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cryptiql · 3 years

Text

riptide

pairing: dabi/m!reader

warnings: smoking, some mildly suggestive flashbacks + detailed descriptions of drowning. as always, please do not read forward if any of the listed warnings might trigger you in any way, and stay safe <3

words: 4.9k

a/n: welcome to the sequel of smoke signals. perish :)

dabi made a mistake. the knowledge sits in the bottom of his stomach like a lump of lead; his innards twisting into a knot whenever the memory of you crosses the expanse of his sleep deprived mind. the burns under his eyes might as well be bags, but they aren't large enough to bear the weight of his guilt. it isn't much better sitting on his shoulders, but the repercussions of pain are what keep him from letting it go, and that's exactly what he wants. no—it's what he deserves. he deserves the feeling like his head is going to burst; the ache in his spine from too many hours spent hunched over himself with a bottle clutched between his shaking hands; the burning intensity from overuse of his quirk. the extra inches of marred skin serve as reminders of what he did, but it's not half as satisfying when the pain doesn't last.

he wants to scratch at the wounds until they ooze that bitter garnet liquid; until he's suffocated by the metallic scent and forced to endure as the taste of blood engraves itself on his tongue when he chokes on it. he wants to suffer—the slower the better—because not even the strongest alcohol can cleanse his sins, nor the stench of his regret.

dabi made a mistake. it won't be the last time, he's able to admit, because his ego is too shriveled from the lack of your warmth, and his heart yearns for the passion of your kiss that still lingers on his lips. when the loft echoes with fragments of the city's ambience, drowning him in an incessant racket, he longs for the lighthouse. this place is infested with selfish ingrates, scuttling about in search of the next outcast to torment, and it makes him wish he still had that safe space at the shore. your siren song was a drug to put him at ease, and now he is without it, and the withdrawal has taken effect.

he knew this would come to pass. dabi overdosed on your love; your affection; your everything; all while watching the consequences unravel at a snail's pace, almost as if he were being teased by the inevitable end. he let it happen. he did this to himself, so he won't shake his hands at the sky, cursing gods he doesn't know exist; as if they would concern themselves with the faults of men like him.

he knew this would happen.

but then, so did you. you had to have known by the empty space in your bed where he used to lay; by the dates that kept getting postponed and the meaningless promises made to make up for them; by the shortage of visits, even just to say "hello" before he dropped from the face of the earth once more. if this were true, it meant that you were suffering just the same—nay, more than him, by forcing yourself into a state of compliance whenever he told you it was time for him to go. dabi could pretend like he didn't see your fingers twitching; resisting the urge to reach out for him; just as he could pretend like the rivulets of tears on your cheeks did not exist, though they begged to be swept away by him. god, he wants to hold your face again, noses brushing together and your dreamy sighs melding with his raspy laughter.

he had told himself that you wouldn't deter him from his goal, but even that seems like a pipe dream now. he feels like an underachiever, chasing a future that can't be set in stone when he already had you, which should have been enough. dabi realizes that the flames of his own passionate desire for freedom have burned you in the process, and it hurts more than he can put into words. you were always better with words, he reminisces, tracing the coffee stained parchment sitting in his pocket.

dabi has long since stopped reading the letters you sent, but he still carries them with him wherever he goes. they anchor him to both earth and sky; the reality that he's lost you, threatening to swallow him from under his feet; and the hope that he'll find you again, one day, after all this is over. "and just what do you think you're doing?"

you can see his reflection in the stove's glass sheen, his mouth drawn up into a devious smirk as he leans on the bedroom doorframe, clad in nothing but his briefs from the previous night. the purplish burns scaling his collarbone and abdomen give him a roguish look that—if you possessed no self-restraint—would normally have you lunging at him like a starved beast. you manage to smirk back at him, subtly shaking your hips while opening the stove door to pull out the doughy mound of bread inside. to your delight, you hear him grumble something not-so family-friendly before he snakes his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. you had never once thought that the feeling of staples against your skin would feel so good, but now you can hardly imagine being without it, and you immediately melt into dabi's touch.

he breathes softly in your ear, chuckling when you flinch in response, goosebumps stippling your flesh. by the way your cheeks puff out in embarrassment, he should take that as a sign to stop, but fuck, your pouting is just too cute for him to resist, especially when your worship-able body is basking in the afterglow of dusk. you keen when dabi starts peppering your shoulder blades with kisses, but nearly dropping the pan causes your senses to return, and you whisper a plea. luckily, he appears to be in a merciful mood, because he relents his onslaught of affection to rest his chin in the crook of your neck.

when he finally notices what you're making, he can't help but squeeze you tighter.

"is that a cake?"

you turn to give him a peck on the nose, which is rewarded with a halfhearted snap of his teeth just millimeters from your mouth.

"that'd be right. though, i'm astonished you know which way is up after last night." your sing-song tone of voice spurs him to squeeze your thigh, and you would have shooed him away if not for how much you liked it. dabi murmurs something unintelligible, the vibrations shooting straight down your spine, and proceeds to remove himself from you in order to better observe the baked delicacy.

"mm. what's it for?" he asks, discretely swiping a bit of the pink colored icing from the bowl to his right. sweet, but not sickeningly so.

you are none the wiser when dipping a spatula into the contents and smoothing it over the cake, a soft smile playing at your lips.

