand while your teeth sunk tightly into your lip, acting as if you were gazing out the window at the radiant stars filling the sky. 

Though the night was beautiful, you had something else on your mind for the past hour, Joel Miller. 

 His arm was across the truck's center console with his large, appealing hand reached across, comfortably cupping your inner thigh, fingers molding into your plushness, while the other remained on the steering wheel. 

This simple, loving action reminded you of the lustful effect he had on your body. 

You looked to the side and gave yourself a moment to admire your partner. His coffee-brown gaze concentrated on the dimly lit road ahead with small wrinkles creasing near his eyes, graying scuffle along his jaw, leading up to his teased hair. Your legs pushed together, seeking relief from the ache between your legs.  

“See somethin’ you like, sugar?” Joel interrupted your train of thought with that husky, southern accent.  

“Maybe,” You shoot a flirtatious smile his way, feeling his thumb graze back and forth across your smooth, supple skin, making a shiver roll down your spine. 

It was instinctive nature to be close to you, always touching you in some way, just like he was now. Occasionally, he would remove himself to take sips of his coffee but always returned to give a light squeeze. Not only was praise his love language but so was physical touch. It was such a comfortable position, he could drive like this for hours, you by his side, his hand settled in your lap, warming from the skin-to-skin contact. 

It was a very loving action, but at times, it was torturous teasing. You hoped he’d just pull over for a spontaneous fuck, moving to the back and watching cars drive past while the truck rocked back and forth, and the windows steam from your hot, heavy breaths.

“You know, sweetheart, we still gotta few hours to go and I can handle the rest of the way, you should try to get some sleep,” Joel suggested in that thoughtful, caring manner of his, unable to feel the heat between your legs, the reason you’d been so restless, but you weren't about to mention that. 

“I know, but I'm wide awake, I doubt I‘ll be able to fall asleep right now.” You responded with a slight shrug of your shoulders.

He nodded and looked forward, back towards the road. He slowly dragged his fingertips up, moving closer and closer to your desperate cunt. Your hips hoist themselves up slightly, needing him in these moments. 

Joel chuckled before applying another light squeeze to your luscious thigh, listening to you sigh softly, legs clasping together before he finally spoke up, “You’re so tense, sweetheart... Are you sure you don't need some- relief?”

“W-well, what do you mean?” You stammered, trying to make it seem as if you weren't currently sitting in a pool of arousal, but that longing gaze told it all. Your body burns in a feverish warmth, embarrassed to admit that simple action was the cause of this puddle beneath you. 

You’d been with Joel long enough for him to know all of your fixations. One he took to his advantage was his hands. He’d seen you looking into your lap, silently inspecting every detail, the lengthy fingers of his hand which were a warm skin tone, a callous look to them after years of hard work, picturing the numerous times they’ve been inside you, so deep that you can feel them grazing along your cervix. You shifted continuously in a desperate manner that caught his attention, and it was relatively easy to recognize what was happening. 

“Don't think I haven’t noticed the way you’ve been starin’ or the way them thighs been clenchin’ like there's no tomorrow.” Joel said, making your pussy flutter against the soft material of your panties, “I can pull over and help you unless you want me to keep on driving?” 

“I-I don’t think I can wait any longer… Please, just touch me.” You whimpered in a pathetic plea that made him take action and order. 

“need’ya to spread those beautiful legs for me, darlin’.”   

You did exactly as told, like the good girl you were, and allowed him as much access as possible while he drew your silky pajama bottoms to the side along with those cute, lacy panties of yours to unveil your aching cunt. 

“There she is...” Joel purred, resting his wrist upon your pubic bone while he took a moment to trail the tips of his fingers across your slit before parting his pointer and ring finger in a v shape, opening those puffy, wrinkled lips wide open to fully expose your arousal-soaked self before running his middle digit up and down. He proceeds to trace a few light circles on your clitoris before extending to your entrance which had been drooling. 

You inhaled sharply, ogling the sight of his hand traveling between your thighs, veins protruding in his hand, up to his forearm, just below the rolled-up sleeve of his button-up shirt. 

“Poor girl been achin’ for my touch, hasn’t she?” Joel said, pressing himself to your hole, watching you nod with those yearnful eyes and a needy, little pout, “Don't worry, darlin’, I’ll take good care of this pussy. All you gotta do is lay back and relax that pretty self for me...” 

He pushed his index and middle halfway inside, your inner walls swallowing him into complete warmth that made his cock strain in his jeans, imagining what your pussy would feel like, wrapped around him. 

Joel keeps his eyes on the road ahead, keeping steady control of the vehicle as his digits start moving in and out at a slow yet rhythmic pace, stroking your walls and massaging into the spongy tissue of your G-spot.  

“Jesus, this perfect fucking pussy, so wet and tight, it’s made to be fucked by an older man like me. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

“Y-yes- oh god, it feels so fucking good.” You gasped softly, melting into the passenger's seat, head tossing back and thighs spreading further apart. 

“I know, sugar,” He purred in his sweet southern draw, burying himself till he was knuckles deep inside your sweet pussy with a thick layer of arousal coating his fingers. He gradually increases his pressure and speed, causing the tension of lust to knot in your stomach.

A pornographic sound leaves your pretty little lips, making him smirk proudly and curl his fingers faster from your reaction. 

You stretched the seat belt from your torso, raising your shirt past your breasts to openly fondle yourself. It was such a scandalous image for Joel to witness, and luckily for you, at this hour of the night, no other vehicles were in sight. But with all this pleasure consuming your mind, getting noticed was the least of your concerns.

He let out a low grunt, grip tightening around the steering wheel when he catches a glimpse of the bud of your erect nipple poking between your digits while you continue massaging at the soft flesh. You moan softly, thrusting forward only pushing him deeper inside your cunt. 

“That's it, darlin’, keep rollin’ those hips. ” 

The muscles in his forearm contract, forcing a third digit inside your pussy, pressing against your g-spot at a rapid pace with the palm of his hand pressed into your neglected clit, throbbing against the pressure. 

You moaned softly, mind concentrating on the euphoric state that was pulling you even closer to the edge. 

“Come on, sweetheart, let me feel you make a mess all over my fingers.” Joel increased his speed, feeling how close you were while he watched you fall apart right then and there.

Orgasmic shockwaves grip your entire body, making your inner walls contract and squeeze around him as you release all the built-up tension. Moaning out of complete pleasure with the older man’s name written across your lips, drowning out the sound of music playing on the radio with your filthy, disgraceful noises. 

A glazed-over look filled your eyes after you came, along with a sleepy-filled high, feeling the way he carefully dragged his fingers out and raised them to his mouth, casually wiping away your wetness with his wide tongue.

“Jesus…” You mutter at the lascivious sight as he smirks mischievously. 

Proceeding to lower your shirt, you feel his hand return to your thigh, which makes a warmness flutter through you as you scooch closer and happily lace your hands around his arm. 

“Feelin’ better, honey?” Joel asked, stroking his thumb back and forth against your supple skin.

“Mhm, just the remedy I needed.” A smile spreads across your face as your eyes stay in his direction. 

The pleasant sound of music and the soft scent of cum filled the truck. Something about this intimacy, sitting in silence with the radio on low and basking in the moment with your lover, was so incredibly soothing. 

Sometimes, you wonder how you ended up with such a loving partner to call yours. It's a special feeling to have him in your life. But for now, you’ll have to wait to show your appreciation through a nice fuck, and his favorite home-cooked meal once you’re back home.

His dark brown eyes glance over, watching yours become increasingly heavy till they’re finally fluttered shut, and after a few seconds of silence, you hear his voice say ever so softly, “Get some rest, hun, I’ll wake you when we’re close to home.” 

“Mmm, thank you.” You mumbled sleepily, loosening your grip above his wrist to eventually slide down to lay your hand on his, falling asleep soon after with his soothing touch still in yours.

It was barely light outside when he pulled up to the house, shutting off the truck and looking at his sweet angel, who’d been sound asleep for the last few hours. 

Instead of waking you, which he had no intention of doing, he quietly carried you inside, up the stairs to the bedroom, where he laid you on the mattress, feeling you stir slightly in your sleep before pulling up the covers and placing a gentle kiss on your forehead, leaving you to get the rest you need.

Joel Miller Smut Taglist: @cutesyscreenname @milly-louise

Taglist Form | Message if you want to be removed <3

[red-riot-unbreakable-heart]

BakuDeku | A Rainy Day Together ☔️💚💥

I wrote one of these for DabiHawks last night, and felt inspired to give BakuDeku a little rainy day love as well :) Enjoy! - RRUH

------

Katsuki groans when he sees the weather report for the day: cloudy and overcast, with an 80% chance of rain. He had been looking forward to a day at the park with friends - plans for a game of basketball and a shared bento box on the dewy grass had been swirling around his mind all week. All those plans were quickly going up in smoke as the first thick rain drops pelted down on his kitchen window.

"Shiiiiiit." He sighs, texting his group chat to postpone their plans for a sunnier day. The rain is picking up - battering the tiny apartment and sinking Katsuki into one of his gloomier moods. He slumps over to his couch and buries himself in his favorite weighted blanked. His boyfriend Izuku had gifted it to him earlier in the month - a housewarming gift when he had signed the lease to his very first apartment. He wraps himself up and lets weight of the material sink onto his chest. He's longing for the sun, willing the clouds to part and -

There's a knock on the door. Katsuki looks up in surprise - the rain is pelting the door with a steady rhythm. Whoever is knocking on his door must be absolutely soaked. With an effort, he wrangles the heavy blanket off of him and trips his way to the door. He throws open the bright white storm door to see his favorite person in the world - Izuku. His freckled boyfriend is beaming up at him from the stoop, soaked to the skin and trying his best to shield bags of groceries from the torrential downpour.

"Kacchan!" Izuku glows like the sun, letting Katsuki pull him into the threshold. He drops the grocery bags to the ground with a splash.

"It took you so long to answer - I thought maybe you had forgotten to put on your hearing aids again." Izuku reaches into Katsuki's fluffy hair and runs a finger along his right ear, checking that the hearing device is in its rightful place.

"Nah - I was just zoning out. Really bummed it's raining. I was looking forward to catching up with the guys from 1A over a game of basketball. It's all gone to shit now." He gestures out at the downpour, locking the door behind Izuku.

Izuku looks at him knowingly. "I figured you might be - that's why I brought snacks! Why not invite the gang over for a movie marathon?"

Katsuki laughs, digging into the grocery bag nearest him. "Oh my God - all you bought is junk! Cookies, potato chips, mint chip ice cream...Deku, we're heroes - we can't be eating this shit!"

"It's a Saturday! It's fineeee." Izuku practically sings, moving to unload all the groceries on the kitchen island.

"You're dripping puddles all over the carpet!" Katsuki grumbles, pointing at the pools of water Izuku is splattering across the clean kitchen tiles. Izuku laughs and continues to dance out of his reach. Katsuki gives up trying to chase him and instead fires off a quick text to their friends: "Movie marathon in an hour. My new place." He's immediately met with a thousand thumbs up and smiley emojis from Mina and Kirishima. They've all been begging to see his place for weeks.

"Oh - I'm gonna invite Todoroki, Shinsou and Ururaka too if that's alright!" Izuku calls over his shoulder as he forces two pints of ice cream into the already full freezer. "Oh - and Ida is back in town after that hero conference! I'll text him, too."

"Whatever, nerd." Katsuki rolls his eyes and busies himself with drying off the floor by the door. He's grown fond of all of their classmates and secretly revels in spending time with the group, despite his grumbling.

Once he's satisfactorily dried the kitchen floor, he grabs Izuku from behind and puts him in a friendly headlock. The green haired hero yelps in surprise, then relaxes when he feels Katsuki plant a kiss at the base of his neck.

"Listen, Deku. If we're going to host a party today you need to make yourself look presentable. You're soaked." He releases his boyfriend and helps him to strip off his wet hoodie and t-shirt. Katsuki pauses for a moment to admire the glistening, hard earned muscles that make up Izuku's chest and stomach. "Go hit the showers, babe."

Izuku laughs and doesn't need telling twice. He dashes to Katsuki's immaculately clean bathroom and chooses the fluffiest towel before hopping into the luxurious shower. Izuku loves that Katsuki stocks all the best soaps and shampoos and bubble baths in his bathroom. The explosion hero is an absolute slut for self-care.

Izuku takes his time, letting the hot water run across his stiff muscles as it banishes the chill from his bones. He grabs a sweet smelling shampoo and lathers it into his curly green hair, enjoying the way the liquid bubbles up in his hands. He can hear Katsuki working his magic in the kitchen - shifting through cupboards to find the fancy popcorn. After ten minutes of enjoying the steam, Izuku turns off the faucet and grabs the oversized bath sheet Katsuki keeps folded just for him.

"Hey, Kacchan - do you have an extra change of clothes I can borrow?" But Katsuki's already thought of that - and Izuku shouts out a quick "never mind!" when he notices the clean pile of folded clothes on the bathroom countertop. After a few minutes fighting with Katsuki's hair dryer, Izuku emerges back into the kitchen - fluffy and clean. A pair of Katsuki's grey joggers are slung low over his hips, and he's sporting a black tshirt with the word "Dynamite!" scrawled across it in a graffiti-style font.

"You look good." Katsuki says appreciatively, holding up two large bowls of freshly made popcorn. He's in full homemaker mode, decked out in his favorite apron and cooking up a storm. "Think this will be enough?" He sets up the popcorn popper with a third bowl.

"Do I smell cookies?! Are you making cookies, too?" Izuku ignores Katsuki's question, bouncing towards the oven to get a good look at the batch of chocolate chip cookies rising on a bright blue pan.

Katsuki puts down the popcorn and pulls Izuku into his arms, resting his hands on his boyfriend's slim hips. He leans in and their lips melt together as naturally as breathing air. "Of course I'm making cookies, loser. They're your favorite."

Izuku grins and opens his mouth to say something cheeky when a barrage of knocks hit the door. He scampers away from Katsuki and towards the entry way to let in their waiting crowd of rain-soaked friends. At the last minute, he turns back to look at Katsuki. He has one hand on the door knob, and a huge smile stuck on his face.

"Kacchan - I love you."

Katsuki's heart squeezes in his chest, and he barely has time to register Izuku's words before the door flies open and Kaminari, Kirishima, Mina and Sero come tumbling across the threshold.

Within minutes, the little apartment is filled with friends, laughter, and tiny puddles of rain. Katsuki doesn't even bother to wipe up all of the rainwater this time - instead, he basks in the glow of Izuku, their friends, and the little life they've built out for themselves in the wake of a rainstorm.

[hiskillingjar]

your girlfriend to dyke posts make me crazy im crawling up the wall i love tjemmm transfem lawlaw... Slobbering... Fat butch strade ... Im going crazy. girlfreak ren.... mwah. Perfection. when u can please Please write more.... you are the only one on this website with such a huge Massive brain for girlfriend to death writings...

YOU ARE SO WELCOME!!!!!!!! this ask got me drooling like a dog thinking about dykes to death, so YES more of them <333

continued lesbicious daddy kink usage ahead and typical btd nastiness. maybe cw for femcel girlfreak misogynycore in ren's too (g-d forbid a woman does anything)

🥀

"Nghh…hah…"

You groaned softly as Law pressed her fingers into your mouth, feeling each worn callous (she'd quit the warehouse weeks ago but her hard-working hands would never go away) rub against your tongue.

The metal of the ring gag was a little painful on your sensitive teeth and the tight leather strap binding it inside your mouth was pulled to its very tightest around your head, but you didn't have the voice to complain about it now.

Especially not now, while you were drooling into her palm.

Lawrence smiled serenely down at you, as beautiful and detached as an angel was to a human being, as you were reduced to a drooling, incoherent mess in front of her. She slowly took her fingers out of your mouth for a moment to look at their hand; not too surprised to find it all dampened with spit.

Then she looked at you again, trying not to smirk.

"…I think someone's enjoying themselves." She murmured quietly, rubbing her fingers together, feeling the sticky wetness of your saliva clinging to her pale skin as it pooled down her wrist and arm and ran down her sleeve.

"Ufff…"

Any potential words came out in a wheeze and a cough, your face flushed with embarrassment as you tried to beg for her mercy with your gaze alone, a mercy you wouldn't come close to receiving.

Lawrence's gaze shifted from her fingers and back to you, and her eyes never left yours once they were there.

"You're a mess…" She said quietly, leaning forward on her knees (her skirt riding higher up, exposing her tight stockings) to where you were bound, your limbs reduced to useless appendages with a severe amount of duct tape, like they had been amputated at the elbow and knee. "I'm honestly not quite sure if I should be turned on or a bit disgusted. Maybe I'm both…"

She brought her palm to her own mouth, then, and your nose wrinkled with silent disgust as she dragged her tongue along the puddle of drool you had left on her palm, moaning wetly at the taste of you as it spilled down her throat.

Law couldn't resist a slightly airy titter at the look of your face, as she drank up your spit and licked her lips as she did it, like she was indulging in a delicious meal.

"Oh," She said, smiling in a cold way that didn't touch her eyes. "I see. I disgust you, don't I?"

You didn't have the chance to react before she leaned in even closer, gripping your shoulders tightly (where your clenched fists were forced to) and bringing her face close to yours. Her tongue trailed along your spread lip, leaving more spit in its wake as it went. You tried to pull back, despite how tightly you were bound, tried to protest or shout out pleas for help, but your gagged lips simply trembled as she dragged her tongue around the gaping maw your mouth had been reduced to.

"Mmm," She moaned, delicately lapping away a string of spittle that joined your lips. "I didn't know you were the type to shy away when someone touches you….I'm sure that wouldn't be an issue if it was anyone else…maybe it's just me you don't like, hm?" She hummed softly, sweetly, eyeing you through her blonde lashes. "Is that it?"

"Upff…" You wheezed, unable to reply in any thoughtful way.

"Do you want to know why I brought you here?" She then asked, her eyes drifting down your bound body, her hand sliding along the collar of your shirt as she tilted her head curiously.

"Hah?" You looked at her beneath your half-lidded, hazy eyes, your toes curling where they had been tied behind you.

"It's because I want you." She said, leaning in to run the bridge of her nose along your trembling jaw, pressing her hand beneath your shirt and feeling the bulky padding of your bra. "I want you so badly…do you want me too?"

"Ah…"

"No, no, you're right, you can't answer that yet." She said slowly, solemnly, with a slight frown as she continued to toy with the collar of your shirt. "So, I know you can probably guess what comes next…right? I've already got you bound…and you're covered in all this drool. We should get you cleaned up."

"Upff…" You grunted in alarm as she stood to her feet and stepped away from your helpless body, her long skirt swishing back down around her ankles, to find a pair of short, pruning shears from her desk of repotted plants and supplies.

Her placid, angelic smile only grew broader as she looked at the shears in her hand and then looked back at you with that same intensely cool gaze.

"Don't worry sweetie, I'm just going to cut away everything cold, that's covering you." She said softly, her voice a gentle and matronly shush. "Just relax. You'll feel much better once I do, I promise. Just try to relax…"

Swallowing hard (the best you could around the metal ring) you stayed as still as you could manage as she slid the cool, metal shears down the front of your shirt and began to cut away the fabric with the sharp snip-snips of metal and shredding cloth

Her breath caught in her throat as the shirt fell off in damp tatters and she saw your bared skin, sticky and wet with drool and spittle.

Law then slowly slid the sheers back up the front of your trembling sternum, all the way up the bottom of your bra, careful to not cut you in the process. She took in what seemed to be a deep breath and gradually cut through both straps of your bra before reaching back to release the hooks keeping the padded cups closed.

You let out a little grunt of discomfort, your cheeks blazing and your head going a little foggy, as your heavy chest sagged downwards and she removed the bra completely from your body, tossing it to the side so that she could see you fully, with no obstructions.

"Do you know how good you look to me right now? How perfect this is…"

Law leaned in slowly again, setting her shears to the side and slowly, gradually, palming her hardened cock through her skirt. She kept her voice as soft and as gentle as possible like she was trying to entice you and not scare you.

Like she was trying to seduce you.

"You're my little doll right now…my little doll that I can do whatever I want with…"

🦊

"What are you up to?"

You rested your chin casually on Ren's slim shoulder as she stared ahead at her computer, backlit by her colour-changing LEDs and the warm glow of her desk lamp, so wrapped up in what was playing on it that she barely even acknowledged you were there.

Ren was weird, in the hot and cold games she liked to play with you.

She went through all the effort of kidnapping you and keeping you in her house, keeping you dependent on her, and yet, she didn't even care enough to pay attention to you when you actually wanted it.

Usually, she would have been ecstatic to have you draping over her, needy and desperate, but not tonight.

"I'm watching a show," She replied a little curly, shrugging you off of her and glaring at you over her shoulder, an eyebrow raised as she tilted his head, her LEDS shifting the a pale blue. "You don't normally hang around my room. What gives?"

"I'm bored, Ren." You complained, just as curtly, toying with the fuzzy point of her fox ear before she swotted at your hand idly. "Is that so wrong?"

"Well, I'm watching this romance anime, so…don't come near me, I need to see this next scene." She said, slightly more aggressively than she probably meant to, and from what you saw, it looked like the episode was nearing its climax.

"Well, what anime are you watching?" You then asked a little tersely, letting out a dejected little huff before sitting on the side of her bed with your arms crossed, watching the screen, feigning interest.

"Shh!" She shushed, sitting forward in her seat, her tail wagging. "This is a very important scene. It's a confession, y'know, the entire show has been building up to this. She just confessed to her!" She muttered under her breath, glancing over at you. "So, can you shut up for a minute?"

"Jesus christ," You mumbled with a slight roll of your eyes and an exasperated chuckle.

"What?" She asked, narrowing her own at you, her ears tipping back, (colours changing to purple).

"Do you realize how much of a NEET you sound? Watching lesbian porn-"

"It's NOT porn-" She interrupted you, raising her voice and pausing the video.

"Whatever," You interrupted back, throwing your hands up. "You're watching pretend girls kiss when you have a real girl half-willing to do shit with you! It's pathetic."

"Well…well," Her cheeks flushed a furious pink in response to what you said and she gritted her sharp teeth angrily, trying her best not to show how much your comment (very obviously) made her blood boil. "Maybe I'd want to do stuff with you too if you weren't such a fucking prude!"

"Excuse me?" You gaped, brows furrowed. "A prude? You're calling me a prude now?!"

"Yeah!" She then stood up with a mean and challenging smile, her ears tipping forward and her tail straight as she stepped closer, intimidating despite her diminutive height. "You really expect me to want to get with you now when it's always you who rejects my advances? You make me sound like a…a," She flounders a little, still red-faced and angry despite her smile. "A disgusting, desperate pervert. No wonder the last boyfriend you had dumped you."

"You are a desperate pervert," You replied through grit teeth, keening back on her bed. "And at least I can date someone. Not kidnap any random girl and hope she learns to like me back."

That was a low blow, you had to admit, but that didn't stop her from replying with a bitter laugh.

"Date someone? Is that what you call settling for guys who probably only want sex from you and will leave you the instant you refuse to do what they say?" She grinned, placing a hand on your bare thigh. "I think you're the pathetic one."

"You sound like an incel," You replied, crossing your arms tighter and frowning (not pulling away as her hand crept higher). "Not a cute look, Ren."

"You know, it's not my fault that no guy wants to stay with you," She replied with a slight tilt of her head, condescending and cruel. "Maybe you should be less bitchy and more compliant."

"Oh, cus that's what you'd want, isn't it?" You replied with a flat look, as her LED lights shifted to pink. "That's why you watch your dumb little, girl's love shows. You want a girlfriend until she starts acting like a person, right?"

"Uh huh," She smirked sardonically without even a touch of shame, her claw toying with the hem of your shorts. "I want a girl to want me back and not complain when I do something she doesn't like. That's what all guys want, too." She scoffed, glancing up at you then and taking your face in her hand, squishing your cheeks and digging her claws into your skin.

"Mph!"

"And really, your looks aren't that bad. I mean sure," She turns your face with a scrutinous look. "You have a face like a mouse…and you have a flat chest. And you're kinda fat, and not even in the cute, cowgirl way." She prodded your chest with her other hand. "But I'm pretty sure if you stopped acting like a prude, a guy might actually like you."

You didn't say anything as she kept a firm grip on your cheeks, turning your face to and fro, not noticing when it started to blaze a bright red.

"Heh, hit a nerve didn't I?" She smirked, bringing her face closer to yours. "Or maybe you should stay with me if you're not going to put in the effort to be a proper girl, hm?"

You made an uncomfortable noise, low at the back of your throat, which made her laugh a mean, yipping, fox-like cackle.

"You know, you're almost cute when you're angry." She joked, before letting go of your cheek and giving it a mean little slap, making you whimper and yelp. "Not that cute, though."

"So, why even keep me here then?" You murmured hotly, eyes flitting to the side and biting your lower lip. "If I'm not even cute, if I'm not what you want…"

"Because you're my property, silly." She said like it was obvious, tilting her head with a wry smile. "Besides, who would care about having my sloppy seconds?"

Your face went a darker red, and you clenched your hands into tight fists in your lap. You couldn't say anything to defend yourself.

Maybe you were the pathetic one after all.

"Yeah, you're really letting me do a number on you. Masochist that you are, hm?" She grinned, her tail wagging a little more. "I can't wait to see what I can get you to do."

🔨

"That's a good girl, my good girl…"

Strade leans in close, her voice dropping to a breathy murmur with a satisfied chuckle, running a hand through your hair as you knelt at her feet (her boots were slightly muddy at the soles, the leather tips scuffed, begging to be looked after) like a well-trained dog.

"You'd be a fantastic little housewife one day, fraulein, I'm sure of it. You're that obedient and eager to serve anyone who raises their voice at you already!" She laughs meanly, ruffling your hair. "For now, though, best to keep you as my little pet plaything, hm?"

"Nghh…" You groan softly as she presses closer to you, her voice low and syrup-sweet, her discomforting warmth radiating off of her and filling you with desire as you tremble and shake despite it. "Uh-huh. Yeah. You should."

She bites her lower lip to hide a broader smile, a hungry groan almost catching in her throat. You can feel the radiating heat in her body, her own desire for you, when she presses even closer, her heavy chest pressing against your bound arms (handcuffed, she didn't have the attention span for anything else), giving away, instantly, that she was not wearing a bra.

You felt your core tighten, with just that little piece of information, coyly eyeing the deep plunge of her cleavage and a dark areola poking out above her low neckline. One of her boots slides between your legs and presses against the front of your panties, and it makes your body tighten further.

"Mmph, god…" She rasps, the hand in your hair turning into an uncomfortable grip as she winds the length of it around her palm and pulls your back straight, rising her leg to press the tip of her boot against the wet patch in your panties as she does so. "Say that again, say you're Daddy's sweet, little plaything…"

It feels good that the obsession is mutual, as she roughly grips your hair, making your scalp tingle and a shot of pleasure run down the length of your spine, and handles you like the plaything she said you were.

"I'm Daddy's little plaything," You say, your voice a little giddy as she holds you tighter, her free hand reaching around to roughly grope your backside. "Mph! I-I love being Daddy's plaything!"

"Yeah, you love it, don't you?" She murmurs hotly, breathing raggedly in your ear as she holds you in a tight grip that makes you almost gasp for air, palming your ass and pulling your face up to meet hers, so you can see her hungry smirk, her deep smile lines, and soft crow's feet. "You love being my little toy, good girl? Du liebst zu dienen, ja?"

You can see a sadistic king of excitement growing in her golden eyes, as her accent grows thick and dangerous, and your cunt is throbbing for it.

"Say you're my toy, say it." She demands, giving your ass a slap before groping your curves some more, pressing more weight between your legs and rubbing your cunt, torturously slow.

"I'm your toy," You gasp with a little shriek, your tone desperate as she growls her pleasure into your neck, as her big hands span your waist, your hips, your thighs, dirty nails digging into your skin, leaving you with marks you would treasure. "Ngh, I'm your toy, Daddy!"

"You're my toy, that's right," She breathes hard, giving you another slap and listening to you yelp. "You're mine. Mine, mine, mine."

"Mmhmm," You whine needily with a dreamy smile as you climb onto her lap with trembling legs (secretly delighted that she let you do it without pushing you away), covering her soft jaw, her neck with hot kisses. You want this, you want her, as much as she wants you and further. "Yours, yours, yours…"

Her hold tightens as she pulls you in, pulling your scarred legs around her full waist. Her fingers detangle into your hair, running down your cheek and your jaw, and her breath is hot against your panting lips.

"You're mine forever." She murmurs, kissing you very quickly. "You belong to me."

Her voice is dripping with obsession, a desire so strong it makes you shiver and you feel like you'll melt right there on top of her before you even get the chance to say anything.

So much for being a plaything.

"Kiss me," You plead softly, holding her jaw in your hands (your handcuffed wrists red raw and bloody), looking down at her like you were looking at your entire fucking world. "Kiss me and love me and take me, just like this…"

Her hands tighten, her grip firm on your cheeks, on your hip, and her parted lips on your neck. Her teeth graze along your throat, nipping and biting and leaving mean little bruises behind, and you can feel her breath hot against your skin.