"you never told me when your birthday is, so i'm taking a wild guess. figured i'd whip this up as a surprise, but you woke up earlier than i suspected." dabi swears that his heart is about to burst from behind his ribcage, and all because you're too goddamn perfect. you may as well be a priceless work of art in museum that he's been prohibited from touching. however, the fading marks on your skin signify that he's done more than just touch, and he takes pride in the fact you can't seem to move further than two steps in any direction without faltering.

"i know angel food cake is your favorite—" dabi silences you with a kiss; bruising and passionate; and takes the spatula from your hand, blindly setting it aside on the counter. your protests are short-winded as he lifts you from your behind before promptly turning the oven off and spinning on his heel. he's memorized these halls well enough to not bump into anything during his trek back to the bedroom. you pull away, albeit with a hint of reluctance, just to glare at him.

"what about the—" dabi kisses you again, and while you don't seem too happy about being interrupted twice in a row, the shared heat between your bodies distracts you from being upset.

"you're off by about two months, doll. besides, i think i'd much rather have you as a late birthday treat."

dabi clenches his jaw at the memory, his knuckles whitening with how tenaciously he grips the tattered fabric of his jeans. the league's new base is just as rundown and close to crumbling as he feels, but his despair is masked by the rage that overpowers it. why couldn't you have been a normal couple? why couldn't dabi have grown up with a father who loved him; with a quirk that didn't gradually destroy him and without the resulting scars that made him a hideous monster in the eyes of all who saw him? why couldn't he be as beautiful on the inside as you said he was on the outside? why couldn't he just be happy, after all this time?

why? why? why?

dabi finds his answer hidden in the ashen battleground strewn with rubble and remnants of burnt remains. he finds it in the fear of his victims' expressions before the snare of death claims them in a flourish of blue inferno. it's written there in bold, ichor dripping from his fingers as they smear the message with red.

the privilege of living a normal life is, and always will be, beyond his reach. murder does not warrant mercy, and the only person willing to give it to him is miles away, still desperate for him to come back.

as fate would have it, you and dabi lived worlds apart, but you still look at the same sunset; the same array of stars forming constellations that told stories of your life shared together. they replay in his head like a record stuck on repeat, and only when the song ends does he find himself back in the clutches of his childhood trauma, rather than your embrace.

"dabi? dabi!" his trademark scowl automatically takes place when a finger prods and pulls at his cheek, the familiar voice of twice shaking him from his deep contemplation. jin has been so unfortunate as to suffer minor scorches from the ravenette's flames, on account of him being too bothersome at the wrong moments, and so he instantly backs away at the first indication of danger brewing in the air around him. with how on edge he's felt lately, he really should have gone on a walk to relieve some stress, but the looming knowledge that he can't go to the lighthouse would only ruin the trip.

dabi is fully prepared to smack jin's hand away until he sees what he's holding. he'd recognize that handwriting anywhere, and even without it, the scent of saltwater and freshly baked bread clings to the paper, altering him of yet another one of your efforts to communicate with him. dabi feigns indifference towards the object; quite the contrary to his thinning patience as twice waves it above his head excitedly.

"you've got mail! who's is from? probably a useless nobody! or maybe a secret admirer? but who would admire you?"

to his dismay, the commotion has grabbed toga's attention, and she veers over to their location with a giddy grin on her face. she all but drapes herself over dabi as he snatches the letter from jin, and it doesn't help his struggle when she clings to him like a koala. after a bout of kicking and shoving, he manages to break free of her grasp, grimacing at her lengthy, high-pitched whines of disapproval.

"and can you believe hawks was the one to deliver it? i didn't take him for a carrier bird. . ."

dabi doesn't hear the rest, nor does he intent to, because he's already making his way to the nearest exit with haggard breaths. whoever calls out for him and whatever they say are the last of his concerns right now, and they're abruptly cut off when he slams the door behind him. the summer heat wills beads of sweat to paint his forehead, but he soon finds comfort under the shade of a tree, cicadas buzzing noisily overhead. he would sooner keel over and die than thank the birdbrain hero for catering to him—and by extension, you—but now that the note is there, begging to be read, he can't help but feel some sort of gratitude.

"i need you to do something for me."

the bristles of hawks' feather hover over dabi's pulse in a threatening manner, but he feels no more in peril than he would at the cruelty of a baby chick. he knows the number two hero won't harm him, at least not without regretting it later, and this is the perfect time to use that to his advantage. hawks narrows his eyes at him, nose wrinkling in accord.

"why would i do anything for you after that stunt you pulled?" he snarls, and dabi almost has to laugh at the drastic switch in personality. the way he presents himself to the public is a true contrast compared to the persona only he and the league have had the pleasure of seeing.

"because if you don't, everyone will know you've been fraternizing with the enemy, and we wouldn't want number two falling off his high pedestal, now would we?"

this time, dabi audibly laughs when hawks' guise wavers. the other grits his teeth, slowly withdrawing the feather and allowing it to fall limp at his side. he revels in his victory, short though it be, and reaches into his pocket to procure a letter marked with your name and address. putting your location at the disposal of a hero isn't something he's proud of doing, but it's all he has left, and he doesn't have the resolve to tell you directly.

coward, his conscious mocks as he holds it out for hawks to take. the winged man stares at it with befuddlement, his movements stalling here and there when he seizes the paper between his thumb and pointer finger. dabi tuts lightly but menacingly, yanking hawks towards him by the wrist and igniting his quirk to leave a faint mark there.

"you're gonna deliver this for me, no questions asked. don't you dare open it."

despite the clear uncertainty, hawks took heed of the ominous demand and carried it out later that night. he had not expected a young man with tear-stained cheeks to greet him at the door, much less the endless babble of 'thank you's as you took the letter with shaking hands.

dabi hadn't wished for you to send one back, but the ongoing stream of them was considered fair, after he'd left without much of a trace. still, he had promised himself that he would never read them, for fear of it opening the wound inflicted by having to say goodbye.

dabi can't understand the sudden change of mind for the life of him, and yet, he finds that he doesn't care whether it opposes every rule he set to keep you safe—to keep himself safe. he tears open the envelope and slumps against the tree trunk, bark and leather grating together as he hesitantly unfolds the parchment, briefly shutting his eyes as a last act of resistance to the helpless cry from within; longing for the familiarity of your poetic words. instead of the delicate precision that was to be anticipated, dabi stared down at your messy scrawl, a carnal fear rising from within and causing his throat to clamp up. the memories begin to flash at a faster rate, like an old-timey picture film. dabi has just finished putting the kettle on to boil when hears the floorboards creak, followed by the sound of your slippers shuffling across the floor. he snickers, remembering that the only pair you have is the one he bought you; a well worn match that looks oddly like cloud bunnies. you've made sure to exemplify how much you love the gift by wearing them around the house on rainy or lazy days, all paired with a wistful smile. this morning is no different as you worm your way under dabi's hold and press your face into his chest, a satisfied groan escaping you when he cards his fingers through your hair and scratches the scalp.

the robe you wear is half-hanging from your shoulders, which makes for an enticing view from where dabi stands, but he simply kisses the crown of your head and continues waiting for the pot to simmer.

"did you hear that noise?" you slur, just barely discernable over the kettle's shrieking. dabi quirks a brow in question as you rub the leftover grogginess from your eyes, tiredly nodding at the back window.

"little past midnight, i think. coulda sworn i heard somethin' rifling around in the trash." dabi squints at this new information while eyeing your appearance. the dark circles and intermittent yawning indicate a lack of sleep, and if he weren't there to keep you steady, you might collapse onto the floor as a snoring heap. if it really disturbed him, he should have woken me up, he thinks, pulling you closer with an ever-deepening frown. you snuggle up to him as if it's second nature, sleepily giggling away when his digits stray too close to your side.

"s'probably raccoons, but if you're worried, i can stay longer just to make sure." you look up at him with nothing short of pure, unbridled adoration, cupping his face and squishing it gently, to your own entertainment. after a moment of consideration, you shake your head.

"nah, you're probably right."

the feeling hits dabi like a tidal wave, dragging him below the raging surface; far below where the light of day cannot touch. it suffocates him and brings rise to the sickening taste of bile on his tongue, but he doesn't have time to spare in throwing it all up, so he swallows it. withered patches of grass crunch under his feet as he peels himself from the tree and breaks into a dash, sparing your letter the flames fueled by his anguish as to let it drift in the breeze, the single sentence written on it already engraved in his mind.

it wasn't raccoons.

dabi doesn't care what shigaraki will have to say about this when he gets back. the only thing he cares about is that you'll still be alive to say anything to him when he reaches you, and that whoever has invaded your home is willing to die for what they've done, or what they're currently doing, and fuck—he isn't even sure if this is you calling for help or not, but he can't risk being right.

the distance between the base and the lighthouse feels lightyears apart, yet simultaneously at arms length when dabi is running at speeds he hasn't ever been able to achieve before. if he stumbles at any point during his sprint, or if he happens to bump into an unsuspecting civilian on the street, he doesn't notice. the resonant thumping of his own heartbeat is all that he can hear as he thanks the gods for the flow of traffic being so spaced out, otherwise it would be near impossible for him to reach you in time.

in time for what? he has to ask. dabi doesn't even want to think about the repercussions, but the scenarios arrive in rivulets despite the mental trapeze he goes through to push them down, and they only continue to grow into oceans; darker, colder and harboring thoughts too gruesome for even someone of his caliber to handle. he won't realize until much later that he'd forgotten to put on his disguise, but the way people ogle at him with fear and disgust does not suppress the need to protect you.

even now, he can sense the pressure building behind his eyes, though it's more painful that it used to be. dabi hasn't cried in months, and it shows by how unabating the rivers of blood trickle from his skin grafts, despite his feverish attempts to stop them. look at yourself, holding together by a thread and weeping in public like a child whose lost his mother in the crowd. it wouldn't have come to this if he had stayed.

something shifts in the scenery; a distinct line drawn between the city and its neighboring countryside; but it makes no difference to the impending peril that looms ahead. the closer he gets, the sooner he'll find you waiting for him, dead or alive. dabi staggers, his breath hitching at the thought, as well as the harsh sting of pain that erupts when his knee collides with the gravel below. he pushes himself forward in little time, a strangled yell ripping his throat raw as his vision settles on the top of the lighthouse, peeking over the hillside. you have to be there—you just have to. he isn't done with you yet, and you're sure as hell not done with him.

the earth is damp beneath his feet, and it soaks through the canvas of his shoes whilst he darts past the boulevard and onto your property, crying out to you. surely, you must hear him. surely—

dabi practically hurls himself at the front door, his blood running cold when it opens for him effortlessly and swings ajar to reveal the living room, upturned and scattered with broken bits and pieces of furniture. there's no sign of you or whoever did this. the oakwood flooring groans under his weight as he barrels down the hall, peering into every room, beneath your bed and any other place where you could be hiding. nothing. his search ends in vain at the front doorstep, where he stands hunched over and dry heaving. no, no, no. you can't be gone.