"I own you," She rasps in a rough whisper as she pulls you in. "I'll love you, in my own special way, but I'll always own you, do you understand that?" "Mmhmm," You nod again, grazing your lips against hers, full and waiting to be kissed. "You own me. I'm yours."

And then she kisses you.

And whatever mind you still had that wanted to hate this dissipates completely.

[agent-cupcake]

Dramaturgy

Ah yes, another commission to fund my gamer lifestyle from the incredibly lovely and patient @novcaine (thank you <;3)

Pairing: Vampire! Claude von Riegan x f!Reader

Synopsis: Trying to cope with the sudden death of your eccentric father, you fall down a rabbit hole of conspiracy, curses, and your very strange (and very tragic) family history, leading you to the small town of Old Derdriu—and its darkest secret.

Warnings: explicit smut, dub/noncon, kidnap, drugged sex

Tags: horror elements, urban fantasy, blood kink, very unhealthy romantic dynamic, overstimulation, "orgasms make your blood sweeter" trope

Word Count: 27.3k

Notes: I read a few horror stories in an attempt to get the tone right for this one which, as I'm sure you'll notice, heavily influenced me while writing. I really got caught up in lore crafting for this one as well, although the real fun was matching up the serious stuff with Claude's personality.

Act 1

“Thither, full fraught with mischievous revenge, 

Accursed, and in a cursed hour, he hies.”

I.

9th day of Verdant Moon 

As long as I can remember, it’s been just us two. Me and dad against the world. Explorers, adventurers, wanderers. Rogues who chase the horizon to keep the sun close, that’s what he says. Said. There’s always been somewhere new to go, we never stayed anywhere long enough to cast too long of a shadow. 

That’s, more or less, what I said over his ashes. Not that there was anyone around to hear it. A eulogy for nobody. But it was true. It is true. 

Once upon a time (that’s what people say, right?), it must have been when we spent a summer in Arundel living out of a camper trailer because we didn’t have an air conditioner and spent most of the time outside, I asked him why. I don’t know why I remember it so well, but the air smelled like bug spray and pine and campfire smoke. Not ours though, we hardly ever have fires. Dad claims it’s ‘reasonable’ caution. Claimed. 

That night, I don’t know what compelled me to ask, but I did. I asked, “Why do we move so much?” 

He said to listen carefully, and I did, because he never sounded so serious. He said that we have bad luck. He said that it was like water, that it’d pool up around us like a puddle if we stayed still. And I asked why, of course, because that was a confusing thing for him to say. 

And he said, and I’ll never ever forget this, “it’s in your blood.”

I think. Back then, the distinction between ‘your’ and ‘our’ was virtually nonexistent. And maybe, just maybe, my memory is faulty, and he didn’t switch from a collective pronoun to a singular one. I could be seeing ghosts that aren’t there, convincing myself of untruths to explain some of this. It could have been ‘your’, and it could have been ‘our’, but the point is the same no matter how I split it apart. 

I’ve got bad luck. It’s in my blood. I try not to think about that because I don’t want it to be my fault somehow, I don’t even know what I would do if it was. 

But I have to know.

II.

“Excuse me, are you Cheryll Bates?” you asked hopefully, standing at the side of a table where an older woman in a bright pink cardigan sat. Nose crinkled and mouth slightly open in the way only people of a certain age could mimic, she adjusted her blocky red glasses higher to peer up at you. The lenses magnified her small, dark eyes like a bug, not helping the discomfort you felt beneath her unwavering gaze as she scanned you from head to toe. 

“You’re the Macbeth girl?” she finally asked. It took you a moment to realize what she meant. Macbeth, your mother’s last name—a name you only learned of, along with the woman herself, a month previous.

“Uhm, yeah, that’s me,” you said, hoping you didn’t sound as immediately unsettled as you felt. “May I sit?” 

“Be a waste of time if you didn’t,” she said with a slight tinge of an accent, gesturing to the opposite seat with a plump hand. It was the wooden kind with a quilted cushion and long skirt, matching the borderline stifling cozy atmosphere of the cafe. The kind ripe with this musty, dusty, patchouli and tea leaf smell you associated with old women and antiques.

“Thank you for meeting with me,” you said as you sat down, anxiety making your movements awkward. Although Cheryll Bates wasn’t your blood relative, knowing you were related at all was surreal. Throughout your entire life, you’d never heard a single mention of family, of a mom or uncle or grandparents or even a stray cousin twice removed. You should have felt excited, and a part of you was, but you couldn’t stop messing with the cardboard sleeve on your tea, your eyes flitting around the small cafe every few seconds. 

The answers that had gotten you this far had only served to unravel the very fabric of your existence, but you sought them all the same. You had to. Dad used to say that knowing was often uncomfortable, but ignorance was an agony like no other. He said all sorts of wise things, although you learned recently that the truth was not one of them.  

Cheryll’s mouth worked like she was sucking on something, fine lines fanning out around her lips. The sluggishly swaying Tiffany lamp above cast her in an odd, unflattering light, her dark eyes that much more unnerving beneath the shadows. 

“I liked your mama, she was a sweet girl. How much did Indy tell you about her?” 

Indy, as in, your dad. The man who raised you, who cared for you. It was a nickname he had earned in school, apparently, after the titular adventurer and archeologist from an old movie.

“My dad never told me a single thing,” you said, trying not to sound too affected. If you thought about this all as some sort of research project, it was easier. If it wasn’t your life, you could view it dispassionately. So that’s what you tried to do. “I am… aware of what she did though.” 

“It was a terrible thing,” Cheryll said gravely. “Of course she’d already left you in Enbarr with Indy at that point, came home crying that she had a baby girl, that she couldn’t trust herself to even hold you. Nobody had any idea of why she was so upset, we thought she had lost her mind. And then your daddy came to try and bring her back and… well. I can’t imagine how a person could do such a thing.”

Something within you twisted in sympathy of that statement. Even reading an abstract report made your stomach churn. Self immolation as a means of murder suicide wasn’t very common, mostly because it wasn’t practical. The report had no answers for the hows and the whys, only dry facts.

“Do you think it was postpartum depression?” 

Again, Cheryll stared at you with that sour purse of her lips, almost like she was sizing you up. “It was that family of hers,” she said. “I’ll tell you straight, the Macbeths weren’t quite right. Not to say it was their fault, what happened to them, but I won’t glorify the dead, neither. I don’t believe in it. I never wanted my Liv to marry that boy, I knew only bad things would come of it.”

“What do you mean?” you asked. 

“Didn’t you read about what happened to them?” Cheryll asked, an edge of indignation in her voice. “One after another…” She didn’t finish that statement, closing her eyes to visibly, even theatrically, shudder. Then again, having seen the string of death certificates, you didn’t exactly blame her. “I went to a psychic when Liv told me she was getting married to that Macbeth boy, and do you know what they said? Don’t let it happen. But I did. I let her marry into that family, and I’ve had to live with that every day since.”  

“But none of it was on purpose, was it?” you asked cautiously. “The fire was an accident.” 

“An accident,” Cheryll scoffed. “An ‘accident’ that happened right after the two of them had a baby girl. Just like the ‘accident’ that killed your mama’s baby sister. Do you think what happened with your mama was an accident?”

“I thought,” you said slowly, trying to remain calm, wiping that thought from your head and your palms on your jean-clad thighs, “that my mother committed suicide.” 

“All that girl ever wanted was to be a mama. I’m telling you, there was something wrong with the Macbeths and she realized it too late. They were cursed, all of them and especially the girls.” Cheryll paused, contemplating her tea. “That’s why your parents met in the first place. Indy was doing research into the families involved with that tragedy in Derdriu and they were the only two he could find.” Cheryll took a sip, frowned, then continued in an even softer voice. “I s’pose your daddy must have been just as cursed as your mama, but I didn’t know him very well.”

“What tragedy?” you asked.

“The Rain of Blood, they call it.”

“I’ve never heard of that,” you said, getting out your diary to write it down. 

“Reign, not rain,” Cheryll said, peering at your notepad. “Like a king, reign.” 

You erased the word, rewriting it. “Is it a story, or something that happened?” 

“It happened,” Cheryll said. “He and your mama always had a laugh about that, said it was why they had such rotten luck.”

“Rotten luck,” you repeated under your breath, more to yourself than to her.

“They thought it was real funny,” Cheryll said, pulling you from your thoughts. “Indy scorned all the ghost stories, he said that it was a matter of history waiting to be uncovered. It seems like he changed his tune as soon as he saw what happened to them.” 

You thought about your dad who got itchy when you stayed in one place too long, looking over his shoulder like he was being chased by something you couldn’t see. You thought about the puddles of bad luck forming beneath your feet. 

“He might have,” you said, not wanting to think too hard about that. “Do you remember what he said happened? In this Reign of Blood, I mean.” 

Cheryll impatiently waved her hand. “You’d have to find a book or something, I couldn’t tell you other than that. The town burned down after. That’s why you’ve got Derdriu and Old Derdriu. They were connected before the incident, but Old Derdriu had to be completely rebuilt later.”

“So Old Derdriu is newer than Derdriu,” you said, unsure if you were understanding her correctly. 

“Oh, except for the ruins, they kept those,” she said, her head tilting as she remembered. “The castle from way back when Leicester had Kings and Dukes and the like. But I couldn’t tell you any more than that, I’ve never been.”

You wrote that down too, tapping the eraser against your lip as you contemplated all of this new information. Cheryll was drinking her tea, obviously wanting to finish this up. 

“Thank you so much for meeting with me, I really appreciate it,” you said. “Is there anything else you can think of about my dad or…?”

“I’m going to tell you what I wish I had told my daughter,” Cheryll said, looking at you head on. “Leave, now. Go spend the summer on a beach in Enbarr with other kids your age. There’s nothing for you here.”

You swallowed hard, nodding. “Yeah, I… Yeah. I’ll think about it, thank you.”  

III.

21st day of Verdant Moon

Being alone is worse than I thought it would be. Having to do everything by myself, figure out how to buy tickets and schedule stuff and all of that, it’s exhausting. But if I think about that too much I’ll cry and if I cry I won’t stop so all I can do is try to figure out what the hell any of this means. It has to mean something, doesn’t it? Or it’s all just insane nonsense and I’m the unfortunate product of a long line of nonsensical insanity, left to drift through this world with nothing but a payout from a trucking company and ghost stories from an old widow and some undiagnosed madness that was never treated because I had no idea I had a family history of mental illness because I was lied to, over and over again.  

I can’t think like that. 

Earlier, after I left that cafe, I remembered something. It’s weird to have all of these little memories popping up now, things that seemed so insignificant at the time. Maybe they are and I’m just trying to backfill information to explain all of the crazy things I’m learning about my dad and my family. I don’t know. I was just thinking about how during my first year of high school, my dad had a brief stint as a mechanic northwest in Elidure before working through the various little towns scattered around the old border between Adrestia and Faerghus as a construction worker—he even let me borrow the Indech branded pickup truck he’d gotten as a property manager on Lake Teutates to drive to my junior prom. The same truck where I got my first kiss playing spin the bottle with some people I was sort of friends with. I can’t even remember his name. It’s funny, almost. I remember that he tasted like the shitty booze we were all drinking and got way too slobbery and wore a purple tie and that I could see the Big Dipper right above his head but I don’t remember his name. Moving around so much, I guess, I never really bothered to remember things like that. After I graduated, dad and I left it all behind to spend a year on the Rhodos Coast. I liked it there. It was charming. But I always knew we wouldn’t be there long, dad got these twitchy sorts of tics when we stayed anywhere too long.

Anyway, the point is, I mentioned wanting to go east, to Gloucester or something because I heard they had mild summers, and he said no in a completely flat voice, nothing like I had ever heard from him. He didn’t even look me in the eye, just said no. We went to Gwenhwyvar pretty soon after that, and I didn’t bring it up again. Again, it could all be innocuous. It could all mean absolutely nothing. But I wonder.  What if it did? What if there was a reason he wouldn’t take me here? A real, true reason that didn’t have to do with the horrible things that happened to my family? If he seriously thought I was cursed, why didn’t he tell me? What was he hiding? Well, I’ll never know that.

I looked up the Reign of Blood and barely found anything, it’s all some witchy weird occult stuff and ghost stories. The castle itself is called El Dorado, and it’s this sort of icon of superstition, but especially the Reign of Blood which is used as an explanation for why so many people disappeared in the fire. People debate if it happened more than they discuss what might have actually taken place. A part of me thinks that Cheryll was just messing with me, or lying. I don’t know why she would, but it makes more sense than the alternative. Who am I to believe that somehow I’m involved with this huge conspiracy? People who are hurting make up all sorts of weird things to try and come to terms with their pain, I’m just feeding into that. 

I should leave. If dad didn’t think it was a good idea to be here, maybe it’s not. I should move on, that’s what he’d want, right? Keep on moving, never look back, chase the horizon. 

I’ll leave. There’s no point in any of this, it’ll just keep hurting. I’ll leave. Tomorrow. 

IV.

Before you left the city, destination TBD—but that was a lie, wasn’t it? You knew exactly where you were going, you just didn’t admit it because you knew it was stupid and the mark was the last person to admit they’d been conned—you stopped at your mother’s childhood home. It was a white farmhouse style place on the very edge of what used to be a suburban neighborhood but was now quickly giving into the urban sprawl. The Macbeths hadn’t lived there for over twenty years. You could see each of those years weathered onto the house. It was where your aunt died as a young girl. How? You weren’t so sure. Cheryll mentioned illness, but the official record only gave the date of her passing. That was a few years before your grandparents followed. 

If you expected to feel something upon seeing the place, you were disappointed. Not even a twinge of disquiet that’d come with seeing a place possibly haunted by the dead. 

You felt nothing other than a vague curiosity, a pang of regret, or melancholy. Never, not once in your entire life, had you lived in an actual house. The longest you had ever stayed in one place was Enbarr, where most of your earliest memories took place. And then there were a few years in Mozghuz where your dad taught history, and another few in a small Varley town where he worked as a consultant for a local museum. But those were apartments and townhouses and just you and him. No family, few friends. A life of transience, of existing ephemerally, always in a state of maybe or going or somewhere else.

A tingling sense of unease settled through you right then, although not because of the entirely benign house with which you were having an intense stare down. Why were you here? Not only at this long abandoned home, but in Leicester, in Edgaria. What were you searching for other than ghosts? Were you seriously going to believe in the superstition of an old woman who went to psychics and still grieved for her daughter? Bad things happened, sure, but that was true in a lot of families. That didn’t mean anything, you just wanted to assign meaning retroactively because of your pain.

And it did hurt. It always hurt. You lived in a state of in-between and those gaps were yours to fill all by yourself, overflowing with the pain you pretended you didn’t feel. Staring at the old house, you were acutely aware of the in-between. If you closed your eyes, you could imagine him standing next to you, filling up that empty space. 

“Are you lost, Mr. Jones?” you would tease. “I doubt you’ll find the Lost Ark all the way out here.” 

He would groan and ask who told you about that embarrassing nickname, and you would tell him that it was-

Well, you wouldn’t. Because if he hadn’t died, you would never know Mrs. Bates or that you weren’t actually his daughter or that his friends called him Indy. 

The sound of rattling plastic on concrete startled you out of your increasingly dangerous thoughts. The next door neighbor was dragging in his trash bins. He was an older man, his face wrinkled and tan like leather, his posture a little hunched. 

“Excuse me,” you called, trotting over to him. It was a long shot, but better than nothing.

“Huh?” he asked, looking at you with his thick, bushy eyebrows furrowed. 

“Sorry to bother you,” you said. “I was just wondering how long you’ve lived here?”

“How long?” he clarified, his big eyebrows shooting up. “Huh. Gotta be fifty years, give or take.” He laughed, a dry, crinkly sound. “Too long, I say.”

“Did you know the family that lived here about twenty-five or so years ago?” you asked, gesturing to the big white house. “The Macbeths.” 

As soon as you said the name, he tensed up, his friendly demeanor freezing. “Why do you want to know?” 

You raised your hands innocently, surprised by the instant reaction. “I’m their… their granddaughter,” you told him. “I don’t mean to trouble you at all, I’m only curious.” 

His cheeks puffed before he let out a big breath, that defensive posture shifting. “I hate to say that I can’t tell you much. They were always a real private family, kept to themselves mostly. It caused one heck of a scandal, the way everything ended. Don’t s’pose it sat right with anyone, not after-” He cut himself off, thin lips drawing inwards. “No, it’s not my business.”    

“Please, I just want to know,” you said, still placating. “Anything you can tell me, I’d appreciate.” 

He nodded, but his eyes were still cautious. “I’ll tell you this, the missus was very unwell,” he said. “When the youngest daughter died, people spread all kinds of nasty rumors about her involvement. Completely outrageous, what they said. But towards the end, she wasn’t quite right in the head, always talking about some curse. It was no thing ‘sides the agony of a grieving parent, but people took it as an admission of guilt.” 

“It was all an accident though, wasn’t it?” you asked. “Nobody was at fault.” 

“Exactly. If you want my honest opinion, the family had bad luck. There’s nothing more to be said, what with all those little ‘uns involved.” 

Bad luck. The sun beat down on your skin, sweat beading up on your spine and hairline, but you shivered, casting a sidelong glance at the house as if it was somehow watching you, as if talking about these things was dangerous in any way, as if there was a looming manifestation of a bad luck over your shoulder, drooling in anticipation of getting you now that you were the last Macbeth left. 

“I see,” you said, forcing a smile for the man. “Thank you so much for your time and honesty, I really appreciate it.” 

“Of course, have a good day, miss.” 

Act 2

“Who now is plotting how he may seduce Thee also from obedience, that with him, Bereav’d of happiness, thou may’st partake His punishment, eternal misery”

I.

Essar, Hanneman, “Final Look at El Dorado.” 

Excerpt from National Geographic, Vol. 162 

September, 1991

“It was with great honor that I accepted the final invitation to visit El Dorado, the famed yet forgotten home of Leicester’s Duke, and eventual king, Claude von Riegan. The massive, not to mention opulent, castle sits in the cradle between Riegan and Albrecht, kept safe by the steep basalt wall to the south and acres of privately owned forest. For all of its grandeur and majesty, these gilded halls hide dark secrets, secrets that may never be truly known. Historians quibble over the voracity surrounding the chilling Reign of Blood. Was it, as many say, a tragic plague sweeping the population? Could it have been a cult formed following a period of famine? Or, as some fear, does this golden fortress hide a terrifying past of human sacrifice and Faustian bargains? These secrets are what has led to the permanent closure of El Dorado and…

“…For my tour, and indeed, the last ever tour of El Dorado, I was given a set of very specific instructions for the sake of my safety and the conservation of the historic site. The first demanded I stay close to my guide. The second instructed me to only enter rooms filled with natural sunlight. This, I was told, was the surest method of determining which rooms were safe. Truly, health concerns are as much a part of the closure as anything else, it is simply too risky to maintain. I was…

“...Despite the stories of prowling monsters and dangerous curses, nothing came of the tour, save for these beautiful photos I was able to capture in the hopes of memorializing what was once a golden beacon of wealth, nobility, and power. As of today, El Dorado is entirely inaccessible. Trespassers will not only be gambling with their own safety should they wish to enter, they also risk severe jail time and steep fines. As I…”

II.

The Sagittarius Express left Edgaria at nine the morning, and it would arrive in Derdriu around eight that night. Named after the starry archer, it was a fairly straight shot connecting the two major cities. It would be shorter in a car, but you couldn’t bring yourself to get in one of those. After spending the night in Derdriu proper, you would take the gondola up to Old Derdriu.

Settled into your compartment with only two other people—and one of them had been passed out cold ever since you boarded—you continued your research. In general, you were poorly versed in Leicester history. You knew there had been something going on with one of their dukes wresting power away from the nobles to consolidate power and drive out the domineering Church of Seiros, going so far as to annex some of Faerghus’ land, but not necessarily any details beyond that. 

When you looked into the Reign of Blood and Old Derdriu, the castle El Dorado showed as the first result. It was the only structure that remained when the rest of Old Derdriu was razed to the ground. Those were the ruins Cheryll mentioned, the home of Claude von Riegan, duke turned king. Information about the event was sparse. Even when you did find information about El Dorado or the Reign of Blood, to say there was discourse surrounding it was an understatement. And that was assuming you could find historical facts rather than ghost stories. None of this was helped by the fact that, a hundred or so years before the Reign of Blood, King Claude von Riegan mysteriously disappeared. Such a tantalizing yet inexplicable vanishing act gave rise to stories about his occult dealings. Some people said he was cursed by the goddess Sothis for his vendetta against the Church of Seiros. Since El Dorado was his home, his story muddied the waters when it came to researching the Reign of Blood.

As the train pulled out of the station, you pulled up one of the more promising sources you had found: a Xerox of an old Life magazine article penned by some old guy named Hanneman Essar. The quality was terrible, compressed and squeezed dry of detail, but looking at the photos of the once grand castle made you more certain than ever that it was important. Something about the place drew you in, even as you glanced over your shoulder for the cold claws of whatever bad luck your father warned you of. There was no point in asking yourself why, or if you should or shouldn’t—you already knew you shouldn’t—because your course was set in stone. Carved out long before you arrived in Leicester. 

Those sorts of thoughts, the ones that toyed with the idea of fate or destiny, were entertained in the back of your head, the place where you pushed every other unpleasant or undesirable or stupid thought. 

It was better to focus on facts. 

“Are you interested in El Dorado, young lady?” the man sitting next to you asked. You slowly lowered your tablet, looking up at the speaker. A mustached blond man with blue eyes, his eyebrow quirked curiously. “It’s rare to see someone your age taking an interest in history.” 

That bristled you a bit, both his pompous tone and the implication. Even when your father worked other jobs, his fascination with history never waned, and it was the only area of your education that never faltered from constantly moving schools.  

“It’s an interesting place, don’t you think?” you asked in a measured voice. 

“Yes, it most certainly is,” he agreed. “A place most ripe with curiosity and fiction, a paradise for the easily fooled tourists they usher in.”

“What do you mean?” you asked. 

“I should think my meaning is clear. The people in Old Derdriu spread ridiculous stories about El Dorado to stimulate their tourism, all for a place that they have shut off to the public,” he said. “As for the source of my interest, I am Acheron Phlegethon. I don’t doubt you’ve heard of me. I’ve debunked several famous hoaxes across Fodlan, including the fiction of Shambhala’s subterranean civilization. Now I have set my sights upon the legendary vampires of El Dorado.”

“Vampires?” you asked, your eyes widening. 

Acheron squinted at you suspiciously. “I thought you said you had done your research.”

“I only just started,” you said, shrugging in an attempt to hide your ignorance. “I guess that explains why it’s called the Reign of Blood.” 

“Bah, a fiction,” Acheron said, waving his hand. “There is no evidence of the cult they claim existed, let alone of the vampire they insist was the leader. Tell me, if the town or its people were truly cursed, why did retribution stop with a single fire that could easily be attributed to a natural cause? The deaths are the same, nothing more than a result of the violent beasts that are known to prowl that area. As I said, they sell these stories to bring tourists into their town. It really is the most insidious scheme, one that I will not tolerate. My next book will be the most comprehensive look at this scam to date, it’s sure to be a hit.”

“How do you know?” you asked. “Do you have any evidence that it’s a lie?” 

“Evidence?” he asked, baffled. “Why, common sense. There is no such thing as vampires or curses, need I any better evidence than that?”

“Yes.”   

Acheron’s eyes narrowed further, his mustache twitching. “It seems you are too young to be sensible. I recommend you continue to study historical facts instead of believing in superstitious bunk.” He paused, his head tilting. “If you give me your email address, I can add you to the preorder list for my next book. I’ve no doubt that you would find it most edifying.”  

“No, thank you,” you told him. 

“Hm, very well. I shan’t disturb you further,” Acheron said, pulling a pillow around his neck and a set of headphones from his bag. “Oh, and good luck with your research, young lady.” 

“Thanks, you too,” you told him, although he was already pulling on an eye mask and probably couldn’t hear you. 

You turned away from the man to look out the window, your thoughts whirling. If you believed that your family could be cursed, couldn’t you also believe in vampires? The logical side of your brain said no, emphatically rejecting the notion because it was ridiculous. Utterly insane. 

Something in your gut said otherwise. The tight lead ball of anxiety burning in your stomach, the thing drawing you towards Old Derdriu despite everything that screamed at you to stay away. You looked again at the distorted photos of El Dorado, trying to imagine it in its prime. It must have been a sight to behold, unlike anything you had ever seen before. 

It didn’t matter what you did or did not believe. It was just like you told Acheron, you needed evidence first. Rubbing a hand over your face, you returned to your reading. 

III.

24th day of Verdant Moon

I had a dream last night. Sometimes I get these wicked nightmares which I guess makes sense considering what happened but last night it wasn’t a nightmare which almost makes it worse because when I woke up crying, it wasn’t just because I was alone, but because I feel so alone that it hurts, it hurts bad. People aren’t made to be alone. I don’t know how to be anything else than a set, a pair. It was always just me and him and now that he’s gone I have a gaping hole in my chest and I think that if I chase down answers it’ll mean something but I know it won’t, I’ll wake up just as alone as I did this morning. 

My brain conjured this idea of a man just to taunt me, I think. A beautiful man who looked at me like he knew me, and I knew him even though I don’t. I woke up the second before our hands touched and just like that we (we, us) were out in the nothing of Fodlan’s great empty flatlands and there was a high wind warning and a great big semi-truck with Ernest Shipping painted on the side and a “rate my driving” sticker on the back. And then there were squealing tires and creaking metal and crunching glass and so much noise from all sides as the world closed in around me, the cab of dad’s vintage SUV giving way to make room for something else crudely forcing itself through. The wind was screaming, and so was I. But dad wasn’t, he didn’t make any noise as his body got crushed. Dead on impact, the first responders said. And yet, after I wriggled out of the mangled mess of what must have been a car—moments before it caught fire—I was relatively unharmed. A miracle, they said. Lucky, they told me. If dad hadn’t swerved the way he did, it would have been me who died. And it’s not even like I’m traumatized, right? I can write about this all I want, I told it to the police and the lawyer and everyone about it and it’s all fine, I’m perfectly fine, I’m well adjusted and alone and accursed, and I want to scream and be angry and cry until I’m all dried up but nothing, nothing is going to make it stop, all I can do is chase down this fantasy and shove all of this down because if this is what sanity feels like, I don’t want to be crazy. 

In that dream, the man I saw had beautiful eyes. Blue green, like a sea breeze or something else equally poetic and reckless, surrounded by these thick, dark eyelashes. Now that I’m awake, all I can do is ascribe meaning to the meaningless, but it was like he was inviting me to him. I’ll be in Old Derdriu tomorrow and I’m probably just losing it but I keep thinking that it's where I need to be. 

IV.

Old Derdriu was more or less what you expected. Small, quaint, and beautiful. It had the unique mixture of mountainous charm and oceanic appeal, giving the fresh air a green, salty weight. You spent the first day getting a measure of the place, glad for the mild weather. There was some displeasure when you realized one Mr. Phlegethon had checked into a room right next door to your own the day before—he even attempted to catch you in another conversation before you excused yourself—but you were quickly absorbed into your preliminary attempts at researching the small town.  

Although all of it was only a prelude to, or maybe a distraction from, what you truly wanted. After lunch, you rented a pretty metallic bicycle at a place on main street. It fit the scenery, looking a little dated with its tall handlebars and a basket. An uncomfortable reference considering why you were here. All the same, hi-yo silver away, you left town to follow the northeast highway as per the directions on the map you bought earlier. Unfortunately, you quickly realized what you had already known to be true. El Dorado was exactly as inaccessible as Mr. Hanneman explained in his old article. The dirt road turn off was gated and locked, the rusty fence adorned with a large, angry “PRIVATE PROPERTY” sign. Even the famous golden tower could not be seen through the overwhelming barricade of trees.

Standing there on the empty road, the bike propped between your legs and dust and the thick scent of pine filling your lungs, unease worked through you. It came upon you slowly, and then all at once. The world was telling you to leave. Winds quieted, birds hushed, even the sunlight dimmed a shade. But something else beckoned you, calling out so vividly you felt yourself lurch forward a step, the bicycle wheels turning a notch. A wild and insane part of your mind was prepared to abandon it right there and break past the intimidating tree line, damn the consequences or legality. You even thought you could probably find El Dorado yourself, no matter how deeply it was buried, that its call would lead you directly to it. Blood following blood, an innate tracker buried in your DNA that had gotten you this far.

To spite the heavy silence, you laughed at how ridiculous that thought was. A wild, uncomfortable laugh. The trees swallowed the sound whole. 

Turning around, you rode back into town. Only a part of you truly understood the choice you made while standing there in the stillness of the forest, although you knew absolutely that it was the only possible ending. 

V.

28th day of Verdant Moon

I looked it up. People can create false memories, it’s a symptom of trauma or mental illness, our brains are suggestable and weak and we just make stuff up by mixing real things with other information. Other information, like all of this weird shit I’ve been reading about El Dorado and Old Derdriu and the original Lady Macbeth and everything. Witch, wiccan, whatever. Vampires aren’t enough, curses aren’t enough, why not just add in a witch? Why the hell not. 

The dreams I’ve been having, I think it’s something like that. Constructed memories of El Dorado and that same guy, the one with the pretty eyes. It’s weird though, maybe normal, they’re not bad dreams. Just about the castle, and him. It’s a break from feeling like I’m going to suffocate on all of this. They don’t feel real, exactly, just…

I don’t know, there’s no point in dwelling on it, I’m probably doing more damage by thinking about it so hard because then I just remember how alone I am and start tearing up and it’s so stupid. This journal is going to be used as a case study one day. People go wild for crazy women, right? There’s a whole cast of them flowing through my veins.   

VI.

Acheron’s premise that the people in Old Derdriu hoped to make money off of the notoriety of their past was ridiculous. Questions regarding El Dorado were answered bluntly, but icily. Most people seemed like they wanted nothing to do with the dark history, especially not to make a profit off of it. You could say that you understood and respected it, but your frustration only mounted the more you realized how inaccessible the truth was. Your entire life had been built on convenient ignorance of unsavory history, and here you were.

Again.   

That was fine. Your dad faced all sorts of difficulty in his historical research, you remembered him complaining about it on more than one occasion. So you did the thing that wasn’t committing felony trespass and went to the library to gather information. Research. 

The library in Old Derdriu was easy to track down, within a short ride from the inn. What you didn’t expect was what you would find. In the front, it was fairly typical. The reading area and magazine shelves and receptionist desk, even a few computers along the wall. But, behind the front desk was what you could only describe as a tower of bookshelves. The unconventional arrangement had you craning your neck to look up, shocked at how the shelves expanded upwards for what looked like three floors with twisting stairs and platforms providing access to the collection. Every place that could store a book, had a book. You couldn’t even begin to imagine how they were organized.  

A lone girl sat behind the desk in front of the tower of books, the only other person in the front. Her name plate read Flayn, and she twirled one of her long curls around her finger as she idly flipped through a magazine. When you approached, she looked up with a big smile.

“Hello!”

“This is… the library?” you asked. 

“Yes, it is. Welcome,” Flayn responded sweetly. “If you need assistance finding anything, I would be more than happy to help.” 

“I would really appreciate that,” you said, tearing your eyes from the tower of books to look at her directly. “I’m looking for books about the history of this town, specifically El Dorado. I’m not particular, whatever seems the most informative.” 

She blinked, her smile lapsing somewhat. “Of course,” she finally said, standing up. “If you take a seat at a table over there, I will see what I can find.” 

“Thank you so much,” you said with a nod. Slowly, admiring the scope of the library, you walked over to one of the tables and sat down. While you waited, you pulled out your tablet to continue flipping through websites that had mention of El Dorado. This one was old, the kind with a black background and dark red cursive font. There was very little to actually be learned, it was a ghost story that told a risque tale of blood sacrifices and a sex cult.

It was all ridiculous, of course, but one line gave you trouble, made your stomach turn uneasily.

Why was it fire? The author wrote. Not, I think, to rid the town of some undead threat. After all, the vampire was hiding away in El Dorado. No, they chose fire to burn the witches.

“Excuse me,” somebody said, calling your attention away from the unsettling words and up to the narrowed green eyes of an older man.

“Yes?” you asked, trying not to look guilty beneath his piercing glare. You hadn’t done anything, but something about him made you feel as if you had, you just didn’t know what it was yet.  

“From your request, I can only assume you are researching El Dorado,” he said, his voice as stiff and stony as his demeanor. 

“I am.”

“And what, may I ask, is your reason for conducting such research?” 

You floundered for a moment, caught off guard and confused. Finally, you shook your head and shrugged. “Curiosity, I guess,” you said.

“Are you in any way associated with a man who calls himself Acheron Phlegethon?”

“What?” you asked, confusion replacing the discomfort. “No, not at all.” 

“Are you sure?” he pushed.

“Well, I’ve met him. He tried to sell me his books,” you said, frowning. 

“Are you sure that’s all?” 

You realized pretty quickly what this man was actually asking, what he wanted to hear. “I’m here for… personal reasons,” you explained. “This place has meaning to me. Er, it had meaning to… someone very important to me.” 

“I see,” the man said. You could practically see the calculations going on behind his stare, your words reduced down to ones and zeroes as he analyzed them.  

“Is that okay?” you asked. 

“Yes, of course. I would never withhold knowledge from the genuinely curious. I suggest you start with this one,” he told you, setting down a large book bound in green. “It offers the most comprehensive history of Old Derdriu. These,” he set down two more books, “are supplementary material. While I cannot vouch for their factual integrity, they provide further insight as to what researchers have discovered about Old Derdriu.” 

“Thank you,” you said, pulling the books towards yourself, almost afraid he would take them away. There was that feeling, that possessive need. A craving, even.  

His lips thinned out as he considered you, his icy expression locked in place. “I ask that you do not cause any trouble while you’re here. The people who live here have suffered enough harassment.”

“I understand, honestly,” you said emphatically, although his warning made your stomach clench and you weren’t lying, but was it really the truth that you weren’t going to ‘cause trouble’? Did you mean that? Could you? 

VII.

[The following text are segments taken from letters found in the attic of a Derdriu home with other antiques. Forensic analysis can date them as being contemporaneous with the burning of Old Derdriu, however much of the contents have suffered such severe decay that entire sentences and paragraphs are illegible. Due to this, it is impossible to determine the author or glean any further context. Notes have been added in an attempt to clarify certain points, but without support, all researchers can offer is speculation.]

“My dear sister...discovery, but I fear I will not…seems that my death is inevitable, all I can do is…she offered me a chance, a slim hope that is buried beneath the earth…” 

“...sister… bad news… if something good came of it, does that make it right?... better left buried lest we… believe in such stories?... truly be Claude? [this is possibly a reference to Claude von Riegan. The mysterious circumstances surrounding his disappearance have long been a point of interest for those interested in the occult—See page 127 for further information]... put my trust in legend, or… risk my soul for… shall sleep, tomorrow we will return to the site and search for…”

“…I know nothing of the truth, it is obscured by… can trust, she claims… of the Agarthans [The “Agarthans'' are another popular yet unproven occult group based upon an ancient civilization. Artifacts supposedly associated with them were found in El Dorado]... and Lady Macbeth hopes to… blood and soul, I…” 

“...forgive me… of my selfishness and hubris. I am frightened… a blight upon us… she will suffer the curse of Seiros [The goddess of the Church of Seiros, who has historically been used as an occult figure following the purge of faith from Liecester]... and yet it is too late…” 

“He is awake. The Reign of Blood has begun.” 

[This line is one of the most contested within these letters. Since it is on its own page, with this single preserved sentence written in a shaky hand, there are those who argue it was included in order to bolster the cult and supernatural narrative surrounding El Dorado and the burning of Old Derdriu. If these letters are accurate, it is the last communication documented from any of the 257 people who disappeared, likely perished in the fire that reduced the town to ash.]      

VIII.

“Hold on a moment, young lady,” a familiar voice called. You paused, turning to face Acheron as he hurried down the hall, stopping you from entering your room. 

“Yes?” you asked, more than a little suspicious. With the key in the lock to your room, at least you had a swift method of escape. 

Acheron came to a stop, dramatically swiping at his shiny forehead. “I have a proposition for you.”

Your jaw dropped a little at the blunt statement. “I-I don’t think-”

“We have the same goal here, no?” Acheron asked, steamrolling over your obvious conclusion without the slightest shred of self awareness. “To discover the truth behind the infamous El Dorado. And yet we are waylaid by these pesky townsfolk at every turn. I have had enough of it, I say. It’s time to take action.” 

“What do you mean?” you asked hesitantly. 

He looked around the empty hallway before leaning forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “I have it on good authority that the castle’s security is not as good as they would have us believe. If one knows how to circumvent it, that is.” 

You considered him for a long moment, chewing on your lip and refusing to openly indulge your immediate excitement. “What are you saying?” 

“Isn’t it obvious?” Acheron asked. “I would see the famed El Dorado for myself.” 

“It’s dangerous to go inside, people get sick,” you said.

“Bah. The stories about any sort of lingering sickness within its walls are wildly exaggerated. The local youths brag about having visited as a rite of passage. If those scamps can make it in and out, I see no reason to believe I should be capable of anything less. I, of course, am extending the offer to you only out of courtesy. You hunger for the truth as desperately as I, do you not?” 

You considered him for a long moment, wondering if this was some sort of setup. 

“When do you intend to go?” you finally asked.

“Tomorrow night,” Acheron told you. “I would quit this dismal town as quickly as possible. All I need is good footage and photographs of the inside.” 

“Do you have the right gear?” 

“Gear?” he asked, frowning. 

Of course it would have been too much to think that a man like him would think this through. “Yes, gear. Flashlights, a map, the right kind of clothes—”

“Is all that really necessary?” he asked, cutting you off. 

“Have you ever done something like this?” you asked, omitting the fact that you hadn’t. But, unlike Acheron, you had common sense and some experience with night hiking. “You can’t just rush in unprepared, you’ll get hurt.” 

“Hm.” Acheron’s mustache twitched and you could tell he was thinking up some way to argue with you. But, eventually, reason won out. “Very well, I shall procure whatever is necessary tomorrow.” 

“If you buy this stuff town, they’ll know what you’re planning.” 

Acheron’s eyebrows furrowed. “Then I shall make a trip into Derdriu and return in the evening, we can meet at the road leading to El Dorado upon my return.” 

You wanted to argue, to deny your interest on the basis of not wanting to break the law. The risk factor was far too high, you were a fool to go along with it.

“I found a book today that has the plans for the inside, I’ll find a way to make a copy of them,” you said, anxiety and anticipation going wild in your gut because you knew how wrong this was, but you also knew that it was what was bound to happen from the start, something you couldn’t change or control. “Let me give you money, I’ll make a list of what we’ll need.” 

Act 3

"The monstrous sight

Strook them with horror backward but far worse

Urged them behind: headlong themselves they threw

Down from the verge of Heav'n" 

I.

31st day of Verdant Moon

This will only end in the hallowed halls of El Dorado, an owed price for the folly of Lady Macbeth, damning her bloodline, bringing a curse to us all. 

Yeah. Like this is some sort of fucking movie or something. I wonder if insanity is a legal defense for criminal trespass. I don’t think I’m insane, but isn’t that what crazy people all say? Yes officer, I only broke into this blocked off historical site because I had a dream where a beautiful man told me to. Also, incidentally, I had to figure out if I’m cursed or not so I can decide if I’m the cause of my dad’s death. Oh, and you might be interested to know that my great great great great whatever grandmother was a witch and vampires might be real.

It’s foolproof. 

II.

Acheron was right that sneaking into El Dorado was easy. Too easy. Disturbingly easy. After you got past the gate, there was only a security booth to creep past which should have forced you into the view of security cameras, but a convenient hole in the fence circumvented that obstacle. If you were even slightly more worried about getting caught, or maybe slightly less desperate to see inside, you would have given up right then and there on the grounds that breaking and entering shouldn’t have been as simple as ducking through some trees and making a tense, but relatively short, trek through the woods.

All sense left you when you broke the clearing into what used to be the grand lawn of El Dorado, the vague threat of getting caught by angry landowners falling far to the wayside as you stood in front of the grand majesty of King Claude von Riegan’s personal castle, staring down the centuries old castle with equal parts trepidation and excitement. 

Other than the cicadas and frogs and slight wind, the night was very quiet. Acheron fiddled with his camera, getting ready to take footage of the inside. All you had to potentially take photos with was your phone, although you weren’t inclined to gather evidence of your crime. It was enough to watch, to look, to commit this sight to memory. 

And what a sight it was. Nothing like you had ever seen, except in dreams that were not dreams but you didn’t dare call memories. Overgrown with thick, possessive greenery and fallen into a state of dull disrepair, the castle was truly a breathtaking spectacle, the years of ruin only added to the sense of tragic mystery. It was nothing like the stout fortresses of the west, or the elaborate Imperial complexes in the south. Terrible with its jagged maw of an entrance, the intimidating golden tower looming above. Beautiful, the result of long lost artistry. Foreboding and alluring. 

No longer were you looking over your shoulder out of paranoia, but staring down each window and shadow of the castle’s aged, inscrutable countenance for some sign of the life you could practically feel thrumming from within. But, even suffering from the hyperactive state of distress, you knew you couldn’t leave. It wasn’t interest or curiosity, it was a fixation, an urge, a compulsion. 

You had to go inside. 

You had to get away.

“Wait, before I forget-” You pulled out the set of walkie talkies you had brought. They were the ones you and your dad used when you went hiking. You didn’t want to think of that. “Testing, testing, one two three.” Your voice, crinkling through the static, exited the other walkie talkie. 

“What is that?” Acheron asked, raising a thin eyebrow. 

“Walkie talkies,” you said, handing him the second. “In case we get separated somehow. There’s no cell service out here.” 

“Do you intend on making a private excursion?” he asked.

“No, but…” you looked at El Dorado, uneasiness once again sinking through your gut. It was as if the castle itself was watching you, the eyeless windows winking in the moonlight. “Just in case.” 

“Hm.” Acheron clipped the walkie talkie onto his belt, and so you did you. It was too bulky for your little sling bag. “Well then, after you.” 

“What?”

“You have had more time to familiarize yourself with the layout, it’s only natural that you should lead the way.” 

You wondered if Acheron was scared. It was difficult to tell if he was any more pale than usual, and he wore the same blustery confidence as usual. It didn’t matter. If he got scared and bolted, you would do this alone. You were getting used to that, right?  

“Okay,” you said. You weren’t scared. Maybe you felt a little nervous. But you weren’t scared. 

Staying vigilant for any strange movement or sounds, you ascended the cracked, overgrown steps, telling yourself over and over that you were not afraid. There were no such things as vampires, ghosts, or curses. And if there were, you would know for yourself. Answers. You would get answers. 

The large door was mostly intact, but it was stuck in a perpetual state of half-open. Almost like an invitation. A horror cliche. There was a pinch in your bladder and your heart thudded too heavily in your chest and the animal part of your brain didn’t want to breach the shadows and go inside. You were propelled not of your own free will, but of some existential force that tugged you forward. Step by step by step until you were inside the breezeway, the central entrance hall of El Dorado. 

The general plan that the two of you had discussed before sneaking into the private estate was to get into the Golden Hall, the three story vaulted ballroom off of the northern wing. It had been the jewel of the gilded paradise of El Dorado, but nobody had seen it for decades because of the infection that supposedly filled the inside of the castle. The path there would take you through the breezeway, the atrium, the courtyard, the pleasure plaza, and the dining room. Not into the heart of El Dorado, but deep into its rotted guts. 

A very quiet, but incredibly persistent, part of your mind pushed you there with the hushed notion that it was where your dreams took place. You had to confirm for yourself that it was completely different in real life, that your mind was making things up. Even if you gleaned no further insight from this misguided exertion, settling that fact would go a long way in convincing you once and for all that you weren’t cursed, just a little mad. At least one of those problems could be solved with medication.  

Broken glass littered the breezeway, hidden like little jewels within piles of leaves and refuse and the broken bits of castle that had wilted to the ground. You tried to imagine El Dorado’s beauty in its prime, shining gold and inviting, sunshine filtering in through the dome ceiling and high windows, wind playfully teasing the long curtains. But you couldn’t, it was too dark. Darker than you might have thought, darker than the thickest section of the woods, so dark that the places outside of the range of your ThruNite seemed to be physically encroaching shadows rather than void of light. 

Hanneman had been told to only go into rooms where the light touched, that it was the only way to stay safe, but that didn’t seem factually sound, did it? Surely that wasn’t the most accurate method of determining which areas were safe. The only thing that actually feared sunlight, if myths and legends were to be believed, were vampires. There was no sunlight now, and you doubted vampires feared LED’s. 

Gripping your light in a sweaty fist, you forced yourself forward, the ground crunching beneath your boots. The terrible, heavy dread got worse with each step. It sat like a weight right behind your sternum, beating behind your eye. The other part of the feeling, the insidious part, was the familiarity. 

Bad. Bad. Bad. 

You wanted to explain the feeling as nothing more than animalistic paranoia and some malignant fear of the dark, but it made the fine hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, your breathing picking up. All across the breezeway—throughout most of the castle, really—balconies lined the halls and rooms. You couldn’t see what was above, there was no light coming in, not even diffused moonlight. Somebody could have been watching from above and you’d never know. 

Keep going. It was fine. Everything was fine. 

“I told you that this place was safe,” Acheron said, startling you. “If it weren’t, this level of upkeep would be impossible. I have little doubt that they hire people to ensure the roof doesn’t cave in for occasions just like this.”

 You exhaled, looking around with that thought in mind. He had a point, the place did seem a little too well maintained for the number of years that had passed. Then again, maybe it was just good construction. Or maybe something that still lived here. Something ancient, something immortal.  

The two of you left the breezeway, entering the main atrium hall. Hanneman had featured many many photos of this room in his article; he had been fascinated by the intricately carved stonework. It was too dark to see much of that now. In fact, you very badly wanted to get out of the atrium as soon as you entered it because of how unnervingly dark it was. Two tiers of balcony circled around the ground floor, shadows lurking ominously right behind what was left of the railing. Every little sound echoed, rippling through the motionless air. High above, a chandelier caught the shine of your flashlights, moving with some breeze you couldn’t feel.  

Something made a sound, a scuffling. To your right, on the stairs. You flicked your flashlight to it quickly, your hands shaking with adrenaline. 

“Did you hear that?” you asked breathlessly, nervously holding the light on the steps as if to keep them from moving. But there was nothing, just the large stone staircase and decaying walls and long-abandoned artistry memorialized and forgotten in some old Life magazine article.   

“Hear what?” Acheron asked. 

You exhaled harshly, looking away from the empty stairs and kicking yourself for being so jumpy. It could just be a stray animal. That’s what you told yourself. Rats, racoons, birds, any number of things could have made El Dorado their new home. 

“Nothing.” 

There was some relief when you entered the courtyard, even if the scent of overbearing foliage and vivid green rot was nearly suffocating. At least there was more air, and you could see the stars twinkling above. Full, or almost full, the moon draped the open space in silvery light. Ignoring the overgrown shrubbery, flowers, and grass, you looked around at the balconies wrapping around the second floor. The construction of El Dorado was almost made for someone wanting to spy on guests. Or intruders. Acheron was talking to the camera but you weren’t really listening, too busy focusing to hear any sign of movement, trying to find what was making you so uneasy.

Vampires in El Dorado. Lurking in the dark, in the moonlight, waiting for ignorant fools to wander in. A missing king, a goddess’s curse, a burning witch. The Reign of Blood. You could almost smell it, the tangy iron of blood and the thick smoke of a town burning to the ground.

“Are you coming?” Acheron called. 

You shook your head in an attempt to cast out those thoughts before scurrying to catch up, passing the large stone fountain that had once been the featured centerpiece of the courtyard before the ripe overgrowth took over. The standout piece was a large, intricately carved deer. Once, it must have been a magnificent beast, but now its head was cracked in half, the prongs of one set of antlers sticking out of a murky film covering the stagnant water settled in the basin. Something dark grew over the broken statue, starting on its fragmented head and dripping down to give the gruesome illusion of blood. It watched you pass with the remaining stone eye, forever frozen in a proud, alert stance.

A breeze trembled throughout the courtyard. The castle taking in a breath. You shivered, pointedly forcing your gaze forward.  

Acheron lagged behind to force you to take the lead under the pretense of messing with his camera, leaving you to enter the so-called pleasure plaza first. Careful to not get caught by the jagged row of broken glass and wooden teeth attempting to bar your entrance, you stepped into the decaying mouth of El Dorado’s recreation wing. This was the place where Leicester’s elite once came to enjoy themselves, a yawning space that time had seen to shambles. Because of the many doorways and hiding spots, this room was even more unnerving than the atrium. You would have to cross it to get where you needed to go. 

If you were being entirely honest, you weren’t sure you had any desire to see the Golden Hall anymore. Rather, you weren’t sure it was worth the stress of getting there. Considering the unreasonable fear you felt going through areas you knew to be safe, you worried what you might find in a place nobody had seen for so long, worried about what secrets were better left to die. And that pulsing, pounding, beating of familiarity just kept getting worse, harder, closer. Louder. 

You needed to get out.

You needed to know. 

Inhaling the sweet scent of rot and age, you continued onward, your footsteps hollow against the sinking floor. Each sweep of your flashlight caused the shadows to move, to crawl away from you as if to hide. It hit each object without any subtlety, erasing details and making the darkness that much darker.

You forced yourself to carry on. Carefully, cautiously, unafraid. That’s what you kept telling yourself. Show no fear and all that. Although, that began with the presumption that there was something around to see your fear. 

Your skin erupted in painful prickling chills almost as soon as that thought came to you. And then, in the same moment or before or after or so close you couldn’t tell the difference, you saw movement out of the corner of your eye. You flashed your light quickly around the room, hoping to catch a glimpse of a rat or some other disgusting but inoffensive animal to reassure yourself that you were safe because you still had hope that this was all innocent, that you were the crazy one for believing in ridiculous stories of the supernatural. 

Something retreated behind the doorway. 

Your stomach sank with freezing cold ice and panic. That was no rat. 

A person? It certainly seemed human sized. Those were footsteps too, weren’t they? Disguised beneath the sound of your own? And if it were somebody with authority, somebody who wanted you to leave because you were trespassing, they wouldn’t be lurking around watching you. So that meant it was somebody doing the same thing that you were. But, somehow, you didn’t feel as if it were another trespassing explorer. You felt it in your gut.

“Acheron, hold on,” you said quietly, stopping. 

“Yes? What is it?” he asked loudly. Too loud, bumbling around with his footsteps echoing against the walls as he turned to face you. You winced, holding up a hand to shade your eyes from the glare of his light. 

“We need to leave,” you told him, speaking softly and calmly. “Now.” 

“But we’ve hardly seen anything,” he said. You couldn’t see his frown, but you could hear it. 

“I’m telling you, we need to leave,” you said softly, desperately trying to remain calm. “We’re not alone.” 

“Someone is here?” he asked loudly, shining his light in a large circle, catching it all on camera. “Show yourself!”

“Acheron!” you hissed. 

“Don’t you want a head start?” an unfamiliar voice asked. No. Not unfamiliar. Jarring though, because you didn’t recognize why you would know it. What memory was attached to that disembodied sound. 

Acheron let out a high pitched sound of terror which scared you nearly as bad as the voice, almost causing you to fall over.

“Who is that? Show yourself!” he demanded. No answer. Of course there was no answer. No sound, not even the faint echo of footsteps. 

“We have to leave,” you murmured, more to yourself than to Acheron, your voice an octave too high with stress. “We have to get out of here.”

“It’s nothing. I told you that the local youths often come here, did I not?” he asked, maintaining that feigned sense of control. “I demand you show yourself!” 

“Acheron, please,” you begged, tugging at his jacket. He kept his camera fixed on where the voice had come from. It was from the hall branching off of the entrance out of the pleasure plaza and into the courtyard, essentially barring your most direct route of escape.

“You really ought to listen to the lady,” the voice said, just as casual, just as playful, just as recognizable. You hadn’t really been aware of a distinct echo beforehand, but the room was large enough to cause the voice to bounce around, to obscure the speaker’s location. Not only disembodied, omniscient. And you were stupid and crazy but you were acutely aware of how dangerous this was, it was a primal instinct to recognize danger. 

Freeze finally ran its course, returning some semblance of sensation to your numb limbs to take flight. You didn’t think, you ran, turning away from the voice to bolt in the opposite direction. Right then, you didn’t care whether or not Acheron decided to follow. Since you couldn’t leave the way you came in, you picked the nearest door. Terror thundered in your chest, a compliment to the sound of your footsteps on the rotting floor. You, with Acheron right on your heels, entered into a music room or another sitting room, or some other area where the wealthy and powerful whiled away their hours of excess. You shouldn’t have looked behind yourself, but you did and you could see, silhouetted in the moonlight from the courtyard, the unmistakable form of another person. And then you were pushing Acheron further into the dark with a fistful of his jacket, driven only by the need to get away. The door was intact enough for you to throw it closed behind you, and the sound rattled through the air.

The scent of wet rot was stronger back here, but you didn’t even think about stopping. The door didn’t open as you both scrambled through the room and into the hall, but you knew from the plans that there were other ways in and out of most rooms in the castle. If not directly, then from above, or even from below. 

“This is the wrong way,” Acheron told you crossly, although his control was fraying with his labored breathing. 

“Just run,” you told him, pushing at his back. You could have let go and run past him, but you were too scared of being alone, of having to navigate this dark, creepy place by yourself. 

He didn’t argue. Or maybe he did, you didn’t even know, couldn’t hear anything over the pounding of your heart and harsh breathing, your body synthesizing musty air into iron-tanged rasps that cut up in the inside of your throat. You had no idea where the hallway you ran into led, but it didn’t really matter. Away, that was what mattered. The hallway was narrow and stank of humid rot, entirely dark save for your flashlights, but the room at the end had windows, filling it with blessed moonlight. Slamming the door behind yourself again, you continued forward, stumbling to keep up with Acheron. 

Until you were yelping in surprise, the floor giving out beneath your feet. There was a brief moment where gravity hooked beneath your bellybutton and yanked, and then the floor hit, and it hit hard. Although you instinctively tried to fall in a slightly upright position, the momentum dragged you into an awkward roll, your body curling so as to protect your head. For a miniature eternity, there was no air, there was no thought in your head, there was no light save for the blinding radiance as impact blazed white hot agony through your head. Gasping, writhing on the cold, hard floor, you blinked teary eyes, staring at the hole that had just eaten you with some vague idea that you were dreaming, that this was all a made up fantasy. It was unreal, and it was painful.  

A moment later, a beam of light hit your face. So bright, like a little sun. You sucked in a lungful of air, tasting blood. Then, almost unconsciously, you jerked sideways and lurched around onto your knees. The pain enveloped you in a mad rush all once, your empty body dry heaving with nausea. Only, there wasn’t enough air to expel the sour bile in your stomach, leaving you to choke and suffocate on nothing instead. That tapered off into a few pathetic coughs a moment later, your entire body shaking and clammy. 

“Oh dear,” Acheron said, his voice thin with fear. “Are you hurt?”

All you could manage in response was a groan, and then a broken sob. But fear was a good motivator to get moving, and adrenaline shocked your system enough to force you upright. Now that you could remember, more or less, how to breathe, the worst of the damage was where you had initially landed on your hip, your shoulder hitting nearly as hard a second later. It sent violent, lurid pain straight down your arm and leg, the entire left side of your body alight as if from a branding iron.

“I’m fine,” you croaked out, not knowing if it was true but knowing that it needed to be true. 

“Thank goodness,” Acheron said, his voice heavy with relief. “I don’t suppose you see any way to climb back up?” 

You couldn’t see anything outside of the hot spotlight from above, your ThruNite had gone dark and skittered away somewhere into the shadows. At first, you only felt panic at the realization, terror that you were stuck in the darkness. It took you a long moment to think past the pain and the dark and the fear to remember that you had a backup light. After a few tries of fumbling with the zipper on your sling bag, you got your sweaty fingers around the yellow plastic base of your second flashlight. It was nothing so good as the hefty ThruNite, emitting a buttery yellow glow, but it was something. You waved it around, although you knew it was a lost cause before looking. The hole you had fallen into was rotted all the way through, leaving a few jagged boards around the edges, some of which you had brought with you on the way down, and parts of which were embedded in your hands and knees. There was no way back up. 

“No,” you said, painfully staggering to your feet and brushing yourself off as best you could. “I’ll have to find the stairs, I think… I think there’s some in the southern wing. Meet me there and we can—” 

“And stay here?” he demanded. “Are you mad? No, no, I simply cannot. I shall… I shall run and send help. Yes, that is the best course of action.”

You squinted against the blinding beam of his flashlight, mute with confused shock for a long, silent moment. 

“Acheron, you can’t do that,” you said softly, more bewildered than afraid. 

“You cannot expect me to retrieve you myself,” he said defensively. 

“No, no. You can’t just… just leave me here,” you said weakly, panic closing in around your heart, ice fizzling out like bubbles in your head. 

“I will not put myself at risk for your own carelessness,” he told you harshly. “If you remain there, the rescuers should find you quickly.” 

And that was it. His light disappeared, leaving you blind and blinking up at the hole in the desperate hopes of seeing his face, of seeing some sign that you weren’t actually alone. 

“Acheron,” you called, unable to keep your ragged voice soft. “Please don’t leave me here.” Nothing. You called out again, and nothing. No footsteps, not even the sound of doors opening or closing, although the violent rush of blood could have covered noises like that. And then there was only your heavy breathing and the sour bite of vomit in your throat and the creaking sound of the castle’s breathing in time with your own. 

With shaking hands, you got out the walkie talkie. It took you two tries to find the button, and then the sound of static. “Acheron?” you asked. “Do you copy, Acheron?”  

You didn’t get an answer. At least, not from the walkie talkie. You heard something. From far away, up above, you heard this howling, like an animal, but very distinctly human. Your guts lurched, a shiver slithering down your sweaty back, all the way through your body. 

You quickly pressed the button down again. “Ah-Acheron?” you asked, looking around the empty room. The shadows of decaying furniture followed your yellowy light, almost mockingly avoiding it. “Acheron, are you alright?” 

The speaker let out a little burst of static, startling you. “Sorry, he’s pretty busy right now,” a crinkled voice on the other side said. “Can I take a message?” 