"y/n!" he shouts. his only response is the crashing of waves against the shore and the incessant cawing of seagulls. for a moment, dabi forgets how to breathe, and then the ability returns to him; his legs aching horribly as he rushes to the beach. the arrangement of rocks is sporadic at first, but they gradually form large clumps the further he carries on, urging him to squeeze between the narrower openings. it comes with some difficulty, but at last he is able to hobble onto the sandy coast and rest his sights upon the vast sea. he can recall when seeing its murky blue sea would have put him at ease, but now it only causes his senses to be clouded with distress.

"y/n!" the once calm ripples rise into rolling billows that drench the shoreline in frothy heaps of algae, wreckage and blood. it curls and disbands within the ocean to pollute its cerulean hues with ones of scarlet red, and just like that, dabi's heart sinks like the titanic. he'll never forget the sight of you, face-down in the water; your favorite shirt slashed to shreds, clinging to your body as nothing more than a tattered mess. dabi wades into the water until it reaches his ankles, completely numb to its freezing temperature as he sinks down to hoist you up. he rests you on his thighs and presses his lips onto yours with urgency, shortly pulling back so that he can thrust his palms upon your chest and push. he doesn't care to remember how many times he repeats this, but when he finally sits back on his haunches to release a stifled curse, the feeling of dread has only just begun to take control.

you've never looked so pale.

a guttural sob wrenches itself past his grinding teeth as more tears arise, dappling your cheeks like raindrops. it wracks his body and sends forth a surge of agony to course through his veins. dabi cups your face with a shaking hand, the other secured around your waist while he kisses you, his erratic pleas falling upon deaf ears.

"come back. . .come back." his bawling ceases to end, no matter the abrasive pain blossoming in his gullet.

"c'mon, doll. where's that sweet voice of yours?" his thumb strokes your bottom lip as though beckoning you to speak. when nothing follows, he makes a pathetic sniveling sound mixed with something broken; a blubber or whine, he does not know. the burden of your lifeless form causes the reality to set in; a dagger piercing his insides and twisting as to drag the most blood-curdling screams from him.

dabi loved you, and he wishes he had the strength to say it when you were still there. it was only within the presence of his own demons that he was able to utter his affections; curled into himself and waiting for a reply that would never come, carried on the wind that bit his skin. he loved you because you held him like a child when his father hadn't even the heart to acknowledge him as his own. you spoke his name—his real name—as though the blood on his hands was not there; like you had washed it away yourself through acts of tenderness that he did not deserve.

and now you're gone.

you're gone, and—

dabi's entire body jolts with a start, a familiar heat dancing across the grafts of his marred skin. a faint blue glow radiates from his fists, which are tightly fastened the weighted blanket that lays crumpled atop his legs. he lets go with a shuttering gasp, observing the black smudges that reside where his flames once were, then blinking owlishly at his surroundings. the room is shrouded in darkness, all save for the bedside table to the left of him that is dimly lit by a flickering oil lamp. that, and the spaces illuminated by the moon's brilliance, showering the floor with multicolored spots as it glistens through the stained glass window. something slots into place, but all it does is send dabi's mind into overdrive.

where is he? where are you? are you really dead? everything hurts.

his nails drag down the length of his arms, seeking some sort of comfort in the pain that blooms there. it doesn't last long, however, when the bed suddenly dips, and a soothing warmth is placed on the small of his back.

"touya?" you croak, your words lingering with the remnants of sleep. dabi—no—touya, swears that he could cry again, right then and there. his eyes flit over your torso, where several scars in varying sizes have desecrated the skin. as he idly traces the pink lines, one final memory surfaces from the depths of his subconscious. him, desperately pounding your sternum; the last threads of denial snapping in tune; and you, coughing and spewing both curses and whatever seawater that had clogged up your lungs. touya held you in that same position for hours, listening as your ragged wheezing turned into hiccupping sobs. hauling you inside had been no easy feat, and having to hear your muffled groans while he stitched you up by the crackling hearth was no better, but the evening after had been pleasant.

you could not recollect the face of the intruder, and with such little information to go off of, touya was left to wallow in self-loathing for love he had almost lost. no amount of therapy could prevent the following nightmares and panic attacks, but in time, the rekindling of your relationship was proved successful, and dabi was prepared to repay you for the moments where you consoled him.

it wasn't just a dream. it had all happened, and yet here you were, alive and well.

a pensive look crosses your features when you note how quiet touya is, and you take it as a sign to break the tension with a tried-and-true method from the past. he doesn't resist as you coo softly, pulling him under the covers and wrapping yourself around him, a garbled tune fleeing from past your lips before you press them to his shoulder. you trail the faintest of butterfly kisses along his neck, his jaw, his cheeks and so on. the anxiety coiled in touya's chest starts to untangle, leaving him as a trembling bundle of nerves in your arms as you shush him, your nimble fingers carting through his hair.

if he weren't so tired, he would have laughed at how the tables have turned; with you cradling him in the way he's so used to doing. still, not even he can deny that it feels nice to be held like this.

"s'alright sweetheart. i'm here. . ." you whisper, and the effect is instantaneous. touya stills as he inhales the scent of buttercream and fresh pine that wafts into the bedroom, his eyelids fluttering shut. all he can hope for is that your presence will drive away any nightmares that foreshadow his well-needed rest, and that when he wakes up in the morning, you'll still be at his side.

dabi made a mistake, and thousands more will come to pass, because underneath the grit and grime that makes up his callous exterior, there is a human being; struggling to survive and struggling to please, just as much as the next. but he'll never leave you again. he had promised you as such with the band of gold now encircling your ring finger, and as long as he lives, he'll never break it.