You paused, your chest clenching. “Who is this?” But you knew. You knew very well, you just didn’t know. 

“Your guilty conscience. Trespassing is a serious crime.” 

“Where is Acheron?” you asked. “What did you do to him?” 

“Do to him?” the man asked, sounding like he was offended by the question. “Nothing. He ran off as soon as he saw me, so now we’re playing a little game of hide and seek. Sorry, no girls allowed this round. You and I can have a match when I win, okay? Okay, so you’d better start looking for a really good spot.”

Your mouth was open, gaping with no sound coming out. You felt nearly as winded by this as you did from the fall, unable to think, to formulate any rational reaction. “I-I don’t understand.”

“You’ve never played hide and seek? Oof, your childhood must have been a real bummer. The point of the game is that you hide and I seek. Simple, right?” 

“I’m not… not playing,” you said. “I just want to leave. Please… Whatever this is, I… Please stop.”

“Come on, where’s your sense of sportsmanship? Even this coward is giving it a chance.” He paused, and then raised his voice, calling out to someone else. “Isn’t that right? Why don’t you tell her what a good time we’re having?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to... We’re sorry, so please don’t… don’t hurt him,” you begged, your voice wobbling with tears and panic.  

“I’m not sure I get why you’d defend a guy who was willing to abandon you here. I mean, who knows what could happen to a girl like you in a scary place like this. It’s practically falling apart. Not to mention all of the creepy and dangerous things that could be lurking around.” 

You shook your head, blinking back tears. “Please,” you said, although you weren’t sure what you were pleading for. 

“I’m in a good mood tonight, so I’ll give you some advice. First of all, the basement is no good. There aren’t very many escape routes, you’ll definitely get cornered. And, I don’t know if this is true or not, but I’ve heard that it's haunted.” 

“Please stop,” you begged. “I’ll leave, I’ll leave and-”

“Hey, hey, don’t panic,” he said soothingly. “You’ll need to save up all that energy for running. Oh, and you might wanna ditch the walkie talkie, it’s a dead giveaway.” 

All this time, you had worried about vampires. But it made more sense that some lunatic would use this place as hunting grounds. Preying on the stupid and reckless and your delusions that you were somehow cursed and connected to this place. You were cursed alright. It was the worst curse of all—blind naivety. 

“Please stop,” you begged again. It wasn’t that you wanted to talk more with the potential lunatic, but hearing his voice was better than not hearing it because at least it meant you weren’t entirely alone down here in the dark. But there was no answer, just some static. “Hello?” You asked, your voice even weaker. “Hello?”

No answer, over. Over and out. Ten-four. 

You stood there for a long moment, sore and sweaty and trembling, your body all at once wrung out and over energized, your heart beating way too fast. The light didn’t reach far enough, it was like the shadows were gnawing at the edges of it, attempting to retake their territory. A little part of your brain understood that you weren’t capable of thinking rationally, the part that recognized the insanity of all of the actions that led you here. But knowing that and overcoming blind, animal panic were two different beasts entirely. 

Escape. That was all you could do. At first you thought about searching for your fallen ThruNite, but you were afraid to linger in here too long. You had no idea where it had ended up, there were too many places in the room it could have been hiding. That left you with the weaker incandescent light and, if that failed, your phone’s flashlight. 

Your past self was a lot smarter than your current one, thinking to bring some water. That cured the rancid tang of metal in your mouth, settling you somewhat as you considered your options. Rather than abandon the walkie talkie, you shut it off. It was stupid, but you couldn’t just abandon your sole source of connection to any living beings. You checked your phone as well, but the same NO SERVICE bar sat at the top. 

There was no other way than forward. The room that you fell into didn’t have doors, only dark, decaying holes where doors might have once been. The one on your left was the source of the dank, rotting scent. It was completely flooded, the water covered with an inky, oily film, your light reflecting off of it unnervingly. When you steeled yourself to venture forward, you realized that the hall was slightly flooded as well. Not more than an inch or so, but enough to make your boots wet, and enough to make each footstep splash and squish, rendering stealth impossible. Then again, the light made that impossible anyway. Shining your light both ways, you debated which way to go, trying to remember the castle plans. The trouble was that you had no idea where you might have fallen. Everything was dark and creepy and awful and you just wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere else. To close your eyes and imagine your way out of the situation, to stay right there without ever moving and escape. 

After a second of despair and terrified self pity, you went right. 

If you followed the hallway, you would find a way upstairs. That made sense, there had to be some practicality to the design of this forsaken place. Or, that was all you could hope for. In reality, the dark and uncertainty threatened to turn your guts inside out, vomit biting your throat as you skirted along the wall. It was so quiet, unnaturally so. In the silence in the absolute void of light, your mind conjured noises. Extra footsteps, the sound of breathing. Echoes where there shouldn’t have been. 

You were afraid to blink, that when you opened your eyes something would appear in the beam of your flashlight. But you didn’t want to see anything, either, it would be better to face death ignorant to its face. You wanted to shield yourself from whatever horrors might exist. 

Staying in place was a death sentence, going any further was uncertain terror. The man said the basement was haunted. By what? Ghosts? Witches? Vampires? Murderers? 

Did it even matter?

Each open doorway you passed came with the anticipation that something would jump out at you. Or, worse, that you’d look in and see the dark silhouette of something inside. Somehow, that thought was almost as terrifying as being assaulted. Animals attacked on sight, true predators were the ones who were patient enough to lurk, to wait, to watch, to toy with the fear of their prey. And that’s what you were. Prey.  

On and on. Down the deep dark hall, your footsteps squelching on the damp floor, down down down to the corner where you turned, your light terrifyingly weak, nothing more than a pathetic glow against the all consuming darkness. The moment you saw a set of stairs, you could have wept with relief. Maybe it was stupid because it wasn’t as if they would lead you anywhere good, but those stairs were the best thing you’d ever seen. You gave into the spine tingling fear and ignored the pain of your body to run to them, splashing out of the water and taking the steps two at a time. 

There was no door at the top, just a sharp bend leading into a wider hall, the stairs tucked away and likely used by the servants. You didn’t care. This hallway wasn’t flooded, and the scent of death and decay wasn’t nearly as strong. It left you with the same problem though. Where did you go from here? Where were you? 

Relief soured into dread. Now that you were upstairs, the game had begun. 

It would have been smarter to shut off your light, but without any source of ambient illumination, you would be completely surrounded by the darkness. You stayed very, very still, straining your ears in an attempt to hear any stray sound, anything out of the ordinary. But there was nothing. The castle creaked and groaned, and your heart raced, and your ears rung faintly. 

Indecision and fear nearly paralyzed you. Like drowning, you had no idea of which way was up, you were merely thrashing in the blind darkness, hastening your own demise in your desperation to live. 

You found yourself walking without thinking about it, clinging to the wall with some idea that it would protect you. Just keep going. There was a sharp turn and then you realized that there was a light ahead. At first you thought it was a trick of your imagination, but you switched off your flashlight and blinked fast to adjust to the darkness, eventually making out that it was light. Soft, pale moonlight. That meant outside, that meant escape. 

Continuing to cling to the wall, you hurried towards the opening, eventually turning to the corner and finding yourself within your originally stated destination. At least you knew where you were. Nowhere near the exit. 

What rotten, twisted irony. You could almost laugh if you weren’t so close to tears. The Golden Hall, now flooded with thin silver moonlight, was exactly as beautiful as the name suggested. You knew it not from the second hand descriptions—they didn’t even begin to accurately describe the sweeping, luxurious ballroom—but because you had seen it before.

Far above, the cold moon observed you through panes of broken glass. So close, yet impossibly far. Taunting, tempting, representing an unreachable whisper of freedom. Your knees almost buckled, giving into the pain and exhaustion as you considered having to brave even more of the castle if you were ever going to get out alive. The Golden Hall echoed your own personal despair, a decaying corpse of what it once was, its profoundly decadent construction fallen to ruin. But you could imagine—remember, it was a memory, constructed or otherwise—how it looked in its prime. Shining, lustrous gold. And a man, one with entrancing eyes and a sly smile. His hands had been cold but the feeling was so warm, your own heat igniting you both. 

“The point of the game is to hide, you know,” someone said from behind you. In your despairing trance, you had gone further into the ballroom. Now you whirled around, clutching your chest in terror. “Although I am impressed you found your way up. Even I get the creeps going down there. Somebody really ought to do something about the flooding.” 

Shaking hard, you flicked your flashlight on, illuminating the man in its weak, yellow glow. He didn’t shy away, looking at you head on. His footsteps were slow and measured, impossibly graceful. Yes, yes of course. So obvious, so brutally, painfully blatantly obvious that it would be him. In the dim glow of your light, the most you could make out was the gold wink of his earring, but you knew without seeing that his eyes were that lovely shade of green, tinged with the romantic oceanic blue, so striking against his tan skin and black eyelashes. You knew that as surely as you knew the creases of your palm, or the constellations in the sky. 

“I admit,” he said, breezing past your silence, “I do have a slight advantage. You hurt yourself when you fell, right? I could smell your blood all the way from the catwalk. I’ll let you know if it tastes as good as it smells.”

“Stay away from me,” you demanded, surprised at how clear the words sounded despite the saliva pooling on your tongue. 

“I mean it, you smell really good,” he said, ignoring you and continuing forward. “Hey, why don’t you make this easy for me and put down that light? Nobody likes a sore loser.” 

“I told you-”

“Yeah, yeah, stay away,” he said flippantly. But he did stop, tilting his head in consideration. “You’re not going to make this easy, are you? Fine. If you’re going to run,” he gestured behind himself at the exit into the dark hall, “now’s your chance.”  

You didn’t think about the cheeky smile he wore, or the mocking tenor of the offer, or the reason he might let you run in the first place. You just did it, just ran, not looking back. There was blood in your throat and your entire body ached and you weren’t entirely sure you knew where you were going, but you didn’t pause. 

Step after pounding step, your heart racing, your breath coming out in sharp little gasps. Through the hall, which spanned miles and miles and miles, into the dining hall with its dust and cobwebs and ruined finery. You hit your bruised hip on the doorway which nearly sent you tumbling onto the ground. The red hot pain was so intense you had to stop and lean on the wall, your body physically refusing to go forward. 

Could you hear him? Were those his footsteps coming down the hall or your own telltale heart with its madness inducing beat? 

There was no time for your pain. If you couldn’t get away from here, you would die. That was a fact. Rubbing your sweaty palm on your hip as if to soothe it and sobbing dryly with all the pitiful disgrace of a child, you took off again. 

When you burst out into the pleasure plaza, the place of that first confrontation, hope reignited in your heart. It didn’t matter that there was still a significant dash to the exit, at least you knew where you were. Ignoring all else, you retraced your original ill-fated steps out into the courtyard. The moon was hidden behind the golden tower, peering into the front of the castle and leaving the courtyard nearly as dark as the halls. It didn’t matter. You raced across, blindly passing the one eyed deer in his long night vigil.

Until your toe caught on a loose rock, and you launched forward onto your elbows and knees, skittering forward across the ground. Once more, your flashlight was flung from your grip and landed somewhere ahead in the dense foliage. A harsh yelp left your mouth and you collapsed, completely boneless and exhausted and in genuine, insistent agony. Everything ached and the terror was relentless, pain consuming every panicked thought and infecting every inch of your body. You were doomed. Damned. Dead. 

Footsteps approached from behind. Easy, casual, measured. You flipped onto your back, wincing at the weight it put on your bruised hip. Your pursuer didn’t look dangerous. The outline of his messy curls gave him an innocent silhouette, and his hands were empty of any weapon. 

“Ouch, that must have hurt,” he said. “You should be careful, you could injure yourself if you don’t watch where you’re going.” 

“Stay away from me,” you got out between gasping breaths. 

“I bet you’re tired from all that running, huh? That’s fine, I think we’ve had enough fun for the night.” Without pausing, he dropped down onto his knees, one between your legs and the other astride your hip. You cried out in protest, getting your trembling arms beneath yourself to crawl backwards, but he caught you by the strap of your sling bag, and then with a fistful of your shirt to keep you in place, caging you in with his body. You couldn’t see the color of his eyes, they were only dark as he leaned down over you. 

“Stop it, please,” you begged, weak and trembling, tears sliding down your flushed cheeks, mixing with the sweat. “Just let me go, please.” 

“I’m sure you get this all the time, but you smell unbelievably delicious,” he said, his nose brushing your sweaty neck. You could feel your pulse jump against the thin skin there and you held completely still, a million thoughts slamming into each other all at once in your head. Vampires, murderers, insanity—anything and everything but most of all was just the mindless, irrational terror and despair. You were going to die. In a final spasm of rebellion, your back arched and legs kicked, but your body was caught between the jagged ground beneath and the firm press of his body above, pinned flat. And your hands weakly pushed at his chest, but it was a lost cause, and he wasn’t listening to your constant mumbling pleas to stop. 

Another pathetic sob hiccupped in your chest. You wanted your dad, you missed him. You needed him. And then you went limp because, now and forevermore, you were alone. 

“Come on, you don’t need to cry,” he murmured sweetly, a smile in his voice. You didn’t respond, staring up at the starry sky above. They were cold and without shape or form. Indifferent to your pain. 

The touch of his lips on your neck was shockingly cool, you almost wouldn’t have believed it was a mouth until you felt the needle-like puncture of fangs. That made you jump, squealing, but he held you in place which was probably a good thing because he was biting your neck and that could get dangerous fast. The pain sharply worked down through the rest of your body, the unnatural intrusion of something beneath the skin sending you right back into high alert. And then his lips closed around the created wound to suck.

A little whimper left your mouth, almost confused because even with the unambiguous pain of being bitten, there was something more. The wet release of sensation that followed the bite bloomed out from the point where his fangs pierced your neck in a flizzling wave. He sucked hard for a moment, but then went stiff against you, pulling back with a sharp intake of breath to stare into your eyes. 

He looked shocked, almost innocent if it weren’t for your blood smeared across his mouth. “You’re…” He breathed out that word faintly, reverently. There was meaning there, a meaning that you understood. Letting out a little laugh, a bubble of genuine exuberance, he released your shirt so that hand could delve into your hair, so he could pull you into a kiss. 

His skin was impossibly cold, unalive, and you could taste your own blood as he licked between your lips to part them. While his eyes were squeezed shut, dark eyelashes resting on his cheekbones, yours were wide open.

The kiss wasn’t violent, it was amorous. And familiar. He held you, practically cradled you against him. He felt it too, he understood what you had known from the moment you saw him.  

There was no way to escape the violently seated weight of your own body, of every sensation and feeling he inspired within you. Although, in another situation, the kiss might have seemed sensual, it was only grotesque and terrible. A display of affection in a moment of horror. You didn’t want it, your body thrummed with fear and pain, but you also felt yourself giving into the overwhelming wave of defeat. Even with all that was unnatural and terrible, this man’s kiss was imbued with some sort of cosmic sense of belonging. 

If the pain weren’t so sharp, you probably would have relented. 

Instead, you used it as an opening, as your final chance to reject this twisted insanity. Your hand scrambled out to the side, blunt nails scraping the ground and open wounds packing with dirt. But you found what you were looking for. Stray rubble, forced up and broken by the relentless roots of new growth, nature overcoming manmade structure. You wrapped your bloodied fingers around the chunk of displaced stone and swung at his head, thrashing against his grip at the same moment. 

It was enough to displace his body from on top of yours, maybe out of surprise because you certainly didn’t feel any human give of flesh and bone beneath the weight of the rock. You didn’t stop to consider that, or anything. He grabbed the strap of your sling bag as you scrambled away and you unclipped it without thought, refusing to let it catch you, to keep you trapped. It didn’t matter, you didn’t need it. You needed to escape. You were little more than a wild animal, the taste of your own blood on your lips, blood dripping down your neck, fear infecting every cell of your being. 

“Wait a second,” he called. Disgruntled, not pained. 

The first few steps, you were practically crawling, your back hunched like a beast as you used pure momentum to carry you into the atrium. And from the atrium to the breezeway, your back painfully straightening out, hip screaming in agony. You didn’t think about it, you just continued forward. Ran out into the night, ran through the woods, sticks and foliage catching your clothes and skin, ran down the dirt path to the road. There wasn’t a single thought in your head to get help, just to get away. And then you were flying through the night on your silver bike, your body pushed past the point of weary, into some territory where you weren’t even sure you were actually alive anymore, just acting because you had to act. Although it seemed to take hours of cycling down the dark road, there was this vague impression that no time at all passed before you were coming up to the inn, the bicycle’s wheels crunching across the gravel alley before you ditched it. 

Your room’s window was still open, the way you left it so you didn’t have to sneak in and out the front. The lights were on and they were warm and bright, inviting. You scrambled in, bloody and filthy and sweaty and shaking, and slammed the glass pane shut so hard it rattled, pulling the blinds shut to protect you from the night. 

And then you wept, and you retched, and you waited for sunrise.  

Act 4

“Die he or justice must; unless for him Some other able, and as willing, pay The rigid satisfaction, death for death.”

I.

1st day of Horsebow Moon

It’s all real. There is something living in El Dorado. He got Acheron, I waited all night and he never came back and they’re saying that he left yesterday but I know he didn’t. I left him there. I abandoned him there. I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault. 

If you find this, it means he came for me too. 

II.

A woman sat in the waiting room of the police station when you entered, her legs crossed as she casually read the paper. There was nobody else around, not even at the desk. A lazy fan swiveled in the corner, whirring loudly but not doing anything to cool the room so much as it just pushed around the warm air. It made the high necked shirt you were wearing that much more uncomfortable. Trying very hard to hide your limp—your hip wasn’t seriously injured, but you’d have a hell of a bruise for weeks—you walked up to the desk, peering into the back to check if anyone was there. No luck. It was almost eerily quiet. 

“Are you here to talk to the police?” the woman asked, looking at you over the top of her paper. 

You opened your mouth to respond before settling on nodding instead. 

She turned to the next page, her attention drawn back down. “What about?”

You hesitated, not knowing how to answer, or even if you should. Before leaving the inn, you hadn’t thought very hard about how you would present your story. The only evidence you had was your sore body, but you had to do something for Acheron. Even if he was annoying and rude and unpleasant, that didn’t mean he deserved to be dead and forgotten. 

“I know all of the folks on the force,” she explained. “I’m sure I could help you out.”  

“I… I’m here to give a statement, that's all,” you told her, aware of how hoarse your voice was. You sounded and looked rough, there was no hiding it.  

“Well, they’re at lunch right now,” she said. “Why don’t you sit down and wait with me?”

You looked at the empty desk, and then at her, and then sat down, once again trying not to wince at the way your hip complained. Really, your entire body complained. You used practically half a bottle of Bactine trying to clean up the mess of shredded skin on your hands, elbows, and knees. Not to mention the bruising. 

“I’m Judith, by the way,” she said.

“It’s nice to meet you,” you said. 

“I take it you don’t know who I am,” Judith said, a hint of amusement in her eyes. That perked you up, just a bit. Not in a good way. So lost in your own miserable anxiety and fear, you hadn’t really considered how off putting her demeanor was before now. 

“Should I?” you asked. 

“You might be interested, at least. I’m the owner of El Dorado and the surrounding property.”  

You felt the blood fade from your face, your empty stomach twisting with guilt and fear, the sore muscles clenching uncomfortably.

“Don’t make that face,” she said, folding up her paper. “I’m not here to report you.”

“I-”

“That’s not to say I couldn’t,” she said, cutting you off, “but I figured I’d give you a chance to do the smart thing first. It’ll save both of us a lot of trouble if we agree that nothing happened last night and move on with our lives.” 

You froze. “I don’t know what you mean.” 

“Do you know the punishment for felony trespass?” she asked. 

“Acheron’s still in there,” you whispered, adjusting your high necked shirt again. “They have to save him. Somebody has to do something.”

“I heard your friend left town,” Judith said. 

“No, I saw him. He was real, and he got Acheron,” you insisted, tears welling up in your eyes. The words didn’t make any sense, even you weren’t entirely sure how much of it you meant. What you thought, what you felt, what you believed. Your head pounded with a violent headache, your entire body sore and clammy. 

“I don’t know what you think you saw, but hallucinations are a side effect of things like black mold,” Judith said, her eyebrow arching. “It’s dangerous. There’s a reason that place stays locked up.” 

You opened your mouth to argue, then closed it. Could that be true? Maybe Acheron had left after all, you weren’t exactly in the clearest of mental states. He could have escaped, it was what he intended. And the rest of it, the man who stalked, taunted, and attacked you, maybe there was some other explanation for that. Maybe you really were losing it.

“You can go ahead and make a report, if you want,” Judith said. “It won’t matter. All of the evidence points to your friend packing up and leaving. Without a body, the only crime here is yours. They’ll bury you in whatever charges they can make stick.” She paused, giving you a sideways glance to make sure you were listening. “None of that has to happen. No report, no paperwork, no crime. You go back to your inn, pack your bags, and leave town. Everybody’s happy.” 

A couple of answers came to mind, and then a couple of complaints. Eventually, you just nodded. 

“See? I knew we could handle this peacefully.”

“I’m scared,” you said softly, the pitiful admission leaving your mouth without thought. 

Judith sighed, looking at you with a disapproving mixture of compassion and pity. “Don’t worry. Even if there was something there, I promise you that it’s not getting out any time soon,” she said, a flicker of understanding in her eyes. That passed quickly and Judith stood up, tucking her paper under her arm. “I have to go. It was nice meeting you. I’d say that I hope to see you later, but-”

“I’m leaving soon. Tonight if I can,” you said quickly, getting to your feet as well. 

“I thought that might be the case. Well, then. Have a safe trip.” 

III.

1st day of Horsebow Moon

I took a nap earlier, while the sun was still out, and dreamed of him. He wants me to go back. Maybe I should, maybe it’d be better if I did. When he kissed me I… I don’t know. I think about it and I’m not scared, I just want to cry. My heart hurts. Why? 

I wish it had been me too. I really do. We could have gone out together in a blaze of glory, us rogues. At least I wouldn’t be alone, I wouldn’t be thinking that when he touched me, I didn’t want anyone or anything else, and I felt-

I can’t think like that. 

The past is written in ink and stone and blood and ash.  

I’m leaving tomorrow morning, it was the earliest time I could find to get out of here. I’ll have to get back in a car. Thinking about it makes me sick, but there’s no choice. She says it’s not real and I know that’s a lie. The bite on my neck is real, I couldn’t have made that up. She’s lying. They’re all covering up for this, that’s all I can think.  Earlier when I ordered food, the delivery guy acted so strange, like he knew. It’s insane to think, but I swear, everybody in this awful little town is in on it. 

I put the note from earlier under my mattress, just in case something happens tonight. For some reason, I keep thinking that it will, jumping at every little sound. The walkie talkie keeps bursting out static, like it’s connected to the other one, but that’s impossible because Acheron had the other one and the range isn’t that long. I could have sworn I heard a voice from it while I showered too. Maybe it’s connected to another channel. Maybe I’m insane. Maybe I’m going to die. Maybe he’ll come for me. 

Death doesn’t scare me, not really, but I don’t want to die alone.

Act 5

"And should I at your harmless innocence

Melt, as I do" 

I.

Fiercely clawing your way out of the heavy shackles of sleep, you shouted yourself fully awake, thrashing in an attempt to escape an unknown threat, sickness churning violently in your stomach. Being awake hurt. Why had you been asleep? Everything hurt. Fear was more potent than pain and you forced yourself to breathe, to focus on your confusion and make sense of the world around you. Unfamiliar, although that in and of itself wasn’t dangerous. You had always existed in a state of ever-shifting unfamiliarity. What was wrong, what was dangerous, was that you knew where you were. Rather, you had a feeling. 

“Woah, woah, easy,” he said, backing away with his hands up. You blinked rapidly, panting, trying to fight your way out of the haze. The tide of unconsciousness threatened to consume you once more, lapping at your heavy head, urging you back down. It was nearly more than you could take to keep your eyes open, but you fought it. Something was wrong, you needed to be awake. As your vision brightened bit by bit, you met a pair of green eyes, and your blood turned to ice.

“It’s you,” you said, your voice soft and close to breaking, mushy in your mouth. Nearly inaudible. Everything was sore and stiff and painful, and it was so unbelievably hard to keep yourself from drifting again. It had to be a drug in your system, but you couldn’t think properly to know how or why. “You… You’re-”

“I usually go by Claude,” he told you with a winning grin. And it was a smile you knew. Intimately, honestly, a smile so familiar you ached. 

You blinked hard, shaking your dizzy, heavy head in frustration, unable to accept what you were seeing and hearing. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t remember the last thing you’d been doing before you woke up here, the squishy bit of brain behind your eyes pounded at the effort. And that name. You knew it, you had long attached it to the man in your dreams no matter how little sense it really made.

Or maybe it all made perfect sense, and that was why you were so scared. Claude von Riegan, resident vampire of El Dorado. 

“I… What happened?” you asked weakly, tearfully. “Why do I…? Dizzy…” 

“Don’t worry, that’s from the little concoction I slipped into your food before that kid dropped it off,” Claude said. “It’s not poisonous or anything and, trust me, I would normally never use such underhanded tactics, but I couldn’t have you ruining things by making a big fuss. It’ll wear off soon.”

“No no no,” you muttered, your words bordering on incomprehensible with the effort they took to get out, “this can’t be happening. This can’t…” 

“Would you feel any better if I told you it wasn’t?” he asked nonchalantly, sitting on the sofa across from the bed, his arms spanning the back in a casual position. 

With blurry vision, your eyes took in the room around you. It seemed normal enough, if lavish. Big bed, large furniture. The smell though, that was distinct. Not rot, but old. Aged. 

“You have been having an awful lot of weird dreams lately,” he continued thoughtfully. 

You exhaled harshly, going still. Then, slowly, you met those playful green-blue eyes. They danced with candlelight and mirth. Enticing, exactly like in your dreams.

“I hope you don’t mind, I got bored while you were asleep and had a little peek at your diary,” he told you. “I’d love to hear more about that strange, beautiful man who haunts you in the night. He sounds intriguing.”  

Had you written about those dreams? You couldn’t remember what you might have put down, usually you just went in and dumped as many thoughts onto the page as possible. The invasion of privacy was like a knife to the bone, but you couldn’t think of what you should do about it, the world was too abrasively heavy to know what to do with anything. Tears gathered in the corner of your eyes. Tears! Like you were going to cry! It seemed impossible to fight, like you were just as helpless to yourself as you were to what was going on.  

“It was fascinating to see how much you pieced together. I’m glad you’re smart, I really am. It’ll make this a lot more fun.”

You shook your head again, which didn’t help the dizziness. “I want to leave,” you said, “I don't want to be here, I can't…" Your voice slurred a little, like you weren’t in complete control of your body. Your thoughts too, they kept getting away from you, slipping out from your grasp. 

"Out of curiosity, where would you go?" Claude asked. 

You sniffed pathetically, your thoughts falling to an abrupt halt against the question. "What?"

"If you left town right now,” he said, “where would you go?"

You stared at him, unable to figure out what he meant. 

"You don't know, do you?" Claude asked, but his tone was all-knowing and smug. "I thought as much."

"I do, I just…" you said. But you didn't. You had no idea about anything. What you would do, what you were doing, everything was a confused mess and you just needed to get out of here, get away. Your breathing was picking up, your heavy head spinning with it. 

“Shh, calm down,” Claude said gently, switching from the couch to the bed. It dipped with his weight and you didn’t think to move away, just stayed where you were and looked at him, attempting strength but only managing desperation as you tried not to break down completely. “I can tell you’re scared, but I’m not going to hurt you.” He paused, smiling non-threateningly. “And, you know, I wouldn’t have had to do any of this if you didn’t play hard to get last night. So why don’t we agree we were both in the wrong and move on? Forgive and forget, no harm done.” 

“I-I want to-to leave,” you insisted, taking inventory of yourself to figure out if you were even capable. Everything was so foggy, disoriented, your body unbelievably heavy. It was getting better, but slowly. You weren’t sure you could leave the room, let alone escape. 

"Sorry, but that's not gonna happen," Claude said, and it wasn’t a threat but the casual way he spoke made the statement that much worse. He was simply telling you something that was. A fact, a forgone conclusion. 

"Someone will… will come looking for me," you said with more confidence than you actually felt, grasping at straws to make your case because you didn't have anything else. 

"I wouldn't be too sure about that," Claude said. "They still think that I'm too weak to leave, seeing as the Macbeth bloodline has completely died out and all." He smiled at that, meeting your eye knowingly, unflinchingly. "Without the blood that roused me from my accursed slumber, there's no way I'd have the strength to steal somebody all the way from town and back."

Pieces began to shift into place. Slowly moving, scraping together as your fogged brain did its best to comprehend what he was telling you. The vague outline existed, but you couldn't quite pin it down, couldn't quite see the whole. 

"My blood…" you mumbled, pressing your hand to the puncture wounds on your neck.

"But," Claude continued, ignoring you, "let's say that they know you're here. It's not impossible. Are you really going to place a bet on complete strangers risking their lives for you when they can't even be sure you're still alive? Personally, I wouldn't."

Your breathing, already unsteady, was only getting more out of hand the longer this conversation went on, the pressure behind your eyes mixing a headache with the threat of tears. A hot flush worked its way through your body, a sure sign of genuine panic, some potent mixture of terror and the effect of whatever drug he'd given you. 