#⛓.dabi #dabi x male reader #dabi x reader #anime x male reader #mha x male reader #touya todoroki x male reader #my hero x reader #my hero x y/n #boku no hero x reader #x male reader #bnha x you #dabi fluff #dabi angst #dabi imagine

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robininthelabyrinth · 3 years

Note

Do you think you would enjoy writing a fairytale-esque Nielan story? Except, instead of being the scary beast or the fearsome dragon like he usually is, it's Nie Mingjue who gets to be in the heroine/damsel's role. :D

Toxicity - part 1 - ao3

When Nie Mingjue turned sixteen years old, he was alone.

He had taken nothing with him but his saber, Baxia. He had hugged his brother maybe-goodbye, and then he had gone down into the saber tombs to wait to see if this was the year he was going to go insane.

He hoped it wasn’t, of course. They’d lost his father only the year before, murdered by one of their political enemies – poisoned with his own saber, secretly weakened so that it’d shatter in the middle of a night-hunt and coated with some sort of toxin that ate away his brain within a few months. If Nie Mingjue went insane this year, his little brother, Nie Huaisang, would need to step up as the leader of their sect, and he was only eight years old.

(He didn’t have to spend his eighth birthday shivering in the saber tombs that he hadn’t even known existed before that day, clutching a saber he barely knew, in pain and wondering if he was about to die, but then again, Nie Huaisang wasn’t the one who’d been cursed with a body that cultivated three times as well as everybody else but would eventually cause him to lose his mind when he turned some multiple of eight.)

If he didn’t go insane this year, Nie Mingjue would finally accept the role of sect leader officially, and he’d devote himself to making his sect as powerful as he could in the short time he had left to him. He’d been refusing the role so far, purportedly on account of his grief at his father’s death, and everyone had been very understanding – only those closest to him knew the truth. He would have preferred that Nie Huaisang not know, maybe not ever but definitely not so young, but if Nie Mingjue really did go insane this year then Nie Huaisang would have to be sect leader, or at least sect-leader-to-be with their uncle twice removed acting as sect leader until he was old enough to take charge, so he had to know.

He’d cried a lot before Nie Mingjue left, and there wasn’t anything Nie Mingjue could do about it other than spend a bit of his time in the cold saber tomb mentally cursing the ones that did this to him.

It was, he’d been informed, originally meant as a gift.

His parents had had trouble conceiving shortly after their marriage, all their pregnancies ending up as miscarriages, and rather than marry in a concubine his father, hotheaded and reckless, had taken his bride to the mountains to request help from the dragons that sometimes stayed there as they passed through Qinghe on their mysterious business.

There’d been two of them, apparently. One was a celestial dragon, blue and white as a sky at noon and just as noble, five-clawed and smooth-scaled; the other a lowly flood dragon, yellow-bellied and scuttling and stinking of earth – while the ways of dragons were mysterious, Nie Mingjue’s father had confidently asserted that the two of them were sworn brothers in the same way as men, the latter having once saved the life of the former, and that their brotherhood had once included as its chief the proud azure dragon of the east, green of scale and mightier than either of the others.

The celestial dragon had heard their plea and had been delighted to be asked. He had sung them a song of overwhelming might, filling their ears to the point that Nie Mingjue’s mother became half-deaf, and promised them that they would not only bear a child, but that it would be blessed with the strength of the heroes of the ancient days, so as to serve with honor his parents, his sect, his land, his world. He shall be righteous and unyielding, straightforward and upright, the celestial dragon had declared, and then, having exhausted himself in his exertions, had retreated to the top of the mountain to sleep.

The flood dragon had watched the whole proceeding with a pleasant smile on its face, nodding along in interest, but the very moment the celestial dragon had closed its eyes he had said, Let me give you something too and breathed out poisonous fumes that had choked them both nearly to death. With that pleasant smile still firmly on its lips, it had told them a secret: that the celestial dragon had given them a gift, but that all gifts had a price. Their child would be just like the heroes of old, a candle burning too fiercely – doomed to madness that would turn all his strength into destruction, rendered blind and unable to tell apart those he loved from those he hated, turned into a beast that knew nothing but slaughter.

But not to worry, the flood dragon said. While he did not have the strength of the celestial dragon, he had taken a little bit of their life energy and used it and his own poison to lock away the prophesied madness into one year in every eight, so that their child would be able to live free and carefree the rest of the time.

At the time, they had thanked him, but – Nie Mingjue’s mother had been so weakened by the poison that she had not survived his birth, his father rendered vulnerable to his neighbor’s underhanded attack, and far from living free and carefree Nie Mingjue lived instead in terror of his eventual fate, knowing that one day he would go mad in the worst sort of way.

Some gift!

Nie Mingjue spent his sixteenth birthday meditating in the saber tombs, his saber unsheathed on his lap in the likely vain hope that if he really did go insane, he would turn it against himself out of lack of any other enemy to butcher as his ancestors had once done to animals for trade. He remained there for two days and two nights, wracked with terrible gripping pain from the remnants of the flood dragon’s palliative poison, and emerged only once there was no trace of the date left and he had answered all the questions posed to him by the guards set at the door to the tombs to their satisfaction, proving that he hadn’t gone mad and didn’t need to be left inside to either kill himself or slowly starve to death.

His brother was waiting for him by the gate of their home and had thrown himself into his arms, weeping, and Nie Mingjue vowed to himself that he would use the next eight years of his life to let Nie Huaisang live the best life he could give him.