“Hey, calm down. I'm not trying to scare you,” Claude said, “but I'm not gonna lie to you either. So let’s get to know each other a little. I’m sure I’ll surprise you.” 

Surprise you? The enormity of what was happening finally settled somewhat. He had kidnapped you, presumably by drugging you. He had killed somebody. Many people, maybe.

“Are you going to kill me?” you asked, your voice trembling and small.

Claude huffed, slight irritation wrinkling his brow. “No,” he said. “Frankly, I’m offended you’d even ask.”

“You’re crazy,” you said. “You… you killed Acheron, you…” You put a hand to your neck again. The needle-like punctures had bruised, the skin tender and sore. 

“Okay, okay,” Claude said, trying to placate you. “I know I might have gone too far, and I’m sorry. I promise I won’t do that again. I was just a little excited, you know? I’ve been stuck in this place for centuries all on my own, too weak to leave and haunted by the ghost of my terrible, yet sympathetically tragic past.” 

He paused, eyebrows up as if expecting you to say something, prompting you to say something. How could you possibly respond to that? He spoke so fluidly that you could almost miss the way he casually threw around the word ‘centuries’ as if it were normal, as if it made perfect sense.

“Doesn’t that make you sad?” Claude pushed. “Doesn’t your heart just ache for the pain I must have been feeling all this time?”

“You’re crazy…” you whispered again, unsteadily sitting up against the headboard, drawing your legs closer to yourself to put as much distance between the two of you as possible. You couldn’t ignore the evidence that there was something weird going on here, but you couldn’t ignore reason either. A crazy guy with razor sharp teeth living in a castle famous for its vampiric and occult ties hunting and killing trespassers was more reasonable than the alternative, wasn't it? You couldn’t just give up and submit to the fantasy, not entirely. You needed to make this make sense, to find a valid explanation other than the impossible. 

“You already tried that one,” Claude told you. “And, for the record, I’m not crazy. If you think about it, and I know you have, this is meant to be. Who are we to deny fate?"

“Fate?” you repeated. “No, that’s…” Crazy. It was crazy. Everything about this was insane.

“Then why are you here?” Claude asked, raising an eyebrow. “Ah, actually, don’t answer that. I already know. Oh! Speaking of which…” He stood up to find something, pawing through the mess haphazardly left on one of the tables before straightening up with a phone in hand. 

“That’s mine,” you said, tensing up.  

“Yeah, you left it here. Aren’t you glad I took care of it for you?” he asked, waving it around as if to taunt you into lunging for it. 

“Give it back.” 

“What’s the magic word?” 

“Give it back.”

“Ooo, how very charming,” Claude said, oozing sarcasm. But he gave it to you anyway, tossing it onto your lap casually before sitting back down. “You know, if you’re going to break into creepy forbidden castles, you probably shouldn’t take something so important. Especially the thing that has all of the information about where you’re staying, what you’re doing, who might care if you go missing suddenly… Or, actually? You should do that, it makes things easier for me.” 

You clicked the home button, greeted with your familiar background, a flower your dad found for you on the lake. That was last year. Not so long ago, but it felt like a lifetime. You weren’t sure what you were looking for as you swiped the screen to unlock it. There was no service here, you already knew that. The phone may as well have been an expensive brick for all the good it did you. 

“I’m astonished by how much information can be crammed into such a tiny little device,” Claude said. “Although, in your case, there wasn’t very much to find. No friends, no family, no home… I’m sorry about your dad, by the way.” His voice lacked all levity when he said that, almost like he meant it. 

“Don’t,” you said, stiffening. But it was a weak kind of anger. Whatever he had used to drug you sent your emotions way out of whack, fear and anger and sadness getting all knotted up and leaving a lump in your throat.

“Nobody to worry that you’ve gone missing. Nobody for you to miss,” Claude continued to muse. “Nothing for you to leave behind. If I didn’t know any better, I’d wonder if you weren’t waiting for this exact thing.” 

“That’s… You’re wrong.” 

“Of course, I do know better,” Claude said, ignoring you, “I know why you risked life, limb, and the law to break into my humble abode. Rather, I know why you think you did. You want to know why you’re cursed, and why all of these terrible things happened to you. You think that when the truth is laid bare, it won’t hurt anymore. Once everything makes sense, you won’t feel so alone and scared. You and I are pretty much the same in that regard. I can’t stand not knowing things.” 

You shook your head quickly, refusing to hear his words. He wasn’t right anyway, he was just assuming, just pretending like he knew you for the sake of some twisted power trip. Then again, he was right, wasn’t he? Your brain wasn’t so focused that you could simply deny the truth, deny that you thought answers would make the pain stop. 

“Amateur prose aside, you’re right about almost everything—the curse, Lady Macbeth, Old Derdriu, me. You are cursed, Lady Macbeth was a witch, I am a vampire, and so on and so forth,” he said flippantly, disregarding the supernatural as if they were matters of tired fact. “But I have to say ‘almost’ because you’ve misunderstood something very important. Honestly, your little tirades border on willful ignorance sometimes. I can’t tell if you’re intentionally missing the point or if you’re just that obtuse… Er, no offense. You know what I’m talking about, right?”

“No,” you said. 

Claude huffed, frowning. “You’re probably the only girl in the world to come face to face with the literal man of her dreams and still insist that you don’t believe in fate. I’m actually a little amazed right now.” 

“You’re lying,” you said. “You’re lying so I… Because I’m…” 

“You’re not insane, if that’s what you’re going to say,” he told you bluntly. “You’re not weak either. No, you just want a way out, don’t you? There’s nothing for you out there, you know that. You’ve been searching desperately for someone to swoop in and give you direction again.” 

“No,” you said again, refusing to hear those words or to believe them.

“Careful,” he said, “if you lie too much, I might just feel compelled to do something about it.” 

Your breath caught, your body freezing in place. “You’re crazy,” you whispered, tears burning your eyes. 

“Aaaand back to square one,” Claude said, rolling his eyes. “Okay, I see we’re not going to get anywhere like this. Time to move on to Plan B.” He twisted up onto his knees, like he was going to crawl towards you.

“Don’t come near me,” you said with wide eyes, clumsily scooting away, covering your neck defensively. Your body wasn’t moving correctly, your limbs awkward and ungainly. Although, if you were honest, he didn’t look that intimidating in the warm light. No, he looked beautiful. That was the point, wasn’t it? Those green eyes, the soft hair with one little curl flopped over his forehead, the pretty face, the little gold earring, all of it was meant to entice. Vampires were beautiful on purpose, they were both bait and trap. 

“I told you, I’m not gonna hurt you. All I want is to get to know you a little better,” Claude said innocently. “Thing is, I’m a hands-on kind of learner.” 

“Stay away from me,” you told him as firmly as you could manage, watching him distrustfully with this terrible tingling sense of anticipation. Like you wanted him to do something.

“I mean it. Fear and pain makes your blood all sour. Pleasure, on the other hand…” He trailed off with a grin, letting the implication speak for itself. “Well, we’ll get there.”

“No,” you said, winding up your arm to throw your phone at him. It was hard to keep your arm lifted, the muscles were so heavy that they trembled with the strain. Claude’s eyes widened, and then narrowed, his irritation obvious. 

“Oh, come on. There’s no need for that.”

“Stay away from me,” you said again, your voice coming out more like a whine. At this point, your thighs were clamped so tightly together that the muscles ached, your arm wavering from the weight of your phone. Claude reached for your wrist, but you dropped the phone before he could do anything, deciding to make your escape instead. 

There was no surprise that you, unsteady and dizzy and drugged, nearly fell off of the bed when you tried to jump onto the floor. You definitely would have face-planted if a set of cold hands didn’t catch you.  

“I know this is happening pretty fast,” Claude said, gently pulling you against him. You couldn’t do much to stop him, your head spinning, your mind on the fraying edge of sense from the sudden shake up of blood. He was inhumanly cold, but the fabric of his buttoned shirt was soft. The smell was wonderful, clove and orange and something lower, masculine. “Believe me, if I could give you more time, I would. But we have to make do with what we’ve got, right? And I’m…” His arms tightened around you, not that you were at risk of escaping. When you nervously peered up at him, Claude caught your eye hungrily. His throat worked hard as he swallowed. “Honestly, I’m starving.”

“Stop,” was the most you could offer, slurring the word. You realized that there was no heartbeat in his chest. Of course there wasn’t, he wasn’t alive. His cold hand slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, tracing along the warm, sensitive flesh of your back, to your ribs. “No,” you protested, squirming. His body was unyielding and firm against your own in the most intimate of ways. You had never been this physically close with another person, not like this. 

“It’s okay,” he told you, his nose brushing the crown of your head. 

“It’s not.” 

“It is,” Claude affirmed, unendingly gentle. He was tracing little patterns on your back that made you shiver. You should have been fighting to get away, but the scent of him was intoxicating, and you felt… Not peaceful, there was too much about all of this that was uncomfortable and scary to be peaceful, but you didn’t feel displaced. “You don’t want to be alone anymore, do you?”

Your composure finally collapsed, tears welling up in your eyes. You hid them against Claude’s cold, empty chest, clinging to him because you had nothing else. 

“It’s okay to let it all go,” Claude told you, continuing to pet your skin sweetly. “I’ll make you forget, at least for a while. I don’t want to brag, but I’m the best you’ll ever have. I’ve had a few years of practice to really hone my technique, you know? You won’t remember a thing by the time I’m done with you.” 

Your heart pounded heavy and hard once, twice. 

“What do you mean?” you finally asked, mumbling the words against him to hide your red face because you had a feeling you knew what he meant, the price he’d demand to cure your loneliness. In a way, it made sense. Another piece of a puzzle that would fit in just as it was meant to, as it had been destined to. 

“Wait…” Claude pried you away from his chest, gripping your chin to force you to meet his eye. You tried to avert your gaze, but there really wasn’t anywhere else to go, anywhere to hide. “What do you think I mean?” 

Your thighs squeezed together, heat rising to your face.

“I dunno,” you said, trying to squirm away, overly aware not only that you were in his arms, but practically cradled in his lap. 

“I can’t tell if you’re being coy or not,” he said. “I guess it doesn’t matter either way.” 

“What doesn’t?” you asked. 

“I’m talking matters of the heart,” Claude said, letting go of your face to wrap an arm around your waist, his grip impossible to fight even if you weren’t still dizzy and leaden from the drug. “And matters of the body. More specifically, your body.” His other hand delved down, slipping beneath the elastic waistband of your sweatpants to press against you through your panties. You hissed out through your teeth, thighs clamping down around his hand like a vice. Claude only groaned, his palm grinding against you. “I’ve gotta say, it’s awfully cute. You’re so warm and soft.” 

“Stop,” you protested, your voice thin and your face hotter than ever. 

“Pleasure makes your blood sweeter,” he said, the air of his words brushing against your ear. “The more, the better.” 

You shook your head, hiding your face against his chest. “I… I don’t…” 

“It’s a fair deal, don’t you think?” Claude asked, his fingers teasing you through the thin fabric, curling to press between your folds, skimming over the sensitive flesh beneath. You squirmed, your hands weakly tugging at his wrist. “We both get something out of it.”

“I… don’t…” you stammered out again, not sure where you were going with it. 

“And it’s much more respectable than a messy quickie out in the courtyard. Blood as precious as yours deserves to be savored in its finest form,” Claude said, dragging his finger over your clit, the extra friction of the fabric adding to the sensation. You shuddered hard, heat sinking low in your gut. “I think we’ll start with three and go from there.” 

“Three?” you asked breathlessly, your head spinning so hard you had to rest it against his chest.  

“Yeah, I’m going to make you come three times,” Claude said, his tone more than a little indulgently condescending. “To start with, at least. You know, to sweeten you up. It’ll soothe your nerves too. As for what happens from there…” He shrugged, the movement impeded by the way he was cradling you. “I like the spontaneity of figuring it out as I go. It’s more romantic, don’t you think?” 

“Nn…no…” you said, your stomach sinking, sickness and something else—something that was decidedly interested in the proposal—swirling dangerously low within you. Claude hadn’t stopped teasing you through your panties, and you weren’t really pulling at his wrist anymore so much as just holding on.  

“What, are you thinking more along the lines of four? Five?” he teased. “We’ve got more than enough time to kill.” 

“That’s not…” You whimpered, holding tighter against him when he wedged the fabric between your pussy’s outer lips to grind even harder against your clit. It bordered on too rough, but it was working as intended, your clit swelling hot and needy, your hips jumping forward in an unintentional chase for more. “I can’t… do that.” 

“Did I mention how good I am at this?” Claude asked. “Not that I get the impression you’ll be too terribly difficult.” 

You whined in objection, squirming in a half-hearted attempt to escape. 

“That’s not a bad thing. The opposite, actually. Like I said, the more, the better,” Claude said, his other arm wrapping around your waist to adjust you, to make it easier for his other hand to work between your legs. You were too sensitive and you didn’t know how much of it was natural and how much of it was from the drug, only that pleasure was pooling up quickly in your core. 

You swallowed against the excess saliva pooling on your tongue, past the lump in your throat. “I… I don’t…” 

“What?” he asked. “You don’t… something. Sorry, I didn’t catch the last bit.” 

“I…” 

“You weren’t going to lie and say you don’t want this, were you?” Claude asked, his cold lips brushing the shell of your ear. Your hips jerked, your mouth falling open. You could feel the way your body was coiling up tense, desperate to come. It would be a quick flash of pleasure, hidden and tight beneath your clothes, but it was still pleasure, it was still good. 

“I’m—mmm…” You pressed your lips together to stifle yourself, holding even tighter against him. The wave of heat was building too fast, too frantically. Exhaustion, drugs, your general mental degradation, you could pin the blame on any number of external factors so you didn’t have to take responsibility for what you felt. The result was the same though, and it was you and you alone who chased the tantalizing build of pleasure.

“Do you feel that? That’s the sweet, sweet feeling of me being right yet again,” Claude said, saccharine and smug. “Feels good, doesn’t it, sweetheart?”  

It was the pet name that really did it. Nobody had ever said something like that to you, and the heavy weight of it in his voice pushed you over the edge with an anxious little jerk of pleasure and a choked noise in the back of your throat, with a hot flash that made your clothes feel too tight, that made your clit pulse beneath his touch, rubbed raw with the friction of fabric. It was awkward and cramped and thin and it was everything, you clung onto him as the fizzles of heat sparkled out, your muscles contracting, your mouth open and silent. 

When it was over, when Claude quit rubbing those evil little patterns over your sensitive clit, you let out a shuddering breath, trying to calm yourself down. Without the distraction of pleasure keeping you on edge, you felt the bite of nausea in your throat. The recognition that this was wrong, and that you had no idea what to do to fix it, or even if that was possible. 

“The thing is that when you come, your body releases all sorts of hormones. It’s a fun little cocktail that behaves in basically the same way as sugar. For me, at least,” Claude explained, unceremoniously dumping you onto your back in a boneless splay. “A couple of orgasms is… It’s like the difference between gnawing on a day-old biscuit and savoring a cinnamon bun with icing.”

“What are you doing?” you asked. You tried to hold onto him, but Claude easily knocked your arms away so he could pull your sweatpants off. They were cast somewhere to the side before he hooked a cold hand under your knee, lowering himself between your legs. “What-”

“I’ve got a bit of a sweet tooth,” Claude explained, looking up at you with bright eyes. He looked so innocent, so sweet. So mischievous. “You don’t mind, right?” 

“Mind what?” you asked, trying to close your legs, to hide yourself from him. The panties you were wearing were old and plain, far from anything even approaching sexy. But the idea of removing them was worse, you couldn’t stand thinking of him looking so forwardly at your bare pussy. The humiliation would kill you. “Please stop,” you said, your voice pinched and small. 

“Oh, wow, would you look at that?” Claude asked, his finger tracing the wet spot soaking through your panties. Your hips twitched, the muscles in your thighs tensing. “It looks like you don’t want me to stop.”

“Don’t look,” you said, squirming in an attempt to get free. 

“Don’t look?” Claude repeated, feigning guilelessness. “So it’s okay if I touch, but only so long as I keep my eyes closed? Good to know.” 

“No, that’s not-” 

He cut you off, his tongue replacing his fingers, dragging over the wet spot with a depraved sort of intensity. And his eyes, as he said, were closed. Already, the sane thoughts of sickness and doubt were beginning to scatter anew, your body responding to the promise of new pleasure. Claude exploited that, continuing to lickyou through the damp fabric of your panties while you squirmed, settling for covering your face in place of fighting him off. Not that he was looking. 

“You’ve been alone for a long time, haven’t you?” Claude asked, hooking his fingers beneath your panties to slowly peel them off. You fought that, but it wasn’t hard for him to wrench the cotton from your grasp, the elastic tearing before he got them all the way down and off. When he ghosted his cool fingertips over the bruise on your hip, you shivered. “I’ve barely done anything and you already came once. Every time I touch you, it makes you twitch. I thought you were just discrete, not writing about any boys in your diary, but the truth is that you’ve had nothing to write about, right? Well, until now, that is.” 

“What are you doing?” you hissed down at him, finally panicking enough to grab his hair, trying to pull his head out from between your legs, shame raging a horrible storm within you. Claude groaned, flashing a grin up at you as he casually tossed one of your bare thighs over his shoulder. 

“Yeah, you can pull my hair all you want. I don’t mind,” he said, his cold lips brushing your inner thigh. You thought of his fangs and how easily they had pierced your neck, falling still as he passed the artery there. But that wasn’t his destination, you realized. Claude separated your outer lips, staring at your bare pussy for a long moment before his head dropped forward. 

You yelped when his cold tongue began to draw relentless patterns over your swollen clit. His fingers kept you spread open for him and you couldn’t breathe, every single muscle in your body pulled taut in preparation for the orgasm you were being enticed into. Disgust and humiliation remained constant, sure, but it wasn’t enough to dissuade your body from the pleasure. 

Even when your thighs closed around his head, certainly suffocating him, Claude didn’t falter. Even when you pulled at his hair, even when your hips jumped against his face, he just groaned, doubling down. He had to have been putting on a performance, considering how loud he was, eating you out as sloppily as possible so you had no choice but to revel in the depraved noises. The rest of it was all you. Your moaning, your whimpering, your gasping. Your body didn’t belong to you, you couldn’t force yourself to stay still, couldn’t stop the noises from leaving your mouth, couldn’t stop the hot coil of pleasure from building and building and building. 

“I c-can’t,” you got out breathlessly, “I-I… I can’t.” 

“Just keep telling yourself that,” Claude said, looking up at you from beneath thick, dark eyelashes. “It’ll make this a fun surprise. For you.” 

Forcing your hips flat against the bed, his wicked tongue continued to push you even closer to the precipice. You whimpered, tossing your head back because there was nothing else you could do. It was embarrassing and awful and you hated it, but you knew you weren’t far off. Heat ballooned up in your core, all of your blood seemingly rising to the surface and making your entire body too hot, too tight, too tense. 

Claude’s lips closed around your clit and sucked and you came with a helpless cry straight out of some trashy porno, your entire body tensing and shuddering and completely overcome with nothing except for the raw sensation of pleasure. By the time you were spent, your fingers were twitching, the rest of your body limp and sweaty. 

“See what a difference a can-do attitude makes?” Claude asked, looking up at you with a big smile. You shook your head, breathing too hard, too fast. Unable to meet his eye. “As in, I can make you do anything I want. Funny how that works out.”

“I-I need… a moment.” 

“No you don’t,” Claude said. Messily, hungrily, he moved up from between your legs, his lips tracing your abdomen, your stomach, your ribs, pushing your shirt up to gain access to more and more of your bare flesh. When you realized he was trying to remove your shirt and bra, you fought it, desperate to retain some modesty. 

“I don’t want-” 

“Ah, ah, ah,” Claude scolded. “Remember what I said?” 

With his supposed can-do attitude, it wasn’t difficult for him to get your shirt and bra up and off, shoved past your shoulders and arms until the knotted wad of fabric dropped onto the floor. You tried to cover your bare tits, but Claude barely paused, simply slapping your arms away so he could map your chest with his mouth too. Palming one breast, pinching the aching nipple between cold fingers, he wrapped his lips around the other. 

“Claude, I don’t-”

He effectively shut you up by biting your nipple. Not with his fangs, and not hard, just enough to make you squirm, writhe against him like you had last night, stuck between his unyielding body and the mattress. Sweaty and hot and desperate, but now for completely different reasons. 

You made another sound that was intended to be his name but didn’t come out that way, it was barely language, and far from comprehensible. 

Claude groaned, the fingers of his other hand pushing into your pussy at the same moment, driving right past the tense muscles of your entrance and deep into you. The weight was enough to make you really moan, the feeling of him stretching out your inner walls electrifying your entire body. You could hear how wet you were for him, feel how easily his fingers curled and scissored inside of you, reigniting the little ember of need low in your core. His mouth switched to your other nipple, leaving the first red and aching, and all you could do was hide your face, one hand threaded through his hair as if looking for an anchor point. You thought you needed a break, but already you were back in it, already wanting to come again.

His fingers fucked into you with a sloppy sound. In and out, curling and scissoring and not at all gentle. Not that it mattered. Your body was entirely pliant, moving with him. More than that, responding to each swipe gleefully, needfully, pulsing around his cold fingers and sucking them deeper, your back arching to press your chest harder against his mouth, your thighs squeezing his hand to keep him in place.  

“You’re tight,” Claude said, pulling off your nipple with a slick pop. “Is it possible that you’ve been saving yourself for that special someone?”

You shook your head, more than a little aware of the way his taunt made you tighten around his fingers. So close. Just a little more and you were going to come for him, the heat having gone from a smolder to hellfire beneath your blushing skin, your entire body wound up.

“Do you mean to tell me that you haven’t been suffering all by yourself, waiting for your prince to show up and take care of you?” Claude asked, making his point with each hard thrust. “Cause, I’ll be honest, that’s what this feels like to me. Sensitive, tight, needy… Those are all classic symptoms of neglect.”

It was difficult to breathe. Difficult to think.  

“Please,” you breathed out and you weren’t sure how he heard you, you could barely hear yourself over the crushing thrum of blood in your ears, but Claude responded with a groan. 

“By the way, that is the magic word,” he said. Despite the quip, he fingerfucked you roughly and carelessly. His mouth on your tits was beyond pleasurable. It was exquisite, terrible. You came again, your entire mind clearing out as pleasure shuddered through you, stoked by each thrust of his fingers. They kept on curling, teasing, grinding against your g-spot, going as deep as they could each time. Your orgasm felt like it lasted too long, leaving you wrung out, shaking and almost confused. Maybe that was just because of how hard you were breathing, your brain wasn’t getting enough oxygen.  

Sweat slicked your skin and tears had dripped down your cheeks into your hair and everything glowed when you managed to blink your eyes open.

“You don’t mind, right?” Claude asked, his mouth moving up from your sore nipple to your neck. His hand hadn’t stopped moving, fucking into you. He pulled his fingers out only to add a third, to add that much more impact to each thrust. 

And he. Didn’t. Stop. Claude didn’t so much as pause when he bit into your neck, pushing you past numb overstimulation, past the discomfort, and right back into the cruel build of yet another orgasm. Unlike last night, the piercing sting of his fangs into your flesh was only good, hazy bright red and sharp, followed by the sweet, cool release of his mouth fixing around the wound to suck. It hurt, but the pain was only an aspect of pleasure. And when Claude groaned happily, his tongue lapping at your blood with the same desperation you felt beneath the assault of his fingers, you moaned openly. 

You came again when he bit into your neck a second time, his fangs digging into your flesh mercilessly. The needling sting made you writhe, but his fingertips curled at the same time to press against your g-spot and you couldn’t help it. At this point you were so wet it was dripping past his fingers, slicking your thighs and the bed. Claude sucked even harder at your neck, enough to make you lightheaded. 

Whining, you pulled halfheartedly at his hair. Not for him to stop, but because you wanted him to fuck you. Actually fuck you. At this point you probably were insane, but you didn’t care, all you could imagine was how full you’d feel, pierced by both his fangs and his cock. 

“You want another?” Claude asked, pulling away from your neck. When he pulled back, his lips were wet with your blood, his green eyes alight. “Some girls would be begging for a break right about now.”

“I…” 

“No, no. It’s okay to be a little greedy sometimes,” he said, grinning, the picture of poise and control despite the lunacy swirling within his gaze. 

“Nn-no, I want you-you to—” You let out a high pitched mewl when his other hand dropped to touch your clit in time with his fingers inside of you, writhing desperately, helplessly. This wasn’t what you wanted, you didn’t think, but already sense had flown from your mind, replaced by the intense dread and need that had reduced you to a babbling, mindless thing.  

He had to have known what he was doing to you, how far your mind had degraded, but that didn’t seem to matter to Claude at all. Torturing you with the dual assault of his fingers, he moved back down your body, muttering for you to hold still before his fangs punctured your inner thigh. Biting the sensitive, giving skin hurt in a different way than your neck, but you were already on your way to coming against and when he sucked hard on the wound, you just whined, gripping his hair in a desperate attempt to stop yourself from falling apart completely.  

Claude moaned, sucking hard as you sobbed and moaned and trembled through another orgasm, dripping and squeezing his fingers, twitching with overstimulation and pain and pleasure and the raw rush of ecstasy. He finally let up when you whined, his mouth releasing your thigh and pulling his fingers out of you with a final little press against your g-spot that made your legs jerk. What little sense you might have had before was long gone. 

“Now… What was it you wanted me to do?” asked as he sat back. “You were mumbling, I couldn’t quite understand.”

You turned your face away from him in embarrassment, still trying just to breathe, let alone speak. Claude laughed indulgently. Warm, sweet, even affectionate. He leaned over you to press a kiss to your neck, lapping at the beads of blood that had welled up. Even as you burned, he was cold.

“Look at me,” Claude told you softly, sweetly. 

And you did, meeting his eyes again because you were beyond refusing. What you didn’t expect was for him to take advantage of the way you were gasping for air and shove his fingers in your mouth. They tasted like you and maybe a distant part of your mind was disgusted by that, but it was so much easier to do what came naturally and suck on them, your tongue cleaning his skin of your wet arousal. The reaction seemed to amuse him, and, curiously, he pushed his fingers a little deeper. Predictably, you choked. Claude pulled them out with a spill of saliva. Filthy, but everything was already so wet, the added mess made little difference. 

“Oop, sorry,” he said without the slightest shred of repentance, sitting up and unbuttoning his shirt, tossing it aside. You could barely remember what had happened to your own clothes. “I’d hate to put words into your mouth, so why don’t you tell me what it is you want.” 

You shook your head, closing your eyes in an attempt to collect yourself. More than ever, reality loomed as a detached concept, floating above you and below you but not quite stable. There were reasons that was probably dangerous, but you couldn’t think hard enough to know. Every time you tried, it was just the heavy thump thump thump of your heart, and sweat, and your heavy, heavy head. 

“How about I tell you what I want, and you can let me know if it's agreeable to Her Highness?” Claude asked playfully. You peeked at him from beneath your eyelashes, barely coherent enough to be surprised that he was naked. Beautiful, the warm tan of his skin belying the bloodless cold beneath. Vampire biology, as it turned out, was comparable enough to human biology. “I want to see how many times I can make you come on my cock before you either beg me to stop or pass out. Preferably while enjoying a little more of your blood.” 

You blinked, some sense returning to your head as your eyes followed the trail of dark hair down his abdomen to his cock. A bit of fear because the sight of his hand stroking it made you very aware of what was about to happen, and then his words registered and you froze up entirely. 

“Oh, don’t make that face, that was a joke,” Claude said, scooping you up. The world rolled, your head heavy and limbs limp. “I won’t let you pass out, you’d miss all the fun.” 

“Dizzy,” you muttered, trying to hold onto him for stability, everything he just said fleeing your head as the reality rolled and twisted and shifted incomprehensibly. You couldn’t be afraid of what was happening when you didn’t even know what was happening, although that was distressing in and of itself. 

“You’re okay,” Claude said sweetly, brushing a lock of hair from your face, capturing your attention back onto him. Something to hold onto. “I’ve got you. Just relax, let me take care of you.” 

Amidst the blurry, disorienting world, his eyes were familiar and clear. Beautiful. You must have muttered something in the affirmative because it made him laugh, the sound rumbling in his bare chest. Claude kissed your lips, your cheek. Then you were turned around and falling forward. It was difficult to balance on your hands and knees. He had to settle for your knees and elbows, your arms were trembling too much to hold you. 

“You really are gorgeous, you know that?” Claude said, his hands tracing over your waist, down your hips. He didn’t put any pressure on the hurt one, simply tracing the very tips of his fingers across the ugly bruise. With how sensitive the skin was, it actually felt good, tugging a harsh shiver down your spine. “I’m serious. I mean… Look at you. Not that you can. I guess you’ll have to take my word for it.”

Shame made a brief reappearance as Claude groped your ass, playing with your body a moment before spreading your cheeks, exposing you enough to run the tip of his cock through your slick folds. That made you shiver even harder, your body tensing up, your pussy squeezing around nothing, dripping a little more in anticipation. 