He did the best he could.

Nie Mingjue devoted himself to strengthening his sect, recruiting steadily and devoting all his time to sect matters, putting aside any frivolity; to each one who rose to a level of sufficient strength and trust, Nie Mingjue entrusted the duty of guarding Nie Huaisang, pleading with them that when he died they would put themselves into his shoes, care for him as any elder brother would. He made sure his borders were well-defended and well-stocked, layer after layer of protections in place in the event of external attack, building it so that it could shut tight like a turtle in its shell, hidden behind an implacable wall of iron. To deal with internal threats, he promoted people on the basis of talent, careful not to have either too many old retainers or too many new faces, wanting each group to watch the other to try to forestall the other.

He tried to strengthen Nie Huaisang himself, but he had much less success with that. Terrified as he was of lashing out against his loved ones, Nie Mingjue found himself yielding time and time again to all of Nie Huaisang’s requests, forgiving all his faults and mistakes, the only educational tools left to him being scolding and appeals to Nie Huaisang’s own good sense.

Still, Nie Huaisang grew up clever, if lazy and a mediocre cultivator, and there was darkness in his eyes when he spoke of dragons, a common artistic motif that never appeared in any of his art.

When Nie Mingjue was twenty three and Nie Huaisang fifteen, he sent letters to the reclusive Cloud Recesses, a sect hidden away in the mountains of Gusu that was renowned for its artistic achievements in music and painting as well as swordsmanship, asking for permission for Nie Huaisang to attend lessons that summer. They agreed, leading to a flock of other sects seeking similar permission lest the Nie sect use the opportunity to form an alliance without including them.

Nie Mingjue had only been trying to find a place where Nie Huaisang could learn skills that would suit him well, and also to keep him out of the growing tensions developing with the Wen sect that had killed his father and had made several attempts to kill him, too, that only failed on account of underestimating his cultivation and martial skills – an easy mistake to make, if you didn’t know his story – but having Nie Huaisang befriend the other sect heirs and shining talents of his generation could only help increase his security, so he approved.

When he came to drop Nie Huaisang off, though, he insisted, as regretfully and politely as he could, on hearing about the defenses they had in place.

“If you do not trust us to protect your brother, perhaps you should rethink sending him to us at all,” Lan Qiren said, voice sharp and querulous. He was the sect’s representative – not actually sect leader, but the one who left their reclusive abode to do the external parts of the job normally associated with leadership – and the teacher in charge of the visiting students, and Nie Mingjue did not want to offend him, but he also knew how insidious the Wen sect could be when they wanted. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, unwilling to retract the demand but also not wanting to spoil Nie Huaisang’s visit before it had even begun.

“It is a reasonable request,” said a calm voice that nevertheless carried with it a hint of laughter from behind his back, and Nie Mingjue tensed, not having heard someone approach. “Let me show Sect Leader Nie around, uncle.”

Lan Qiren’s face softened at once, something Nie Mingjue had never seen happen on his face before; he stroked his beard and cleared his throat before nodding, saving face by allowing himself to be persuaded.

Nie Mingjue saluted and bowed deeply, murmuring, “My sincere thanks for your indulgence,” before turning to look at – the most beautiful young man he’d ever seen in his life, actually. Tall and slender, dressed in the Lan sect’s white and blue, with a xiao tucked into his belt and a gentle smile on his face and warmth in his eyes...

Nie Mingjue had to clear his throat himself before saluting him as well, although the young man hummed immediately in disapproval and caught him before he could bow. “Nie Mingjue,” he said. “Of Qinghe Nie. And you are…?”

“Lan Xichen,” the young man said, omitting even his sect affiliation – though that was obvious enough. “Come with me, I’ll show you the main defenses we have set in place, although not all of them, of course.”

“Naturally,” Nie Mingjue hurried to say. “I would never want to pry into your sect’s secrets, Lan-gongzi! It’s only – my younger brother…”

“You’re worried about him,” Lan Xichen said, his smile deepening. “I understand.”

Normally, Nie Mingjue would leave it at that – he was not overly given to speaking with people, but he couldn’t help himself in this case. “He’s all I have in the world,” he admitted. “And I know I can’t protect him forever, or even for very much longer, but…what I can do, I would do.”

“You don’t need to explain, Sect Leader Nie –”

“Please,” Nie Mingjue said gruffly. “Call me by name.”

“Then I insist you call me by mine,” Lan Xichen said.

Nie Mingjue nodded, and they walked in comfortable silence. After a while, he, again uncharacteristically, initiated conversation: “You called Teacher Lan uncle, and he seems especially fond of you, much more than most. Are you directly related?”

“Oh, yes,” Lan Xichen said. “I’m his – ah, his nephew.”

Nie Mingjue frowned. “Really? I thought that was Lan Wangji…?”

“My younger brother,” Lan Xichen said, and he looked so pleased that Nie Mingjue didn’t have it in him to question any further, even though he’d really thought that Lan Wangji was the sole sect heir.

Still, when they came across Lan Wangji himself a little later, he saluted them both and referred to Lan Xichen as ‘xiongzhang’ – formal, but then again, Lan Wangji was very formal in all things – with a minute change of expression that suggested adoration, even awe, and so Nie Mingjue told himself that perhaps he had been mistaken. Or perhaps he had simply misunderstood, perhaps Lan Wangji was only the acting sect heir for external affairs, in the same way that Lan Qiren was, or maybe Lan Xichen had simply been exempted from the line of inheritance for whatever reason…

Either way, it wasn’t really his business.

He certainly wasn’t going to bring it up in front of Lan Xichen, with whom he unexpectedly got along splendidly – the conversation flowed easily, ranging over all sorts of subjects, and Nie Mingjue felt comfortable as if he’d known the other man for years.

“We must have been brothers in a past life,” he told Lan Xichen, and noticed the way Lan Xichen’s eyes grew briefly distant and dim, a little sad.

“We must have been,” he agreed, and clasped Nie Mingjue’s hands in his. “Regardless, I do not have words to express how much joy it brings me to meet you again in this life, my friend.”

Nie Mingjue went home feeling as light as air.

He clung onto that feeling throughout his twenty-fourth birthday, when the pangs of the poison wracked his body into horrific spasms, his back arching and arms and legs thrashing and every vein and meridian in his body aching fit to burst; it hurt so much that he thought he really would go insane, but just when he thought it was too much the pain began to fade and he survived.

Still, the experience was a bitter reminder that no matter how much Nie Mingjue’s heart sang and mood brightened at every letter from Lan Xichen, no matter how much he looked forward to discussion conferences as much as he had previously despised them only for the chance to see him, they could never be anything more than friends.

Distant friends, even. Bad enough that he would cause Nie Huaisang so much pain when he died too young – it didn’t seem right to impose friendship on someone else who did not know.

Of course, thinking was one thing and enacting another, and Lan Xichen ignored every attempt he made to try away and put distance between them, visiting whenever he didn’t answer letters and refusing to be dissuaded when he tried to keep his responses curt and uninviting.

“Xichen, please,” Nie Mingjue said one evening, when they had been walking the ramparts in the Unclean Realm, he in his familial green and Lan Xichen in blue but both cast into equal shades of grey in the light of the moon, and he thought he’d never been happier in his life. “You don’t understand – I’m going to die, and you’ll be left behind. How can I do that to you?”

“Even if you died tomorrow, I would be happy to have been your friend today,” Lan Xichen declared, and Nie Mingjue wanted to kiss him more than anything. “Don’t push me away, Mingjue-xiong. Please.”

Nie Mingjue always yielded to those he loved most.

“All right,” he said with a sigh. “All right. Only promise me that you’ll stay safe, and that if – if I ever turn on you, or threaten you –”

“Remember that I can defend myself,” Lan Xichen said with a laugh. “Better than you might think. You aren’t nearly as bad at controlling your temper as you think, Mingjue-xiong.”

Nie Mingjue couldn’t explain more without explaining it all, and he didn’t want Lan Xichen to pity him, so he didn’t. They parted on good terms, with Nie Mingjue promising to return each correspondence as soon as he received them this time, and to let Lan Xichen know if he got any more “stupid ideas” from which he needed to be dissuaded.

The next letter arrived in the hands of a young man with a pleasant smile who introduced himself as Meng Yao.

“Xichen-xiong said that you valued talent and recognized merit,” he said. “I thought I might prevail on his recommendation, if you have room…?”

Nie Mingjue thought to himself with a smile that Lan Xichen had sent him a babysitter, and agreed to accept Meng Yao as a guest disciple. It didn’t take long to realize that Lan Xichen had sent him a treasure, brilliant at organizing and personnel management, wise beyond his years, and while he didn’t want to embarrass his friend by thanking him directly, he made sure to speak very highly of Meng Yao in all his letters. Lan Xichen responded warmly, saying how happy he was that Nie Mingjue was surrounded by people he trusted who supported him, and Nie Mingjue thought to himself with satisfaction that his message had been understood.

#mdzs #nie mingjue #nie huaisang #lan xichen #jin guangyao #my fic #my fics #toxicity #wantonlywindswept

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alinastracker · 3 years

Note

hello my dear bonnie, if you're still taking prompts, can i suggest #47 👀 ?

LOVE THIS PROMPT!!! here you go my love<3

prompt: you’re casually seeing my roommate and think they’re in the shower when you strip down to join me and we end up screaming and my roommate thinks it’s the funniest thing and tries to set us up on a date

yikes at this going from a quick lil ficlet to 6.7k oof

would it be okay if i came home to you (explicit) (ao3)

Alina steps into the shower, wondering how the hell she ended up rooming with Zoya to begin with.

Don't get her wrong, she loves Zoya. But her raven-haired friend can be difficult, and she was supposed to have buffer. Originally, it was going to be her, Zoya, and Genya living together, until Genya backed out last minute to move in with her boyfriend David instead.

"I'm so sorry, but it just makes sense," Genya said to them over lunch one afternoon. "Besides, if things go how I think they will, you two will be on the same path that I'm on soon enough."

Zoya scoffed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Alina had the same question, considering both of them were hopelessly single.

Genya just sipped her tea and said in a sing-song voice, "You'll see."

At first, living with Zoya was fine. They agreed easily on most apartment related things; splitting up chores, rules about not touching each other's food, a timely heads up before having friends or potential sexual partners over. Zoya could get nit picky about a few things, like the lecture she'd given her on the proper position of the toilet paper roll. It goes over, Starkov, understand? Under is for heathens and natural selection is coming for them. But otherwise, things had been fine.

Until Mal.

He was a part of the friend circle she had surrounded herself with since freshman year. But there was something about Mal that had drawn her to him in a way that was different from the rest of the group — different from anyone else she had ever met. He was like a drug, a magnet, the missing link that had her saying, where have you been my whole life, when you're meant to be here beside me? So quickly he had become her closet friend, and as much as their group liked to tease them, they both denied feeling anything beyond fierce friendship.