“A meaner man would make you beg,” Claude said, nudging the blunt head against your hole. You exhaled shakily, desperate and nervous and filled with red hot lust. 

“Claude,” you said.

“You’re lucky I’m so nice.” With that as your only warning, he nudged his hips forward. Once the head was in, you were more than wet enough for him to slide in smoothly. 

But Claude still took his time, holding you tightly against him to fill you with little rolling thrusts, his cock dragging against your fluttering inner walls bit by bit so you could feel everything. He held onto the headboard with one strong arm, the other holding your back flush against him which was good because, especially now that you were so full, you had no control over your body. In contrast to your feverish, sweaty skin, Claude was cold and smooth, his flesh unyielding and hollow. Your pussy worked around his cock, adjusting to his size. Any discomfort was easily smoothed out by how right it felt. How perfect.  

“Scratch that, you’re going to be lucky if I ever let you leave my bed,” Claude said, his voice a bit harsher, more affected, his arm tightening around you. 

You whimpered, your body unintentionally responding to what should have been a threat but only registered as a delicious promise. Claude still hadn’t moved. Every little movement made you tighten and flutter around him, a new reminder of how deep he went, how completely full you were. Claude groaned in turn, the sound muffled against your neck. 

When he bit you again, you could feel the way your cunt clamped down around him, your hips desperately twitching in an attempt to make him move. The piercing ache of his fangs spread through your skull, your spine, and then his lips latched onto the wound as if to soothe it. The sound of Claude sucking against your skin was beyond lewd, sloppy and wet and needful. 

“Please,” you whimpered. Not to make him stop, but to make him move, to fuck you properly. He pulled off of your neck with a slick pop. 

“I thought you’d want me to be gentle,” Claude teased, pulling out of you slowly. He didn’t take on the sensual tone of a lover, remaining playful despite what he was doing. “But that’s not true at all, is it? You want to be used. You want me to fuck you so hard you won’t be able to walk, let alone escape from my devious schemes. Then you’ll have no choice but to be a pretty little blood bag for the mean, mean vampire of El Dorado. Am I right, or am I right?”

The words made your cunt tighten despite yourself. “I-” When he thrust back into you, his hips smacking loudly against your ass, you could feel everything. Every ridge, every vein, it was rough and rocked you forward. Only, he held you in place, leaving you with no escape. 

“Exactly, I’m right,” Claude said, repeating the motion, making you cry out pathetically. “Of course, I almost always am. You’d think I’d get sick of it at some point and say something wrong just for a change of pace, but…”

You weren’t really listening to him. How could you? Each thrust was hard enough to practically throw you forward, but the cage of his arm kept you in place so he could keep up the rough pace, fucking into you like you were little more than a doll. You wanted to meet him halfway, wanted to participate, but you were too far gone to possibly keep up. Luckily, Claude didn’t seem to mind either way. 

His fangs buried into your neck directly on top of the wound from last night and it should have hurt horribly, but instead it threw you over the edge, your pussy tightening around his cock and your body trembling as you came. The sensation was hard and rough and completely physical, pleasure blooming out from the place where his cock slammed into you and spreading outwards in wonderfully sensitive sparks of heat. 

Claude growled. You could feel the vibrations in his chest, his throat. The iron tang of your blood mingled with the filthy scent of sex, and the sound of him slurping at the skin of your neck was nearly as lewd as when he ate you out, like the sex was the same as the blood drinking, the two acts intrinsically linked.

The inside part of your consciousness remained in the heavy, hot confines of your body, desperate for a break so you could come down from the orgasm but unable to deny some hot, painful desire for more. The outside part of your mind floated above, like a balloon, disconnected and distantly interested in what was happening, almost like this was a dream. The two parts warred. One mind focused only on Claude and the pure physicality of it all, the other in a state of disbelief that any of this was happening at all. 

Neither mattered, really. Within your chest, your heart raged in a double time beat, racing against the blood loss and the syrupy thick pressure of exertion. Superficial pleasure raced over your skin like electricity. Claude bit into your neck again, drinking even more of your sweetened blood with desperate fervor. You tensed up, realizing that you were going to come again with a twinge of panic. Your body rebelled at the idea, but it would be more painful to deny the pleasure, it would leave you shaking and wanting and desperate and it would hurt. 

“You just can’t get enough, can you?” Claude asked. You moaned wetly, pathetically. He licked a wide stripe up the side of your neck. Even now, his tongue was impossibly cool against the bleeding wounds. 

He let you fall down, pushing your torso into the mattress. You went without protest, boneless and limp. Claude held you up by the waist, his thrusts slowing down as he experimented a few times. You didn’t really realize the point until your body jerked with intense, almost aggressive, pleasure. 

“That’s it, right?” Claude asked, a smile in his voice. You weren’t sure why he asked in the first place, your body’s reaction to him hitting your g-spot was more than telling. It felt good, beyond good, but it was in an electrified, panicked sort of way because at this point you were overstimulated and dizzy and every time he fucked into you it was unbelievably pleasurable, so much that it hurt. It didn’t help that Claude was being so rough, his thrusts losing tempo. And you just took it, jerking each time, spasming around him, moaning helplessly, that coil of heat building with too much intensity, with too much raw-nerve pressure. 

“C-aa-n’t,” you gasped out between thrusts, your voice heavy and wet.  

“Can too,” Claude told you, twisting your hips a little, enough to add that little bit of extra sensation. You pressed your face against the sheets as you came, your moans coming out practically as sobs because of how utterly overstimulating it felt as your pussy unintentionally clamped down around Claude’s cock, forcing more pressure on your g-spot, cruelly dragging out your own orgasm. He was muttering something, praise maybe, but you couldn’t hear it above the roaring of blood in your ears. 

Pretty soon Claude moaned loudly, layering your name with the heavy sound of pleasure. You realized that he was coming too, slamming into you roughly before his hips stuttered, flush with your ass. You shook and gasped and whined, your pussy fluttering and squeezing him, accepting the torment. Inviting it even, dripping around him even as he buried himself too deep inside of you, finishing with a few heavy thrusts. 

Claude laughed lightly after a few moments, although it sounded more like a sound of exhilarated joy than humor. You hoped he wasn’t laughing at you, although you couldn’t do anything even if he was.

He kneaded your ass, spreading your cheeks to watch himself pull out of you with a rush of wetness. Shame had burrowed deep into your gut, but you felt enough to pull away, to press your thighs together as soon as you had the chance.  

“I may have gotten a teensy bit carried away,” Claude admitted. 

You didn’t open your eyes or respond, not even when he threw himself down onto his side and gathered you against him. He was cool and smooth, his flesh inhuman against your own. You were the feverishly sweaty one, although you realized as he held you how cold you felt on the inside. Cold and sore and empty. 

“I know you’re not asleep,” Claude said, nuzzling against the side of your neck, lapping up the blood before sucking lightly at the freshest wound, groaning at the taste. 

You didn’t move. If you did, if you acknowledged the cold or him or the discomfort or anything, you would have to deal with how awful you felt. Blood loss felt a bit like altitude sickness, at least insofar as it left you lightheaded and nauseous. The sore overstimulation was different, but you definitely didn’t want to deal with that. Mostly, you just wanted to stop existing and shirk the discomfort and pretend that none of this was real. 

Claude pulled away from your neck, smacking his lips contentedly. 

You continued not to move as he adjusted himself, his arm leaving your waist to reach for something off to the side. “Can you sit up a little?” Claude asked. Your head spun as he pulled you upward regardless of your answer, the world lurching. Your pussy leaked uncomfortably, coating your thighs and the damp sheets. Every inch of your body either ached or felt clammy and sour. Your head pounded with a headache. Your skin was too tight, sweat dripping into the scrapes and bitemarks. A straw appeared at your lips, urging you to finally open your eyes. “Here—drink this.” 

You looked at him from beneath fluttering eyelashes, meeting those pretty green-blue eyes before looking at the bottle he held. 

“Whassit?” you asked, your voice slurred and barely recognizable. Your stomach protested at the thought of taking anything, but your mouth was bone dry and tasted like blood. 

“Water,” Claude said, pushing the straw past your lips. You just accepted it. Maybe you shouldn’t have, he already admitted to drugging you, but you weren’t thinking clearly and it was easier to just do what he said. “Humans need a lot of water. Especially after losing so much fluid.” He paused, smiling playfully. “Do you always get that wet or am I special?”

You blinked at him, taking in a few more mouthfuls of water before dropping the straw. Claude set the cup aside, wiping the excess water from the corner of your lips, and then smoothing over your hair, pulling you against his chest happily. It was easiest to let it happen. He really did smell good, spice and citrus and musk and Claude. The man of your dreams, he called himself.   

“They thought they could trap me here forever. After their massacre and the fire, they…” Claude didn’t finish that thought, his voice troubled. There was no heartbeat in his hard, muscled chest, but you could feel the rumble of his voice. “She had family, sure, but her blood was cursed. No Macbeth woman would be able to release me from this place ever again. And then you came.” He paused, petting your hair again. “More than once, if I recall.” 

You groaned softly, eliciting a laugh from him. 

“Yeah, that was in poor taste. Unlike you, who tastes excellent,” Claude said affectionately. A moment later, he sighed, returning to a somewhat serious tone. “Anyway, the point is that, vampire or no, I’m man enough to admit that I needed saving just as badly as you. That’s enough, isn’t it? We really should stick together, us accursed outcasts.”

You didn’t say anything, you weren’t sure what you were meant to say. Your thoughts, still, were little more than confused slush. And, more than that, you weren’t sure that was the sort of thing that needed a response. 

Claude accepted your silence and kissed the top of your head. And then he just held you. Not like he was afraid you would leave him, but like he was afraid you would cease to exist altogether, his arms nearly desperately keeping you pressed against his chest, his hands brushing your back or nose ruffling your hair as he reminded himself that you were still there.

And maybe those thoughts were just projections, but you didn’t think they were. 

II.

1st Day of Ethereal Moon

Now it’s just us two. Me and Claude ruling the world. Explorers, adventurers, wanderers. Rogues who hide behind the horizon to keep the night close. I told him that the other day and it made Claude laugh. It didn’t hurt even a bit to say, either. Dad would like him, I think. Claude likes discovering things and chasing mysteries and all that too. There’s always somewhere new to go, we never stay anywhere long enough for people to notice our shadow. It can be hard sometimes, but I’m not alone. It’s as good an ending as any. 

Happily ever after. 

[scribbleweb]

Id: 565845455965... Check Entry request... Check On the list, check

"You're free to go, Mr. Rudboys," the doorman yawns, before putting his head back down on the desk, trying to get a nap in before the next resident arrives.

 It was a boring and tedious job, Steven figured, so he didn't hold it against him. He nods his head in thanks, as he walks through the door.

As hheads up to his apartment, he can't help but smile. Today is going to be a great day, he's sure.  He enters the elevator as another resident, Izaack Gauss is exiting. He flashes his signature smile, and Steven, being in a good mood, shoots back a small grin before the elevator closes.

Arriving at his floor, making his way to his apartment, something seems... Off.

He can hear something coming from inside- groaning? There's another noise, and then it stops abruptly. He furrows his brow, takes the door that should've been locked and throws it open.

He stares in shock and disbelief at the scene unfolding before him, and while any regular person's blood would run cold, his runs hot with anger. He can see what's left of Mclooy Rudboys, a puddle in the back hallway with but a few bone shards left. ...and in front of him, one dead Steven Rudboys, alive only moments ago, with a double crouched above him. 

"Oh fuck you!" 'Steven' shouts, ripping off his shades, exposing the yellows of his inhuman eyes. He no longer feels thankful to the doorman's sloppiness, who lets in the same guy 3 times without noticing? 

 The other doppelganger, already feasting on what was supposed to be his meal, snickers.  "Looks like we both played the same game, eh? Except I won." There's an edge to his voice, a snarl warning the other doppelganger to find a meal somewhere else.

'Steven' ignores it and takes a step forward, demanding, "Cmon, at least give me half-" 

"Hell no!" The other Doppelganger growls out angrily, "I got here first, I did all the work, I'm the one who's eating tonight"

"Just because you got here first doesn't mean I didn't put in the same effort," he complains, gesturing to himself. "I worked hard on this disguise, I memorized his schedule, and fooled the doorman,"

"I'd hardly call it 'fooling the doorman', that guy's been sleeping through most of his shift and let three Stevens in without a second thought," the other Doppelganger scoffed and rolled his eyes.  "And anyways, that's not my problem. You're late, I already caught these. Go feast somewhere else," He says digging into the original Steven's body, making a mess of himself.

'Steven' stomps over to the two, with clear attitude. He plops himself down on the other side of the body, and takes a huge bite of the original's arm, all while making eye contact with the other doppelganger.  "Fuck you," he says again, mouth full of bloodied raw meat. 

"I hope you choke on it," the other responds.

The two eat in silence, clear tension in the air. They're making quick work, determined to eat faster than the other, to devour a bigger portion of their now-shared meal. It would be too much trouble to fight, they figured. One of the other residents would hear the commotion, and call the D.D.D. Then neither of them would get a good dinner.

The idea of sharing is unacceptable to them, but after each eating an entire arm too fast to really savor it, one breaks the silence.

"Fine," he starts, "we'll split this one. One takes the top half, the other takes the bottom," he decides, shoving the other away from the cadaver's torso. 

"Good," 'Steven' says with a sharp toothy smile, and you can feel the smug satisfaction radiating off him. 

"Whatever, just hurry up, I want to get out of here before anyone finds out, I'm not taking my chances with the DDD,"

"You know", the other says between bites, now working on the original's thigh.

"My plan was to just take over Stevens life. Pretend to be him, use this place to lure back more food, maybe some dates. No one would ever know he was gone," he looks down at the body and the pool of blood spilt around it. "Cleaning the place up looks like a pain, though..." He trails off.

The man stops for a moment, thinking about what the other doppelganger said. "Actually, that's a really good idea. It would be so easy to take over, pretend like I'm him. The doorman here is incompetent, he wouldn't even suspect anything. He let me right in. And then I could just keep eating as much as I wanted. No one would ever catch me."

"Us," he corrected. "It's my plan. And-" he points to his disguise "I'm Steven," he says with a smirk.

 The other Steven rolls his eyes, but thinking about how easy the plan is, he agrees. "Fine. Your plan. Whatever. We're going to share it. But I pull off that pathetic excuse for a disguise better than you anyways."

That elicits a glare from the other doppelganger, clearly offended. But otherwise he leaves it at that, intent on finishing up their meal.

"When we're done here, we need to think about who is next. If Steven's visitors keep going missing it'll be suspicious, we'll need to move to another identity eventually.. Any of the neighbors look tasty?"

"hmm," he says thoughtfully. "There's Francis Mosses, just down the hall. He should be easy."

"I've seen him come and go a few times, he looks like a snack," He licks his lips, "It'll be easy to take him out, we'll split him, take our own halves, and move on to the next one."

"I'm not gonna be stuck with the bottom every time, am I?"

"No, of course not. We'll switch them up, keep it fair. I already called the top on this one though, so the next one's yours."

"Oh! There's a pair of twins on one of the other floors, they'd be easy to split"

"The twins, I like that idea. The two of us could each take one of them, be one of them. No one would ever suspect a thing."

'Steven' holds his hand out, not seeming to care that it's covered in blood. They're both drenched, anyways "it's a deal then?" The other double looks at his hand, at the blood covering it. Then he shrugs, and shakes it.

"Deal."

[darkgodcomplex]

Wally X Reader

content warning: blood, violence, psychological horror, obsession

AO3 Link

This is my first fic for Welcome Home so I hope you like :)

Blood.

Yes, there is definitely blood seeping out of your head wound onto the smooth concrete of Home's floor, pooling and puddling. It's redder and less viscous than you thought blood would be... or maybe that's due to the bright puppetry of this world.

Despite having been a neighbor for years, you've never actually been inside Home. You almost laugh to yourself. You never expected Home to have concrete flooring. Fuzzy carpet, warm wood floor, sure, those would've been expected, but no, you're only greeted with cold, harsh concrete.

"Hi, neighbor." The voice is smooth and low, but you know better than to trust that. It's why you've ended up here in the first place.

You scramble to your feet, not caring if you get blood on your clothes and shoes. In fact, maybe that's for the better. You know how any sort of imperfection gets under his skin.

Pressing your hand to your wound to quench the blood, you squint your eyes in the darkness, trying to make out where he is.

"Wally?" You call, hardly a question and more of a demand for him to remove himself from hiding.

"The one and only!" The joyful voice echoes off the walls. With the amount of reverberance, you would think that Home is an amphitheater. He still doesn't make himself shown, though.

"Stop playing games, Wally." You yell, shuffling through the dark.

"Oh, but we love games here." His voice seems to come from every direction. "And I especially love games with you."

You can feel the blood drip into your eye, only impairing your vision further. You can feel yourself grow annoyed. "I'm not your best friend!"

"No, no, of course not..." There's a scampering movement behind you. You turn your head, eyes focusing in the darkness. You scan the jolly, plain furniture for his large eyes. They are always the thing that gives him away.

Breath tickles your ear. "You're so much more than that."

You whip your head around, hands clenched into fists and ready for a fight, but he isn't there.

"It's such a shame." Tone as cool as always. "Can't you just be nice and play along? You play so well. I really enjoyed it."

"You and I both know that I was playing along for my safety." The blood loss is getting to you. You need to get out of here. Now.

Dragging yourself along, you try to find some sort of exit, but Home is an endless maze, taking you through twisting corners and repeat rooms.

"That's not true." He's lying to himself again. "You love all us, just as we love you."

"Wally-" You give a warning, growling tone.

"That's how the neighborhood works!"

"That's not how it works!" You snap, perhaps yelling at no one. Maybe this was all just a sick trick of the mind from Home. "You're exactly what I hate! You talk of friendship and neighborly behavior, but you've shown me none of that!"

There's an eerie silence from the other end of the conversation, but you're not sure if you care. Perhaps this can spare you enough time.

Despite searching for an exit, you get the feeling you've only gone deeper into Home. Maybe that's not a bad thing. Maybe you need to really see what's at the heart of this... thing.

"Wally?" You call. His absence is somehow more chilling than his presence.

There's no answer. Only creaking footsteps. At least, you think they're footsteps.

You push on. As you go, you can feel eyes on you. When you look to find them though, they're nowhere to be seen. You pray this isn't the end for you.

With every room you enter, the familiar friendly aesthetic of the neighborhood disappears. Cheerful bright furniture is shattered and torn to shreds, festive 70's wallpaper peels and molds off the wall, even picture frames with the shining smiling pictures of you and Wally are replaced with those of horrifying corpses with rotting flesh.

You wonder if that's all this really is. Maybe you're dead and this is some sort of sick hell. That might've helped you feel better if you thought in the slightest that you deserve a hell as torturous as this.

You lean on a doorframe, spots circling your vision as you attempt to remain upright. Leaning your head down, you vomit up your guts. Your heart races as it attempts to pump what little blood you have left through your veins. This isn't good.

You stagger into a hallway of eyes. They watch as you stumble and bump into the walls in a hopeless attempt to get away. You're dizzy. Every step feels like you're on a deranged carnival ride, the floor seems uneven and the ceiling crooked.

"Wally!" It's more of a desperate cry now. You're not even sure what you're asking for, but you're pleading. For mercy, perhaps.

You collapse, blood dripping from your chin.

It's then that he's there. His gentle touch, warm embrace, and soothing voice almost make you forget he's your captor. At the moment though, you're only glad to be rescued from the harsh reality that is Home.

"It's all right." His half lidded eyes watch you carefully as you fade in and out of consciousness, hand softly stroking at your hair. "I'll fix you."

You let yourself be soothed by him, wrapping yourself in the comfortable familiarity. So what if it's fake, it's safe. Your blood loss drags you into unconsciousness and you let it, leaving yourself helpless in his care.

"I always fix what's mine."

[allmoshnobrain]

𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐫

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

part 09 of ? | masterpost

word count: 3028 | ao3 link

That was way easier and better than I ever thought it could be. And sweet. Sweet and just so natural, like his kisses and his touch. Like the love I felt for him. Like the love he felt for me.

✦ summary: Dave and Nore find solace in each other and cave to their desires in the chaotic aftermath of a drunk driving accident.

✦ on this chapter: NSFW!!, dave mustaine x female!oc, oc is cliff's cousin, +18, language, slice of life, drinking, drunk driving, car accident, vomiting, a little bit of hurt/comfort/praise, fluff, unprotected sex, mxf sex (explicit), oral sex, fingering, alcoholism/drinking issues

✦ a/n: this is a completely new part aaaand it's really explicit so keep it in mind if you're going to read it! also, since every chapter is named after a song, i made a playlist on spotify with all of them, you can listen to it while reading or just to get in the story's mood, it's right here and i will update it every time i post a new chapter. hope you like it, feedback is welcome ❤

✧ the sin I bring, called ecstasy ✧

Alright, whose brilliant idea was it to let a drunk driver take the wheel? 

Definitely not mine. 

Honestly, at that moment, it didn't seem like we had much of a choice. We were all wasted by the end of the day. We needed to get back home, and none of us had enough cash for a taxi ride from Joe's place to ours. A stumbling Lars volunteered to be the designated driver, and surprisingly, no one objected. We even cracked some jokes about the potential disaster, had a few laughs, and that was the end of it.

I don't think anyone was laughing now, though.

We stared in pure horror at the wrecked van. Lars had managed to crash it into a damn wall! Thankfully, nobody got hurt, and we were just a stone's throw away from home, but that didn't make things any better. Dave and Lars were fighting, Leanne was losing her shit, and I wasn't faring much better. My head was spinning, my breathing getting faster, and a rush of adrenaline sent panic coursing through my veins. Everything was spinning. I knew I had drunk too much. I knew I was bound to puke sooner or later. But at least I hoped I could hold it together until we got home.

I crawled over to someone's lawn and pretty much emptied my guts.

"You okay?" a voice chimed in. I glanced up and met James' blue eyes. He seemed somewhat sober, probably because he had passed out for most of the later part of the party, but I knew he was still pretty drunk.

"Do I look okay to you?" I grumbled, and he cracked up. I scrunched my eyebrows. Barfing my guts out was bad enough without an audience, but having someone witness the spectacle made it a whole lot worse.

"Maybe it's best if you go home if you're feelin' like shit. But you don't know the way, huh?"

"Does anyone here feel good? We’re all wasted and screwed with this accident. I'm surprised no one in this neighborhood has called the police yet."

"Yeah, maybe they will. Then we'll be even more fucked, right?" He laughed again and plopped his ass down on the sidewalk, keeping a safe distance from my vomit puddle. I had noticed it earlier, but he got really annoying when he was drunk. I focused on my trembling hands, trying to regain my composure. Take a deep breath, I reminded myself.

"What's going on?" Dave's slurred voice chimed in as he stumbled over to us. "Nore, what the hell happened?" 

I looked into his brown eyes, and they seemed to suspiciously fixate on James, as if he could somehow be to blame for my sorry state. I wondered what he thought was happening.

 "I was..." I gestured towards the puke pool, then spun around to continue unleashing the remnants of my stomach. Oh, lovely. 

He approached, all his focus on me, pushing my hair out of my face and gripping my waist to keep me steady. I leaned into his frame, grateful for the support, my heart still racing from the crash's adrenaline rush. My stomach wasn't faring any better; now that I'd expelled everything, an uncomfortable burning sensation was spreading through my belly.

"I think I've had too much to drink," I grumbled, fully aware of how my voice slurred and dragged. "How the hell are we supposed to go home now?" 

He glanced at the wrecked van and let out a resigned sigh. 

"Cliff's trying to borrow a phone from someone nearby to call a taxi. C'mere." Dave slung his arm around my shoulders and guided me towards the sidewalk next to the van, where Lars and Leanne were already planted on the ground. He helped me settle down beside them. He seemed a bit more composed now, but who knew if he was actually sober or just trying to hide his own level of intoxication. 

I plopped my ass on the pavement, my head spinning and my stomach doing somersaults. Somehow, I managed to hold back the urge to hurl this time. He sat down beside me, shooting me a concerned look.

"You look like hell," he remarked, and I burst out laughing, instantly regretting it as a pounding headache hit me. I groaned, wincing, and covered my face with my hands. "Come here." He pulled me close, letting me rest my head on his shoulder.

"I called a taxi for the girls and got hold of Joe. He's coming to help with the van," Cliff chimed in. "But we need some folks to stick around here and wait." 

"You, me, and Lars can hang tight," James suggested. "Nore and Leanne are not feeling well. Dave can take 'em home." 

Cliff glanced at me, clearly realizing how sick I was. He squatted down next to me and ran his hand through my hair in a soothing gesture. 

"Bit too much to drink, huh?" he asked, and I grumbled in response. "It's okay, go home and get some rest." 

I nodded, hiding my face against Dave's chest. Cliff settled down beside Leanne, doing his best to soothe her as we waited what felt like forever for the cab. Finally, it arrived, and Dave, Leanne, and I hopped into the car. The driver dropped off Leanne at her place, and Dave hopped out to make sure she'd be alright while I stayed put. When he returned, he took the seat next to me in the back.

"Feeling any better?" he asked, and I nodded, leaning my head on his shoulder. He gently stroked my thigh, sending a pleasant shiver through my skin.

When we got back home, I hopped out of the car and headed straight to the bathroom while Dave took care of paying the taxi. I quickly brushed my teeth to get rid of the nasty taste in my mouth and splashed some water on my face. The vomiting had sobered me up, but my head was still pounding like crazy. Dave walked into the bathroom, holding a glass of water and a pill in his hand.

"Got this for you," he said, offering the pill. "You know, to help with the headache."

"Oh, thank you, Dave," I whispered, grateful for his thoughtfulness. I took the pill and swallowed it with the water, letting out a sigh. I couldn't help but notice how my hands were shaking slightly.

"You alright?" he asked, coming closer and gently stroking my face, unsure of how to comfort me. "You've been on edge since the accident. I mean, yeah, it was a total mess, but we're all safe now... Back home, no harm done."

I sighed. The accident had triggered more than just nerves and panic in me. The aftermath was just a tiny part of a much bigger turmoil in my head.

"It's just... This wasn't my first car accident. I guess that’s why I got so nervous," I confessed, and then looked into his eyes. He stared at me intently, his hand moving from my face to my lower lip, his finger tracing the curve of my mouth slowly. My body heated up, suddenly aware of the closeness between us. I let out a sigh, deciding to open up and share what had been troubling me. "Last year, on my 18th birthday, me and my friends went out to celebrate. We got wasted, and when it was time to call it a night, I was the one behind the wheel... Ended up crashing the damn car." I blinked, realizing my eyes were getting watery. It was strange. I had never talked so openly about this with anyone; I felt so ashamed, especially after getting kicked out of my own house. I just hoped Dave wouldn't hate me after hearing all this. "I got hurt. And I hurt my friends too. Dave, I... I'm not the good girl you think I am. I've fucked up big time." 

"And does that matter?" he whispered, his face inching closer to mine. His eyes were serious, and I could feel his breath brushing against my lips. "You’re not a bad person because of that, Nore. And I love you... Your past doesn't mean shit. I love who you are right now."

I locked eyes with him, a shiver running through me as he leaned his hands on the sink, one on each side of my body. He was so close that it made my heart race. And there it was — the electric charge that sparked every time he got too close, the tension building up deep in my gut whenever he touched me. I lightly brushed my fingers against his lips, my breath hitching with anticipation, and let out a soft sigh as he kissed me. Our tongues danced slowly together, his hands gripping me so tight against his body that it was almost painful. 

He broke the kiss to swiftly yank off my shirt, and a little gasp escaped my lips as he started kissing my neck, sucking gently and leaving love bites all over my skin. I felt his fingertips trailing lightly over my back, sending tingles down my spine, until they reached the clasp of my bra.

I flinched suddenly, feeling my face burn and my breath quicken. He froze.

"You want me to stop?" Dave asked, his voice low and husky, a concerned look on his face.

"No," I whispered, looking into his eyes. He stared at me, seeming a bit unsure for a moment, before gently stroking my face.

"Come here," he took my hand and led me to my room. My heart raced as he closed the door, leaving the lights off, and pulled his shirt off, kissing me again. His skin felt hot against mine and my breath hitched as he sat on the bed, pulling me onto his lap. I straddled him, my knees on either side of his hips, and let out a sigh as his lips went back to exploring my neck.

His hands went back to my bra as he removed it slowly. I shivered as I felt the cold air against my skin and even more when I saw the way he looked at me. He lifted his eyes to look at mine, his gaze clouded with anticipation while holding me firmly in his arms. I giggled when he lifted me effortlessly, laying me down on the bed and positioning himself on top of me. He traced the outline of my nipple slowly with his fingertips, making me breathe deeply.

“Dave…” I whispered, and let out a quiet whimper when he sucked on my nipple, his tongue circling it slowly. I moaned, feeling my whole body on fire while he sucked on my breast leisurely, his hand grabbing my hip strongly. He grumbled, a low and satisfied sound, and the vibration of his voice against my skin sent shivers throughout my body.

His hands gripped me tightly on the hips, so strong that I squirmed, a low moan escaping from my throat. He bit my nipple lightly, massaging it with his tongue, and I couldn’t help but moan louder. It hurt a bit, but it was so good that I never wanted him to stop. He did it again on my other nipple, his tongue savoring every inch of my skin while I buried my fingers in his soft hair. His lips explored my skin slowly, kissing and licking and sucking on my breasts, my collarbones, my neck; I knew my skin would be covered in purple marks the next day, but I couldn’t care less. 

When he pulled away, he held my chin in his hand, making me look at him. His eyes were intense and hungry, and they seemed as lost in gazing into mine as mine were in his.

"If I hurt you, you have to tell me," he spoke softly, his hand caressing my cheek slowly.

"Okay," I whispered in response.

"Promise me," he asked, lightly kissing my lips. I nodded.

"I promise, Dave."

He nodded, his eyes serious as he unbuttoned my pants. I helped him take the rest of my clothes off quickly, letting out a small sigh when he saw me naked for the first time. He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it away from his face, looking somewhat stunned as his eyes roamed over every inch of my skin. I slowly caressed his chest with my hand, tracing the outline of his collarbone with the tips of my fingers. He brought a hand to my hair, gripping it firmly before leaning over me and kissing me on my lips again.

I whimpered when he grabbed my thigh with one hand, opening my legs and then touching my pussy, caressing it slowly, making my whole body shiver. I lost myself in his gaze, admiring his faintly flushed cheeks, his lips slightly parted while his eyes looked into mine. I moaned softly when he penetrated me with one finger, and then another, moving them slowly inside of me, exploring me at such a cautious pace that it bordered on tortuous. 

“Does it hurt?” he asked in a husky tone. I shook my head to assure him it didn’t, my lips slightly parted and my face flushed, and moaned when he moved his fingers inside me. He let out a soft laugh. “Fuck, Nore… You’re so beautiful.”

He leaned in, kissing my neck, his lips gently tracing the contour down to my shoulder and collarbone, leaving a trail of small kisses as he went down and kept moving his fingers leisurely inside me, in and out while he curled them softly. I closed my eyes, tilting my head back when he pressed his tongue against my clit, his hot breath tickling my skin. 

“Oh, Dave…” I moaned, holding onto his hair with one hand. He chuckled softly, seeming to take delight in my reaction, his breath quickening against my skin. I felt my own breath quicken while I enjoyed the combined pleasure of his fingers and his tongue, my legs shaking lightly as my back arched and I moaned. 

He reduced me to a trembling mess of moans and whimpers as his tongue explored my pussy slowly, sucking and licking my clit while his fingers moved inside me, my whole body on fire as I felt the knot of pleasure in my womb grow tighter and tighter. I let out a muffled cry when he stopped, his mouth coming back to mine, his fingers slipping out from inside me and leaving an uncomfortable emptiness that pulsed, yearning for more. I groaned in protest, almost begging for him to touch me again.

“Wait… Just a bit” he whispered while taking off his pants quickly. He gripped one of my thighs, lifting my leg while laying down on top of me. I melted into a breathy moan when I felt him start to penetrate me slowly, and flinched a little as pain and pleasure intertwined inside of me. “Nore…” he moaned, nuzzling my neck, his erratic breath against my skin as I wrapped my legs around his hips with a low moan while my body adjusted to his size “Ah…” 

I moaned when he started moving carefully. Any pain I felt was slowly giving way to the pleasure of feeling his sweaty skin against mine, his lips kissing me greedily, his fingers intertwined with mine as they pressed my hand against the mattress, and him, inside of me, making me feel things I didn't even believe were possible to be felt until then.  

He pulled away a bit, still moving slowly, and my eyes met with his. I knew by his expression that he wanted to devour me. That he was holding back, because he didn’t want to hurt me. But I wanted more of him, too; I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him closer, allowing him to penetrate me deeper. He moaned softly, his control over himself faltering while his hand gripped my hip and he pushed hard inside of me. It was so good, feeling his warm body against mine, his fingers digging into my skin as we lost ourselves in each other.

He started moving faster, his breath becoming more erratic as he let a few muffled moans escape from his lips. I let him hold me against his body, the pain now completely forgotten as the pleasure of having him inside of me invaded my body, the knot of pleasure growing in my womb until it became almost unbearable.

“Nore, I’m so close…” he whispered, his voice almost pleading as he buried his face in the curve of my neck, one of his hands gripping my hair tightly while the other supported his body.

I couldn’t answer, I couldn’t even think straight while I closed my eyes, allowing his lips to explore my skin, the constant rhythm of his movements increasingly intensifying the knot of pure ecstasy growing inside me until I moaned loudly, feeling the pleasure inside of me become unbearable under his touch, allowing my orgasm to run through my whole body, making it spasm and contract. He grunted, shuddering and holding me even closer when he couldn’t stand it anymore and reached his high, his thrusts becoming sloppy as he came inside of me. He sighed deeply, his face hidden in my neck while he caught his breath, my own breath shallow, my eyes closed as I felt the warmth spreading through my body in waves.

That was way easier and better than I ever thought it could be. And sweet. Sweet and just so natural, like his kisses and his touch. Like the love I felt for him. Like the love he felt for me.

Dave let out a sigh, rolling off my body and snuggling up next to me. He pulled me close, and I hugged him tight, burying my face in his chest, soaking in the smell of his skin and his cozy warmth as I relaxed. His lips on my forehead and his hands caressing my back were the last things I remembered before falling asleep in his arms.

[kim2248]

Deeply curious about Ronin's reaction to Y/N's death pre-Skybound retcon ESP @/the other ninja *insert eyes emoji here because trying to add them locks my keyboard's typing ability* mayhaps I'm just wanting to cackle over their faces over discovering this money laundering headache of theirs that comes and goes morally ambiguously went through an "accidentally adopted a child arc" while they weren't looking

Ahhh my very first inbox message, thank you anon!

Just so you know, this one request sent me spiraling and writing an entire alternative ending to Season 6 where I guess Jay doesn't reset everything?? And plenty of father-child angst so enjoy!

///

''Took ya long enough, you missed all the fun.'' Ronin quipped after throwing a quick glance over his shoulder at the approaching Jay.

''You find (Y/N)?''

The silence he was met with was enough to make him turn around again, doing a double-take as he looked at Jay's hollow stare and his blood-trenched gi, still red and wet in places, although some of it had begun drying and turned into a shade of dark purple. A beat of silence passed where none of them dared speak, even Nadakhan was silent.

''Jay.'' Ronin's voice was trembling. ''Where is (Y/N)?''

Jay wasn't answering. Ronin repeated his question with more emphasis, taking one step towards the Lightning Ninja whose eye's were still fixated on the ground. The thief felt his heart drop at all it could imply and before long, he was up and running towards the ruin of a building Jay had come from, his breath growing labored and eyes growing panicked as he quickly scanned the cracked pieces of concrete lying about.

Maybe they'd been hit by some of the rubble. Maybe they just had their leg stuck under some and that's why he couldn't find them. Maybe they were just unconscious and that's why he couldn't hear their voice anywhere. Maybe it was anything but what he thought it would be.

Ronin called out their name, hoping for an answer. Nothing. He made his way through the remains of the temple, jumping over what used to be a wall and entering what looked like a ceremonial hall. The ground in front of him was caved in and when he looked down, he felt his blood run cold in his veins.

He froze. There was no adequate reaction to what his mind had to comprehend. Quietly, he felt his conscience curse himself for ever growing attached to a stupid teenager that decided to squat in his flat one day.

Ronin had seen many dead bodies in his life; of his enemies, of strangers, of his dearest friend. But nothing seemed to come close to what he saw that day.

Their head was twisted to the side, Ronin thought if he'd had to see their face he actually would have started crying on the spot, their arms were splayed out on either side of them and a puddle of blood had started pooling beneath them, the rocks scattered around partly painted in bloody handprints and smears.

Whatever had happened to them hadn't been an accident. Someone had killed them. And whoever that someone was, Ronin would make them pay.

Meanwhile, outside of the building the remaining Ninja were growing more than concerned.

''Jay, what's going on, talk to us!'', Lloyd said and put a hand on his shoulder.

''It's…the…he-'', Jay stuttered as he looked down at his hands which were dark red from the dried blood. He could still see the live fading in their eyes.

''Ohh, I understand now'', Nadakhan throatily chuckled, ''My, what a conundrum that must be for you, Jay. Two people so close to you being at each other's throats, quite literally. Now, who do you care about more? You've already forgiven a killer once, haven't you?''

''Jay, what's he talking about?'', Kai asked next to him.

The ginger bit his bottom lip in worry and turned his face away from the other Ninja, fists clenched tight. His eyes landed on the Djinn Blade on the ground. Nadakhan must've dropped it when he was shot with the venom.

''Funny how much can change just because of one simple wish, isn't it, Jay? Say, I'm curious, which one made it out alive? My bets are on the dagger-wielding one, though I would expect they would have some qualms about repeating past mistakes-''

In a rush of anger, Jay picked up the Djinn Blade lying on the ground and struck Nadakhan mid-taunting-laugh with an aggravated yell. The Djinn turned into a little orange light as the grating sound of stone breaking shattered through the air and islands around them started to slowly fall apart.

Before anyone could get a word out, Jay was shoved around and seized by the collar of his shirt by an angry Ronin, lifted up until his feet hung a few inches above the ground. Behind him, Nya could be seen, eyes wide and still in her white wedding dress, though the hem of it had been soiled by the mud it had been dragged through.

''What did you do?! What happened in there?!''

''N-not me-'', he could barely get the words out in the chokehold Ronin was holding him in.

''Well who was it, then?!''

''Guys?''

Everyone turned around to the person that had spoken. 'The Ninjas faces dropped, Ronin let go of Jay out of shock who promptly fell to the ground with a quiet 'oof'.

''COLE!''

All the Ninja except for Jay rushed to hug Cole and bombard him with questions.

''I-it was him…he…killed them.'', Jay quietly said with hurt eyes, gently massaging his neck where the collar of his shirt had dug into. Ronin was the only one who heard it, but it was all it took for him to walk up to Cole and punch him square in the face, knocking him over.

Immediatly, Kai, Zane and Lloyd moved to stand in front of their teammate while Jay scrambled to get up and hold the thief back from punching him again together with Nya.

''OW, what is wrong with you, Ronin?!'' Cole yelled as he sat up, clutching his now bleeding nose.

''What's wrong with me?! What's wrong with you! You killed (Y/N) and you have the balls to just show up and let yourself be celebrated like some kind of deity returning from the dead!'', he accusingly pointed at the Earth Ninja on the ground.

The ground shook and a few more remaining islands started plummeting towards the ground.

''Guys, I think we better get out of here before the entire island comes down!'', Lloyd yelled.

///

Hope you enjoyed this! So yeah, basically Ronin gets really angry and starts physically assaulting people because do you really think that mf would express his grief in a healthy way? He would undoubtedly cry later once he can be 100% sure he's alone and then probably uproot the entirety of Djinjago's remains to find their corpse and give them a proper burial. Aaand then he would probably vow to never let anyone get close to him ever again. And maybe turn to some mild to severe alcoholism. We'll see.

[thepenultimateword]

Eyeteeth Part 3

Just pure self-indulgent fluff. I know I have requests to get to but for some reason, this is what's eating at my mind right now. (Also since parts one and two were asks this title has only ever shown up in my master list, but this is my civilian mentor x monster villain story)

Part One, Part Two

"...and now historians believe that magery might not be genetic at all. It's probably more of a rare mutation, well rarer now, they were all over the place back in the 1500s. I suppose it makes sense; I've met Hero's family, and no one else has a hint of powers, and they haven't found any mention of it in their family history. Though I do have a theory that mage genes remain dormant until something triggers them. But I would need a large study pool to even prove such a thing, even proposing the idea would be an ordeal, and I just don't have the time, what with Hero and the library and all that."

Villain hummed in acknowledgment, letting Civilian smoothly switch tracks to another train of thought. They loved listening to Civilian talk. Even if they couldn't make head or tails of most of it, the way Civilian's eyes lit up and the animated wave of their hands in the air... They let out a quiet, happy sigh and settled in deeper for the next educational lecture, this one about varying otherworldly instincts apparently.

Perhaps Civilian only liked them because they were a monster. Maybe any fiamora could have caught their eye. The thought plagued them in quiet moments and late at night, but in the end, Villain supposed they didn't care. All that mattered was Civilian was theirs. If another fiamora ever showed up and challenged them for Civilian's affection, Villain felt confident in their ability to tear them apart. Though there wasn't much likelihood of that happening, Villain had chosen this city because of its fiamoraless status. Unless someone wanted to try edging into their territory--

Oh, Civilian was staring at them. Had they asked a question? Hopefully, they didn't think Villain hadn't been paying attention. Their brilliant human got embarrassed when they thought they were being boring.

"What?" Villain said cautiously.

Civilian tilted their head to one side and then the other. "Did you do something to your hair?"

Villain touched the ends of their hair self-consciously, tamed for the first time, and slightly crunchy with product. They'd hoped Civilian would notice right away, but they'd been ready with a bookish rant as soon as they reached Villain's door, and Villain couldn't be annoyed at them for that.

"Mousse."

"What?" Civilian blinked, clearly not expecting that answer.

"I moussed it."

"Wooow." Civilian pushed their book to the side--because of course Civilian brought books on their dates--and leaned across the kitchen table to fondle the thick locks. As soon as their hand was in their hair, they seemed to realize what they were doing and blushed furiously.

Villain plopped their face in their hand before it could fully pull away. "I know, I actually really like it. I think it brings out my curls. What do you think?"

"I'm a fan," Civilian said, shrugging helplessly. Their thumb made awkward work of caressing Villain's cheek. "I like your other hair too though."

"Because it's wild and untamed?" Villain purred, nipping playfully at the tip of Civilian's thumb.

Too much. Civilian retreated completely, melting into a bright pink puddle over the pages of their book. Perhaps if Villain was kinder they would have asked for their pardon, but their greed was as innate as their predatory instincts. They adored Civilian's flushed face.

"And your fangs?" Civilian mumbled, flipping a page as idly as they could. Did they really think they were being discreet? "Did you mousse those away too?"

"Ah, you just noticed that too?"

Civilian's shoulders hunched. "Sorry."

Villain would comfort that. They dragged one claw very gently along the line of Civilian's jaw. "You were excited about your book, and I was happy to hear about it. I knew you'd notice eventually."

Civilian nodded.

"I called in a little favor from the kid," Villain continued.

"Favor?" Civilian raised a suspicious eyebrow. Still always so tense when it came to that little rug rat. They acted like Villain wanted to eat them alive, but that had been moved off the table long ago.

"Ok. It was more of a deal. Poof away the fangs for a couple hours, and I don't do anything nefarious over prom night. Now we can finally go out to eat. Also, you can finally see what human me would look like."

They tucked one hand under their chin, careful to avoid the invisible points of their fangs, and turned their head showily to the side.

"You know I love your eyeteeth."

"I know," Villain said. "It's actually a little weird how much you like them."

"Shut up," Civilian said, but they were grinning.

Villain stood up from the table and held their clawed fingers out to Civilian, happy when the human didn't hesitate this time before taking them.

"Should we get going?"

Civilian tucked their book under their arm and squeezed their hand in confirmation.

"How do you feel about burgers? I've always wanted to go to a diner."

"Perfect," Civilian said. "Can we stop by my place on the way? I forgot that I got this new edition on fiamora, and I really wanted to fact-check a few chapters with you."

"I thought you still didn't want me to know where you live."

Several boundaries had been established when Civilian agreed to give this courting thing a shot, one of them being the complete privacy of both they and Hero's homelives.

"Well...it's been a couple months...I think it's about time I extended some trust. And it's not like you probably don't know already; I stopped using different routes a couple weeks ago."

"You're not wrong," Villain admitted sheepishly. They'd tried not to figure it out, they really had, but blinding themself from premonitions wasn't something they could do. Apparently. Never in their life had they thought about keeping these abilities and instincts under control. Never had they thought they'd have something they wanted so badly to protect.

But here they were. This amazing, accepting human with more daring than their delicate body could safely manage paired up with this terrible something that their self-preservation instincts never should have allowed anywhere near them.

"Where are your eyeteeth?" Civilian asked, squinting up at their face.

"Here and here," Villain said, touching the pad of their finger very, very lightly to each point. Even when they appeared to be touching air, it was obvious that one tooth sat drastically higher than the other. At least it was growing in at all. "Why? Are you planning our first kiss? Should I be preparing myself?"

"Shut up."

That wasn't a no.

***

Civilian wiped their fingers thoroughly on exactly three napkins before daring to flip the next page of their book. As interesting as this was getting, the last thing they wanted was salt and grease stains on the paper. How could they call themselves an example to the kids if they didn't treat the books right themselves? Though, maybe the most responsible action would have been not to bring an expensive book to a diner in the first place.

Whatever. They could scold themself at a later time.

"'Though often reported as solitary creatures, fiamora are actually known to be quite affectionate and forward with prospective mates.' True or false?"

Though they worded it as flirtatiously as possible, they couldn't help the blush that washed their face, nor the genuine curiosity tailing the ends of their words.

"You bet we are," Villain purred, lacing their fingers with Civilian's across the table and leaning in on their elbows like a cat ready to pounce. Their tail flicked at the ball of Civilian's ankle, but Civilian refused to give them the satisfaction of a shiver.

"'This is often displayed through actions such as curling their tails together, licking each other's fur, and fang nuzzling--a movement that consists of gently gliding the flats of their eyeteeth over the other's face.' True or false?"

"True? I've never had a mate before." Even they looked a little embarrassed now. Maybe Civilian should back off; they always let their curiosity push things too far. If someone asked them their mating habits, they wouldn't even be able to speak for the humiliation.

"Sorry, you don't have to--"

"I do always want to wrap my tail around you," Villain said, "but the hair licking thing seems weird. I'd rather kiss like in the movies."

"Fascinating," Civilian said before they could stop themself. "Social conditioning overpowering instinct. Because of integration, modern-day fiamora may be completely different than the ancients. I wonder if anyone's written a paper on that..."

Villain interrupted their thoughts by waving a fry in front of their face, holding it up to their mouth so they wouldn't have to wipe their hands again before touching the book.

Civilian accepted it gladly, but they moved on to the next paragraph quick to avoid making the simple act embarrassing.

"However, despite the depth of fiamora affection it is most common for pairs to separate after..."

A sudden thought struck Civilian like a well-aimed cannonball, knocking nearly all the air from their lungs. "You're going to leave me. True or false?"

"What are you talking about?" Villain said, bottle-green eyes widening.

The words spilled out rapid and panicked, barely thought before bursting into voice. "If fiamora are affectionate mates but still solitary creatures, that means they choose to leave each other. Is there a certain point in our relationship that I should be expecting it to end at? Because humans don't do that, Villain. We stay together. And if this is just a--" They checked the book. "--a year long commitment for you, I need to know."

They hated how clingy they sounded. Especially when they were the one always holding back and showing less than they felt. For as cool as they wanted to act, Villain should have no doubt by now at how tightly they had Civilian wrapped around their clawed little finger.

Villain scooted to the edge of their booth seat, tail wrapping firmly around their ankle now, and took both of Civilian's hands in their own, Their brilliant eyes looked directly into Civilian's spectacled ones.

"I'm staying right here."

Civilian's breath shuddered. "Are you sure?"

Villain must have known by now that Civilian worked better in terms of research than promises, because instead of treating them with another solid 'yes', they said, "You might know more about my species than I do, but as far as I know, mates don't have to separate. It's usually a territory thing. We're not the biggest sharers, and we get competitive. In the end, the best solution is usually to live apart in our own spaces. But fiamora are growly and mean, and you're soft and cute; I don't foresee any problems."

"Territory," Civilian mused. Interesting. Civilian had never heard anything about territorial rites being the crux for fiamora solitude. It just spoke for how much research was being made through observation instead of direct contact. "Is there a specific square-foot range?"

"You're over it that fast?" Villain complained, tailing uncurling in an instant and lashing the floor.

"Oh, no!" Civilian said, snapping their attention back on Villain. "It's just that I believe you. So there's no reason to stay upset. Thank you."

They wished they could work up the courage for a real kiss--that would definitely assure them--but even if it weren't for the invisible fangs, they couldn't get over the nerves that they were going to royally screw it up. They pecked Villain between the eyes instead.

Villain grinned. It was enough.

"You were really worried though, right?"

Civilian nodded.

"You really, really like me."

Civilian thought about that, surprised by the depth of its truth. "I suppose I really do."

They smiled bashfully, squeezing Villain's hand tighter and losing themself in the otherwordly depths of their gaze.

"It's so gross when grown-ups get romantic. Especially you guys."

Civilian abandoned Villain's hands in a flash, jolting back against the booth with a short gasp. The teenager standing at the head of their table only continued to stare dryly.

"Hero?"

"Uuugh, why are you here?" Villain said.

"Excuuuuse me," Hero said, rolling their eyes. "I've had a hard night defending my city with my wizard powers, so if I want a delicious shake and burger to take off the edge, I will do so."

"Mage," Civilian coughed. "Wizards aren't real."

"Whatever." They stole a fry from their basket and slid into the booth beside Civilian. "So. Who's buying?"

"Don't you have parents?" Villain griped.

"You really think I get up to all I do, the late-night fights, and the foiling, and greater good junk, while having attentive parents?"

"Aw, is that your tragic backstory?" Villain's voice dripped with fake sympathy. "Bad parents?"

Hero blinked. "What? No. They're not bad. There are just, like, 8 of us. And I'm one of the least problematic, so if I say I'm going to the arcade, they don't bother checking up."

Civiian looked around at the diner, filled to the brim with families and joking high schoolers.

"Villain has a point," they said, even though it definitely wasn't what the fiamora had been getting at. "What are people going to think if you're seen hanging out with a pair of adults outside of school?"

"I'll say it's library club."

"Library club with a date?" Civilian said nodding meaningfully at Villain.

"Oh shut up and buy me a burger."

Villain raised out of their seat a little. "You mind your manners. The only reason you stand a half-baked chance out there is because of Civilian. Show some respect for all the time they spend helping your pathetic, ungrateful butt."

Hero wilted a little. "Sorry, Civilian. May I please have a burger?"

Civilian looked at Villain, and the fiamora sighed. "Fine. I'll buy you a burger."

"Thanks!" Hero beamed, all traces of humility gone. They didn't hesitate to steal Villain's seat as soon as they moved to the counter, as well as a handful of fries.

"So," Hero kicked back their feet and waved a fry between Villain and Civilian, "how's it going?"

Civilian glanced toward the counter at Villain's back and cleared their throat. "It's good."

"Just good?" Hero said.

"You really think I'm going to go into detail with you? We may be close, but you're still a student. It's good. That’s it."

"It's delicious," Villain purred, sliding in beside Civilian and grabbing their face in their hands. The points of their claws dug into their cheeks, careful enough not to break skin, and they dragged Civilian in close enough to lick the hair over their ear. As soon as they'd done it, they froze.

"Huh," Civilian said.

Villain blinked. "What do you know."

Hero popped another fry in their mouth. "Ew."

Villain glowered, dropping Civilian's face but hugging to their arm. "You were supposed to leave."

"I'm in high school. I see worse PDA every day in front of my locker."

“Little brat,” Villain muttered.

“Enemy dearest,” Hero countered.

Luckily, the server bringing out Hero’s burger paused the nemeses in their verbal dueling long enough to break the tension.

“And that shake?” Hero said, looking hopefully at Civilian.

“You little—“ Villain started.

“We’ll see.”

Hero’s sly smile turned down in disappointment, but they didn’t argue any further, taking a large bite out of their burger.

“There is something I wanted to talk to you about though,” Hero mumbled around their mouthful. “I was out tonight, doing my thing, when I got this really weird feeling.”

“Weird?” Civilian said. Surely they’d taught Hero to be more descriptive than that.

“Yeah, like, whenever I used my powers, the air got super heavy, like it was pressing down on me. And then that bracelet you gave me a while ago got all itchy? And I know you said not take it off when it does that, but it was reeeeally itchy, like, I wanted to rub my skin off itchy, so—“

“Wait.” Civilian leapt to their feet. “You took it off?”

Hero shrank. “Um, yes?”

Villain’s fingers fit gently in the crook of their arm. “Darling? What’s wrong?”

Civilian’s heart was pounding too hard and their fears unraveling too fast to respond.

“Do you have it with you? Can you put it back on?”

“Yeah, it’s just in my pocket.” Hero stretched out their long legs and dug into their jeans, fumbling out the rune embroidered leather band in a half-twisted crumple.

That was when the whole diner exploded.

Part Four

Master Taglist:

@moss-tombstone @crazytwentythrees @just-1-lonely-person @the-vagabond-nun @yulanlavender @willow-trees-are-beautiful @cocoasprite @insanedreamer7905 @appleejuice @psychiclibrariesquotestoad @valiantlytransparentwhispers @whovian378

Am I bad at writing endings? Yes I am. Do I use cliffhangers simply so I can make parts end? Yes I do.

[staceymcgillicuddy]

143/144? 👀

Ooh, smutty, anon! I like it! I'm going to do 143 in this post, then do a separate fill for 144!

143:

“Are you trying to turn me on, or are you really just that oblivious?”

Chrissy lifts one leg into the air, running her hands down the front of her calf to smooth in the suntan oil. “I’m trying to turn you on,” she says without hesitation.

“It’s working.” 

“Suffer, then,” she replies, finishing her leg with a long stroke up her thigh before reclining against the rusting metal lounge chair Eddie’d bought off their departing neighbor for a dollar. It’s not much to look at, but it’s decent for sunbathing when paired with the plastic kiddie pool he’d gotten Bill to throw in for fifty cents. 

Eddie’s in the pool, a beer on the patchy grass beside him, eyes roving over Chrissy’s bikini-clad body like a starving man might look upon a steak. The bikini’s new for her, but she’s all about trying new things these days. Breaking up with her boyfriend. Cutting off contact with her mother. Moving in with a guy she’s only been dating for three months but thinks she might be falling in love with. 

Blowing up her whole life, basically, and she’s never been happier. 

“Cruel,” Eddie says, flopping into the water so half sloshes over the sides, creating even more of a mud puddle. “Guess I’ll die.” 

“Guess you will.” 

“Take your top off.” 

“Eddie!” 

“No-one’s even back here!” 

That’s a fair point. They’re behind the trailer, which backs up to a wooded lot and a chain link fence. Wayne’s at work, and unless a neighbor comes sniffing around, nobody can see her. 

Still, she wants to make him work a little. 

“How would that help your situation?” She asks, peering over her sunglasses at his evident erection. 

“Wouldn’t. But at least I’d get to see your tits.” 

Chrissy rolls her eyes but doesn’t bother hiding her smile. “Fine,” she says, sitting up enough to reach behind herself and undo the flimsy bow holding her top closed. 

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie says like he hasn’t seen her breasts maybe a hundred times by now.

“You asked.” 

“Can you come over here, please?” 

“Nope. I’m tanning.” 

“Chrissy. Sweetheart. Prettiest girl I know…” 

“Eddie. Sweetheart. You’re so full of crap.” 

“I’m gonna bust a nut right here and now.” 

“Gross.” She hesitates, then reaches for her magazine. “If you can keep your mouth shut for ten minutes, I’ll blow you in the kiddie pool.” 

Eddie makes it seven minutes before accidentally spilling his beer and swearing.

Chrissy blows him in the kiddie pool anyway.

Prompt Fill Meme

Other prompts from this meme!

[seiiblue]

The mechanism of fear.

Gender Neutral!Reader x Jouno Saigiku (Bungo Stray Dogs)

Warnings: Mentions of stalking and paranoia, mentions of blood and injuries, mentions of a dark, eldrich creature tormenting humans(? I did not beta read this, I'm sorry if there are any mistakes. This is probably not a relationship or romantic oriented fic... I'm not sure how to make those lol

Word count: 1600

A/N: So I did this, taking inspiration on one of my favorite books (The mechanism of Fear by Norma Lazo), which you should definitely read if you liked this! (ew)

Maybe you were a bit too cruel.

Looking around the empty alleyway, the burglar hurried to hide in the shadows, away from the faint light of the street lamps.

It had been raining a lot lately, making the bricks on the floor slippery, yet he hurried, trying to make no sound while stepping on the puddles left behind by the dark clouds.

- It will rain again soon - He thought with annoyance, thinking on the leaks of the place he called home. He wanted to fix them, to give the ones he called family a better life, out of crime and out of the streets. The opportunity he never had.

That's why he had just stolen an ancient device said to open a tomb, somewhere in the heart of the jungle in a faraway country, he does not care what treasures it hides, nor what magical tool for world domination lies within.

He only cares for the juicy reward that Fitzgerald guy offered for it.

It was no sweat, really. His ability made it easy to move like a ghost, and given the device was just at plain sight on a museum... he could just take it like a souvenir. No alarm was activated, and no guard had noticed the theft. Everything was silent, except he could hear a faint ticking. He discarded it as something he was imagining.

However, he was walking fast, feeling watched, no, he felt stalked by someone? something?

- This is just paranoia - He thought, trying to catch his breath, annoyed at himself.

The next step he took right outside the alley was in complete shadows, thinking this was the end of the feeling, seeking comfort on the shadows. He quickly discovered it was not. A feeling of a hand, more like a claw, had taken his ankle, pulling him into the dark.

He tried not to scream and kicked at the shadows, to no avail, since there was nothing there he could kick. He scrambled around, and the invisible hand let him go.

- What the ... - He whispered to himself before getting up and running in the opposite direction.

However, there's no way to run from the shadows at night, for even the street lamps seemed dull, as if weakened by something. The street was completely alone, not a soul walking at this ungodly hour, increasing the feeling of loneliness, but something feels odd.

What seemed like a product of imagination at first quickly turned into reality, hearing something akin to a beast huff, walk, and laugh from the shadows. And a faint ticking, somewhere in the distance.

The man made too many turns, too many jumps and tricks, trying to lose his pursuer, that stalker that seemed to rejoice on his anguish.

However, paranoia grew and grew, turning into a monstrous fear, into panic. He knew whatever was there, there was no hiding from it. He stood below a streetlamp, waiting for a sound, looking for an escape.

- You seem as lost as a deer, just before being trapped by the wolves. - A voice said, coming right in front of him. However, he could not see anyone, fearing he was going insane. He looked around. Was someone like him, with an ability to dissappear following him? The noise of ticking turned into that of a machine running heavily, like waking from its slumber.

- When that light turns off, do you know what will happen? - The voice continued, sounding casual, like waiting for the tea to be served.

-What are you?! - The man started falling prey to the fear. The dark sky seemed to have lost all it's stars and the moon was nowhere to be found. Moreover, darkness looked like a pool just in front of him, it seemed tangible even, the only shield keeping it out was the light of the post. The ticking went faster, the machine sound too.

He looked above him, to see the light faltering and dimming, centimetre by centrimetre, being won over by the darkness of the late night, and just past the last bit of visible street where the faint light reached, he could recognize the silhouette of claws, sharp, black claws, circling that very same lamp he was using as protection.

Trapped. Another wave of fear came, making his breathing shake, the sound of the machine even closer now, making him panic further. He tried using his ability as a desperate mean to escape but even while being invisible, when he got close to the darkness past the light of the little lamp, he came face to face with a creature that resemble that of an unspeakable fear, only appearing on the primal nightmares everyone has as a child, when they fear the dark, when the wake up screaming in cold sweat looking for a source of light. Long open maw with deathly fangs and glowing eyes full of malice, full of hunger.

- Even one like you should know, no matter how hard you try to hide from the dark, dark itself lives in every corner, in the very place that you use as a shield. - Voice continued, the light dimming faster. He was close to tears, fearing for his life. - Not even a ghost can escape the dark -

- Please! just let me go, you can have the reward - He implored, throwing the device to the floor, just infront of the dark, that seemed as real and tangible as a black ocean infront of him.

Reward? - The voice inquired curiously - The only reward I crave is that of the screams and agony you will muster in your last moments of life. - The claw of the nightmarish creature reached from the ground, taking the device and dissappearing it below the ground. - I don't need no reward from a foolish human. - The voice spat with venom, chuckling at the desperation on his voice, the machinery sound was unbearably loud, the ticking going haywire.

His eyes widened, fearing the worst, as the light circle was no more bright than a candle just about to fade. The man fell to his knees, begging for mercy straight up screaming - Please! I'll do anything! Don't harm me! - As the light faded, the details of the shadow became clearer and closer.

- Too late, your soul is mine - The creature smiled widely and leaped forward, the street light went completely out, and the horrifying scream was cut short.

The ticking and the machine fully stopped, and a bell similar to the church's sounded right after.

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

The sunlight started to leak through the clouds, early morning, and yet you had no rest. The street was damp, the city still shaking up from its slumber. Looking towards the sky filled with clouds, yet the sun came through them. The frisk air blowed around your black coat. You took a sip of coffee as you watched the police set up a crime scene investigation.

Don't you think you were a bit too cruel? - A male voice came from behind you. Coming to a stop right next to you, watching the crime scene out of any horror movie and beyond, yet the victim, the burglar, was alive... completely out of his senses and with some bite marks, but alive.

It's real! It's real! It's coming for me! It will chase me forever! - He said over and over again like a prayer, directed to no one in specific with a lost look on his face. The paramedics carried him handcuffed into a patrol car.

He will live the rest of his life on a psychiatric ward, I think. Probably won't remember his family ever again - The man beside you sighed, never losing his smile - This is why I think you're cruel. -

Oh! common Jouno! I was asked to retrieve the thing, and you know how I work - You replied, annoyed. - If they wanted him complete or... sane, maybe I'm not the person to contact. - You took a sip of coffee.

- You're right - Jouno replied, opening his hand in between you and him. - If they don't want traumatized criminals, we aren't the ones to call -

You looked at his hand and reached inside your coat. You checked the antique figure, just a bit droplets of blood here and there. -Oh, but at this point, you just do it for fun, I know how you are. - You cleaned it up a bit with your coat before putting the device on his hand.

- I need to do it. That's how my ability works, I need to keep it going, or it won't work anymore. - You said plainly. It was a fact you had accepted.

-Hm, I know. You have an important job, feeding the darkness of the world. - Jouno said, waiting for the investigation team to come back with the documentation he needed to finish this whole case. - However, you almost did leave him with no ounce of sanity. I could sense it... nothing more left inside him, just a casket of pure fear, in other words, a treat for your entertainment. -

- Heh, maybe I went a bit overboard, I know. I was a bit annoyed and got carried away. - You giggled, looking at the faint smile on the man's face. - Yeah... you're right, I am too cruel. -

You felt similar disdain to your ability as you did when you first discovered its nature; the mechanism of fear: an ability that became stronger, the more fear the target felt, fear was the fuel of the mechanism and the faster it turned, it gave you power to control and hide in shadows, dim light and ultimately to turn into one of those things that hid on the mirror.

One of the kin who craved the fear and feed from the mechanism moving, keeping them on their side of the mirror. Were you one of them? Were you human? You still couldn't answer that yourself.

- You shouldn't pity yourself - Jouno interrupted your thoughts once again as he received the missing documents from another officer. - You should understand that we are the same -

You looked at him curiously. He smiled at you as he turned to leave. - We both are the necessary evil that keeps this country safe. -

[sunhatllama]

Please Don't Leave Me (Part 4)

A Resident Evil fic request

For @leonisdumbasallhell

Rating: M

Contains: blood, strong language, description of injuries, bodily fluids

Tags: Married Chreon, Infection, Major Character Injury

Word Count: 1692

Part 4/? Part 1 <-Previous | Next ->

Chris closed the bedroom door behind him slowly, the moist rag in hand. It had already warmed due to Leon’s hot forehead and felt humid in his bare palm, somehow feeling sticky against Chris’s dry skin. He didn’t want to leave Leon for any reason, but the man’s temperature needed to come down and this was the only way he knew how to help, especially if the anti-fever medication wasn’t working. He would go ask Rebecca for one once Leon fell back asleep.

He stepped into the bathroom, the white lights making his skin seem paler than it was, and it made him picture his husband’s white, black-streaked face when he found him by those docks. 

He shivered, moving to the sink.

The room was simple, but it was cozy. He could see remnants of the space being lived in, a half-full trash can filled with tissues and paper towels, a cabinet with worn dark grey paint where the handles hung, and he even could see a glimpse of what he assumed was a beard grooming kit peeking out from one of the metal shelves. A shower with various hair and body products stood in the back corner next to the toilet and the sink was by the door. It wasn’t a huge room, but bigger than the one in his own home. He was once again grateful that whoever lived here was willing to lend them their home but also wished that he was back in their own home, caring for his husband in the comfort of their shared apartment.

Chris turned the faucet handle cold, waiting a second for the water to cool. Hopefully, this would help Leon feel a little better. He was worried about the other symptoms that Rebecca had mentioned, especially nausea. Earlier, Chris saw the man swallowing and clenching his jaw a lot, almost as if he was trying to keep something down. Maybe he would grab a bin later just in case.

Once the faucet ran cold enough for his liking, he soaked the small rag, wringing it out only a little so that it didn’t drip all over the floor and potentially leak water into Leon’s eyes. Nodding to himself, he left the room and headed back to Leon.

He was just about to open the bedroom door when a choked cry of pain followed by a wet splatter against the floorboards sent his heart plummeting. Shit. Leon must have vomited. He opened the door quickly, remembering too late Lee’s light sensitivity, and stepped into the room.

Leon lay half on his side, looking like he fell and couldn’t get back up and shaking like a leaf, gasping for air. "Oh shit, Leon ." He rushed to his side, avoiding the too-dark puddle on the floor with his heart in his throat, the familiar bitter tang of vomit doing nothing for his own stomach. Grabbing his stilled-webbed face with both hands, he rubbed the man’s cheeks softly, heart pumping wildly. "Hey, baby, you okay?" 

A whine came from him, and mismatched pupils turned to Chris, sweat streaming down his temples, and Chris took this moment to move the man back onto the pillows, hoping it would help him breathe easier.

"Lee, honey, can you hear me?" he murmured, worried at the lack of a response. The man groaned and Chris let out a sound of distress. This wasn’t good. His fever was too high. It had only been a few hours at most since he was infected. He inhaled shakily, willing himself to calm down. Leon needed him. "I-I'm going to call Rebecca," Chris said, tears pooling in his eyes threatening to fall. Leon looked so pale, his body too hot under his ministrations. "Your fever's getting too high."

Leon continued gasping, brow furrowed. He looked like he was in agony and it took everything in Chris not to start crying. He fumbled with his belt, reaching for his communicator and pulling it out. He rang Rebecca, too scared to leave Leon’s side right now. Peeking at the monitor, he saw that his husband’s temperature was 102.9 and it sent his stomach rolling. That was not good. 

With a little jingle, Rebecca responded, “Chris? Is there something wrong?” Her voice came out quick, worry lacing each word.

“It’s Leon—his temperature is 102.9 and he just vomited something dark,” Chris gasped out before looking back at Leon and realizing that he had passed out, mouth hanging open, and his eyes widened. “I don’t know what to do. He’s unconscious right now.” He reached for the man’s neck, searching for his pulse despite the monitors at his side measuring his heart rate; he needed to feel it for himself. Leon’s heartbeat was too fast, veins thrumming wildly against Chris’s fingertips.

There was a rustling sound over the speaker. “Okay. I’m coming. Go grab some ice in bags, we can use it to bring his temperature down. I’ll bring some anti-fever medication.”

Chris nodded, forgetting Rebecca couldn’t hear him. “Okay, please hurry.” He squeezed Leon’s hand once before rushing out of the room and down the hall to the kitchen.

The fridge had an ice maker in the freezer, thank God, so he pulled out the tray, hands shaking so hard he nearly dropped it. He placed it on the counter and started searching for bags, opening drawers and cabinets manically until he found the one he was looking for, nearly crying for joy. Gritting his teeth hard enough to hurt, he moved to the ice and started shoving them into three large baggies, hoping it would be enough. There were three main pulse points, right? He couldn’t remember, his panic cutting off all attempts at thinking.

Just as he finished, Rebecca ran up the stairs, two syringes in hand and Chris let out a breath, a small amount of his fear dissipating. “I’ve got them,” she said, and Chris lifted his ice bags in response. 

They rushed up the stairs and to the bedroom, Chris immediately moving to hold Leon’s hand and Rebecca on the other side by the monitors. They turned on the light so they could see what they were doing easier, and Chris blanched at how bad his husband looked. Sweat and tears fell from his face, even when unconscious, and a deep red flush sat at the top of his cheeks, contrasting against his pale skin and dark lines. In the light, he could see a sheen of sweat coating every part of his exposed skin, and his shirt was nearly completely soaked with it. He looked horrible, breathing shallowly and Chris swore it was more whistly than before, sounding more like a wheeze than he wanted. He rubbed his thumb against the man’s moist unbandaged hand, setting the bags of ice off to the side as he waited for Rebecca’s instructions.

“We need to strip him, get his fever down. He’s getting too hot too fast.” she finally said, inspecting her syringes, and Chris nodded. “Then put those bags under his armpits and groin. You can move the sheet to cover him, I’m sure he would appreciate it.”

Chris knew Leon would hate being left naked, so he was glad to do so. Happy that he had a task, he began the process of removing Leon’s clothing, first his blue jeans and boxers since that was easy, sparing a glance to make sure Rebecca wasn’t looking when exposing the man, then moving to his sweat-soaked shirt once he was covered with the sheet. Getting Leon’s injured arm through the sleeve wasn’t going to be easy, so he opted to carefully cut it off with his combat knife, the blade having been cleaned after their mission by one of the other team members, Chris didn’t pay attention to who it was. Leon was going to be pissed that he ruined his shirt but he didn’t care. He would buy him a new one. Once the shirt was gone, he placed the ice in the spots Rebecca asked, growing more concerned at the heatwaves coming off his body he swore he could see.

In an instant, Rebecca injected both of the syringes into Leon’s neck, exhaling as the fluid flowed into his body. “Those should help. One was for the nausea, one for the fever.” She sat down at the edge of the bed, posture deflating, and stared at the computer monitor, watching it intently. “Hopefully his fever goes down in the next hour, otherwise we might have to take him to the nearest BSAA base.”

The BSAA? Why not a normal hospital? He asked Rebecca that, growing more worried. The nearest one was too far away for comfort. It would take them at least an hour by helicopter.

Rebecca turned to him, frowning. “You think we can take him anywhere looking like this?” She gestured to the man’s body.

With all his clothing gone, it was almost sickening to see the dark veins that marred his face were also visible throughout his entire body. Chris swallowed, wincing. She was right. A normal hospital wouldn’t know how to deal with this. He was just worried the BSAA would just shoot him right away. Despite the fact that a lot of the infections they dealt with could be cured or reversed if caught early, many people still couldn’t stop their instincts to kill an infected person on sight. He didn’t necessarily blame them, having seen his fair share of monsters and horrors to keep him awake at night, but killing someone who could have been saved for no reason…it was horrific in its own right.

He immediately thought of Leon being forced to kill President Benford during the China Incident as they liked to call it. Leon didn’t have a choice then, it was either kill him or let another innocent person die, and his instincts won that day. He knew it still gave his husband nightmares. He never forgave himself, no matter how many times Chris told him it wasn’t his fault. 

“And what if his fever goes too high on the journey?” Chris said, already knowing the answer.

Rebecca didn’t respond.

[steddiecameraroll]

I'm Thinking of the Way it Was - ch 5

Excerpt from chapter 5 of my getting back together fic

When Steve makes it home Sunday evening from the trip, he’s relieved he missed his parents on their way out again. He’s exhausted but knows he has some things he needs to get done before he can relax for the night.

The trip was nice, Chicago’s weather was perfect, but he’s happy to be home. He tosses his duffel bag onto his bed and strips from his clothes, pulling on a pair of old Hawkins running shorts and removing his shirt. Then, he grabs his hamper out of his closet and starts separating the dirty clothes.

He has a full schedule with classes and work coming up this week, so he needs to get his laundry completed this evening.

He hauls his laundry basket on his hip downstairs. When he turns the washer on, the water fills the barrel, but something doesn’t look right. He sets his basket down and flicks on the light to try and inspect the washer, but the light reflects off something on the ground and catches Steve’s eye. He crowds down and sees water coming from underneath the machine.

“Shit!” He jumps up and smashes the start button stopping the water flow, but that doesn’t stop the water from continuing to pool along the floor. “Fucking hell.”

In a rush, he dumps his clothes onto the puddle and tries sopping up the liquid. The water continues to dribble but has slowed down; he pushes his wet clothes around, trying to soak it all up.

When he thinks the water has stopped flowing and he’s cleaned up as much of it as he can, he accepts he will need someone to come over and help fix it.

He tries calling Hopper first, but Joyce says he and Wayne are out of town on a fishing trip. Unfortunately, that means his second option is also unavailable.

He stares at his phone, knowing exactly who he needs to call but hesitates. Maybe if he could look inside, he could see a leak or a hole or something.

He sets his phone aside and sticks his head inside the drum. He tries to position his body to let the overhead light through, but it’s not working well. He squints through the darkness, trying to let his eyes adjust to the lack of light. Maybe if he waits long enough, he’ll be able to see better.

This is not how he imagined he’d spend his evening, his ass hanging out of a washer while he searches for some kind of hole.

As he looks around, he realizes this isn’t going to work. The interior is covered in holes. Holes that are clearly there on purpose and make the machine work in the first place. He can’t see where he could lift anything up to look underneath, so he knows he won’t be able to fix this.

He shimmies himself out of the washer and stands in front of it with his hands on his hips.

“Asshole. Why? Why today?” He kicks the washer with the side of his bare foot. “UGH.”

In frustration, he throws his hands in the air and scoops his phone up. Then, with one more pause, he hesitates before dialing the obvious choice.

“Stevie?”

“Hey, Ed…uh, sorry to call you, but I need some help.” Steve leans against the machine.

“What’s up?”

Eddie’s voice rumbles directly into Steve’s ear, and goosebumps spread across his arms in response. “Um, do you know how to fix a washing machine?”

“Uh…maybe? What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s leaking. When I turned it on a little bit ago, water started coming from underneath it. I don’t know what’s wrong with it. I have to do laundry, Ed.” His annoyance is seeping through. “I have a busy fucking week and just got home from the trip, and I can’t deal with this right now. Um, can you…?”

“Yeah, Steve.” Eddie cuts him off. “I’ll be right there. Give me 20 minutes to grab some tools, and I’ll head over.” Eddie sounds happy to help.

“Thanks, man.” They hang up, and Steve squeezes his phone in his hand. “Of course, of fucking course. They leave, and I have to deal with this shit. Every freaking time.”

He’s used to dealing with things around the house after years of being the one at home when things break, but that doesn’t mean he wants to be the one to deal with it. He never dreamt of having a homeowner's responsibility without the home's actual ownership.

He stomps back upstairs and moves into the kitchen to take stock of what’s left in the fridge. He’d gone grocery shopping before he left, knowing he wouldn’t have time when he returned. By the looks of it, his parents didn’t touch much, so he’s relieved he’ll still have enough food to prep lunch for the week.

While waiting for Eddie, he prepares a salad that he splits into smaller servings. As well as a couple of sandwiches. When he hears a knock on the door, he wipes his hands on a nearby handtowel and moves quickly to the front door.

He takes a deep breath before pulling the handle. He is greeted by Eddie, wearing a toolbelt, and holding an overflowing tool bag. Steve’s mouth goes dry, and he realizes he has just learned a new turn-on.

Eddie’s staring at him, with his mouth slightly open, but not talking. Steve follows Eddie’s eyes and realizes he’s only wearing his running shorts.

“Oh shit,” he puts his hands on his chest and shakes his head. “Sorry, I was doing laundry. Obviously. Come in; I’ll go grab a shirt.”

“You don’t….” Eddie follows behind Steve, who is already moving up the staircase. “…have to.”

Steve rushes into his room and throws open a dresser drawer, blindly reaching in and grabbing anything. Then, he hurries downstairs while pulling the shirt over his head and back to Eddie. He stops midway when he realizes what shirt he’s grabbed.

Eddie stands at the base of the stairs and smirks up at him.

Steve accidentally grabbed the undersized crop top that Robin purchased him during last year’s Pride month. She’d told him that as a proud bisexual man, he needed to own a piece of clothing that would bring all sexes to their knees.

By the look on Eddie’s face, Robin may have been correct about the shirt. Maybe the accidental crop top can help remove the no-sex ban.

Steve runs his hand across his exposed stomach and hooks his thumb into the elastic waistband of his shorts. The weight of his hand pulls the fabric away from his hip, and Steve can almost feel the heat coming off Eddie from 10 feet away.

Steve wonders if this fuck up can turn into a good thing. If he’s careful and moves slowly, maybe he won’t scare Eddie away. As if he’s trying to capture a stray animal.

“Thanks for coming over.” Steve moves slowly down the rest of the stairs and stands closer than necessary to Eddie. “I wasn’t sure what to do.” He bites his bottom lip and tries to lean into the damsel in distress moment that’s presented itself.

Steve was going to be good. He really was. He was distracted with the washer and how frustrating it was that the idea of sex or getting off wasn’t even in the cosmos of his thoughts. Until Eddie looked at him like he wanted to skin him alive with his bare teeth. 

Eddie shifts his weight and moves the tool bag to his other hand, trying to keep his eyes off Steve’s body. That won’t do for Steve, however.

“Yeah, no problem. So where is the…uh,” Steve runs his finger across the tool belt, causing Eddie to shudder.

“This looks good on you.” Steve lowers his voice. “I had no idea a tool belt could be so hot.”

“Heh, sure.” Eddie’s cheeks flush. “Just like you didn’t know what shirt you threw on.”

“I didn’t, but it still worked out.” Steve’s fingers continue exploring the tool belt, letting them gently poke and pull on the pockets.

“Stevie,” Eddie says sternly while taking a small step back. “Don’t.”

Steve feels his heart drop, and a sudden rush of embarrassment hits him. “Sorry.” He lowers his head, hoping Eddie doesn’t see his red cheeks. “Um, the washer is downstairs.” 

Steve leads them downstairs where thirty seconds ago, he would’ve hoped Eddie’s eyes were locked on his body, but now he’s hoping he doesn’t make this exchange any more awkward.

He always fucks things up.

Eddie’s being kind, stopped whatever he had been doing and immediately drove over to help, and Steve couldn’t control his libido.

continue reading on ao3

Excerpts: ch 1 ch 2 ch 3 ch 4 ch 5 ch 6 ch 7

[hermannsthumb]

Hello! My dumb autistic ass decided to go into ~autistic burnout~ right before finals so I missed an entire final and I'm looking forward to a month of intensive therapy to see if I can even go back to college. If you could write a winter prompt for our favorite dumb scientists I would be so friggin happy! Maybe 25 or 35?

25. i love snow days because it means that you trek across town to hang out with me and watch movies on the couch except this time you demand to know who i’m crushing on and i don’t know how to say you

from winter prompts here

filling this one a little (ie...four years....) late because it got lost in the depths of my inbox. imagining this set post-movie in the weird realm of 'are we dating???' because it's stupidly fun to write

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

They're well-practiced enough in their traditions at this point that Newton knows to hang his coat on the door hooks rather than simply flinging it into the ether (only to complain when he cannot find it later), but the same cannot be said, unfortunately, of his treatment of his boots, which are filthy on the best of days and positively caked with snow now, and which are currently tracking all manner of puddles and mud across Hermann's poor front hallway. Fortunately Hermann is well-practiced enough in this as well to know to seize Newton by the back of his t-shirt before he can make it remotely in the direction of the small sitting room—and, of course, to keep a stash of old hand towels in the hall closet for faster mopping-up. "I bought a shoe rack," Hermann gripes, as Newton grins at him sheepishly, "specifically for you. Your very own shoe rack, Newton."

Newton ducks over to tug at his sodden bootlaces, and melted snow drips from his hair and pools on the scuffed hardwood floor. Hermann grits his teeth. "Sorry, sorry, I know," Newton says. He gets one boot off and tosses it in the direction of the shoe rack, which, Hermann will give Newton credit, is more than he expected of his friend. "I forgot. I was excited. Oooops. You wanna toss dinner in the microwave or something while I clean this up? It's definitely, like, frozen by now."

Hermann delicately picks up the bag of takeaway (one of Newton's myriad of tote bags, and likewise dripping melted snow everywhere) that Newton hung on the doorknob and nods. It was Newton's turn to pick the restaurant this time, which means it is likely Taco Bell and whatever bottle of wine he could dig up from his small kitchen pantry. Hermann cannot imagine the food will reheat well. "I hope your walk wasn't too unpleasant," he says. He peeks into the bag as he navigates around Newton and into his kitchen and is pleasantly surprised to find that Newton has actually stopped off at a rather nice noodle place they've frequented together before. It's one of Hermann's favorites. He smiles to himself, only because he's certain that Newton will not be able to see it, and puts the cardboard takeout container directly in the microwave.

"Nah," Newton calls. "I mean, it totally was, but it was worth it."

His sock-cushioned footsteps echo into place behind Hermann just as their dinner finishes, and he begins making himself at home in the kitchen, pulling out plates and cutlery from Hermann's cupboards and laying everything out on the counter. "Worth it," he repeats, and then continues pointedly, "but, uh, kinda unnecessary. And more expensive. Twice as expensive, literally. You know I have an extra bedroom, dude."

Hermann divides the food into two portions between the plates in silence. "Yes, so do I," he says, mildly. "The second one made for a marvelous office. You ought to try that."

Newton sighs. "Right," he says. "Where's your corkscrew?"

The only couch Hermann has in his sitting room is second-hand, left by the previous renters who undoubtedly did not feel up to the task of fitting it back through the somewhat narrow front door. It's a loveseat, which at the time Hermann did not mind, and indeed felt rather nostalgic about: it reminded him of the old, ragged one he and Newton had carted into the k-science laboratory over a decade ago and the nights they'd spent dozing at each other's sides (all pretenses of animosity gone) when the work became simply too much to bear. Anyway, it wasn't as if he was expecting to host a revolving door of guests. Only Newton. Unfortunately it also means he's got nowhere to hide when Newton is cross with him about something, and the lingering air of tension between them shrinks from the whole of Hermann's kitchen to a mere two inches as they crowd in next to each other, avoiding eye contact and hugging the overstuffed arms as tightly as they can. "You could buy another chair, you know," Newton finally says. "Now that we're actually getting, like, paid. Enough for two more chairs. Three more chairs."

"What would I do with three chairs?" Hermann says.

"Sit in them?" Newton says. "I don't know, what do people normally do with chairs?"

"I like this one just fine," Hermann says. "Besides, you're the only one I ever have round. Seems a bit pointless. And a waste of space, really."

Newton glances at him curiously, then reaches for the remote control far too casually for Hermann's liking. He flips through a few streaming services and cable channels before settling on a bland-looking romantic comedy and turning the volume down so low it's practically inaudible. "Sooooo," he says. "I'm guessing that your date last week didn't go well, then?"

Hermann stifles a small groan. Date is not precisely the word he would have chosen, though he supposes for all intents and purposes he had, in fact, gone on a date last week. He had been attracted to the man, a fellow he'd met at a bar when he and Newton had gone out for drinks to celebrate the end of the semester earlier that December, and who had been bold enough to ask for Hermann's mobile number in front of both his own friends and Newton, which Hermann had thought was rather dashing at the time. They had met up last Friday. It was evening, as Hermann thought most proper dates were. They had eaten dinner. He had said all sorts of complimentary things to Hermann and had accepted Hermann's invitation back to his flat for tea (the first excuse that came to Hermann's mind) without any hesitation. It all went a bit downhill when they began kissing and that sort of business, and Hermann came to the terrible realization that he had only given out his mobile number for the express purpose of making Newton jealous. "Er," Hermann says. "N-not precisely. He was a perfect gentleman, it was—my fault, I suppose."

("I'm very sorry," he said, "but I've been in love with my colleague for quite some time, and I don't think I'm being very fair to you.")

There's a flash of something like relief behind Newton's eyes, and he smiles far too smugly for Hermann's liking. At least he doesn't push for more details. "Awww," he says. "Sorry."

"Oh, be quiet," Hermann snorts.

"You're out of his league anyway," Newton says. He flings an arm around Hermann's shoulders and tucks Hermann in against him. On the television screen, the two romantic leads make eyes at each other in the snow. "Any other hot dates lined up? What about that guy in the chem department, with the motorcycle? The one we met at that stupid barbecue? You totally thought he was sexy. I could scope out the situation. Wingman you. Was it the motorcycle that did it for you, or...?"

Hermann clears his throat. "He's our colleague," he says, and feels himself blush at the grin Newton sends his way. "It would be—vastly inappropriate."

Newton rubs absently at Hermann's shoulder, as if working out a knot that Hermann himself was unaware of. It feels damned good, actually, Hermann doesn't mind it in the slightest. "No one else, then?"

Of course there is, you fool, Hermann thinks. Newton must know; Newton simply must know. His body is warm, and he smells nice, like his deodorant. Hermann would like very much to rest his head upon Newton's shoulder and fall asleep. Or, perhaps—if Newton was amenable—if Hermann could but gather up the courage— He wonders what kissing Newton would feel like, what his lips would feel like. He often wonders things like this. He wonders what would have happened if he had accepted Newton's offer of the spare bedroom in his—their, really, Hermann supposes it would have become—flat in the first place rather than pitching a fit and insisting on letting his own, or what would happen if he would simply admit to himself the spare bedroom in his own flat was subconsciously intended for Newton all along as well. Perhaps—after some time—they might fall into new routines, and they wouldn't need separate rooms at all, and Hermann might—well, it's silly to think about things that might never be.

He does not fear Newton's rejection, but rather the opposite. (Hermann made a career out of predicting disaster, after all, and it's very hard to shut that part of his brain off.) The fallout of it all if everything inevitably goes wrong. He can handle his tragic, unrequited romance, but requited... Newton is his oldest and dearest friend. And, er, rival, he supposes. He's not sure what he would do without him. "No," he says. "Or—yes, I suppose. There is. Only I'm not sure if it would work out."

"Welllll," Newton says, dragging out the word far too slowly, and he nudges the side of Hermann's head with his hand until Hermann (unable to help himself, or his smile) relents and rests it on Newton's shoulder. Newton threads the fingers of his other hand with Hermann's. "If you ever change your mind, Hermann, I'm sure he would be interested. Whenever you're ready. Just say the word."

"I'll bear that in mind," Hermann says.