But Alina was such a liar.

Which makes it her own fault, really, for ending up in this situation. Zoya could, quite frankly, be a bitch — but she wouldn't have gone after Mal if Alina had just owned up to her feelings.

Though she really could have told her about it sooner.

Alina had been studying in the living room one night when a knock at the door startled her. Zoya hadn't mentioned having company, and neither of them had ordered food. Hesitantly, she rose and stood on her tiptoes to peek through the peephole. Then her face lit up, and she swung the door open. "Mal!"

Saints, he looked good. He appeared freshly showered, dressed in a silky green shirt and dark jeans. He had actually put effort into his hair for once, and he had a small gold hoop earring in his left ear.

"Hey, Lina," he said, something a little off with the smile he gave her. As he passed by to come inside, she could smell expensive cologne.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, butterflies in her stomach. Her head was already filling with wild fantasies. He wanted to surprise her, so he showed up without notice. He put effort into how he looked, because he wanted to impress her. He was going to reveal his true feelings for her, and she would revel in the fact that he wanted her as much as she wanted him.

Instead, Zoya entered the room and said, "He's here for me."

Mal had the decency to flush and offer a sheepish shrug. "I'm gonna grab some water," he said, and scuttled off to the kitchen. Of course, Mal had been here plenty of times before. He knew where everything was.

Alina had barely heard him though, Zoya's words repeating on a loop in her head. He's here for me. She knew what this meant, even as her mind tried to deny it. The room was spinning and she couldn't quite steady herself, like something had broken inside of her.

She swallowed, and as calmly as possible, said, "What happened to the heads up rule?"

Zoya arched a brow. "I texted you two hours ago."

Alina frowned and pulled out her phone. Sure enough, there was a text from Zoya. Got a guy coming over in a couple hours. She must have missed it, lost in her studies. But still, something in the text ignited anger in her chest.

"You could have said the guy was Mal."

Zoya shrugged, so frustratingly nonchalant. "What does it matter?"

It matters because I am so hopelessly in love with him, and you're supposed to be my friend, and now I have to blast music so I don't hear the sounds of you two fucking, she thought.

"He's my best friend," she said. "It's just a little weird, I guess."

"Don't worry, Starkov," Zoya said, turning toward the kitchen, probably to grab Mal so they could get the night started. "It won't affect anything between you two."

Alina waited until the two of them were tucked away in Zoya's room. Then she pulled on her old running shoes and slipped out — there was just no way she could be here, knowing what was happening in the room across from her own.

She ran with no destination in mind, pumping her little legs as hard as they could go, music pounding from her headphones. When she became too tired to go further, she checked her surroundings and sighed. Of course, her feet took her to one of her favorite places in the city.

It's not anything, really. A quiet street with an old abandoned building at the end of it. But on the building's brick wall is one of her favorite pieces of art. A mural of the sun, complex in its simplicity, using colors she had never seen used to express the sun before, yet perfectly capturing the feeling of a warm sunny day.

Alina leaned against the wall, slid down until she was sitting on the old, cracked sidewalk. Only then did she realize that she was crying. Turning off her music, she called Genya, and told her everything.

"You have to talk to Zoya," Genya said.

"No!" she said quickly. "I don't want her to feel bad. It's not her fault. And if Mal likes her — well, it's not like he's shown any interest in me. I'm not going to get in their way."

"Alina," Genya sighed.

"It's fine," she promised. "I just—" A sob escaped her throat, the pain overshadowing any coherent thought. It was not fine.

"Send me your location," Genya said, and Alina did.

She spent the night at Genya and David's that night, David promising he was more than okay with taking the couch so her and Genya could have the bed. Which was needed, because Alina had a lot more crying to do.

"Just don't tell Zoya," she said.

"Alina, I don't know."

"Promise, Genya. Please."

Finally, Genya sighed. "All right."

That was four months ago. Zoya had told her it wouldn't affect her close bond with Mal, but it had. Alina never invites Mal over anymore, too afraid that he'll come to watch a movie, sit on the couch beside her — much closer than most friends sit. They would point out everything terrible about it, because they loved to watch bad films together as they stuffed their faces with popcorn. Then the movie would end and Mal would say goodnight, but instead of leaving, he'd go to Zoya's room, and the popcorn they ate would sour in her stomach.

There were so many little changes, too. Like when they hung out as a group, and suddenly Alina was questioning every move she made around him. Was it still okay to playfully ruffle his hair, to sit close enough that their shoulders pressed together, to look at him like he personally hung the sun and the moon in the sky, all while Zoya was there to see? Was it wrong to look at his lips and fantasize about how they would feel against her own, pressed to her collarbone, sucking her most sensitive spots? Zoya and Mal were a casual thing, they had both said so. But still, the natural intimacy her friendship with Mal had built for the past two years suddenly felt wrong, and she hated it.

Needless to say, Alina has been looking into new rooming possibilities for next year. She can't do this anymore. Every time Mal comes over, she waits for them to lock themselves away in Zoya's room, and then she leaves. She runs to her sun, sometimes just sitting and letting her sad song playlist make her sadder, sometimes bringing her sketchbook to at least make art out of the pain.

But tonight she has a very rare opportunity — the apartment to herself. Only for a couple hours, but still. She has spent most of the time so far blaring music, and her neighbors probably hate her, but damn it, they can deal with it for a night.

She lets the music play as she takes a much needed shower. Sure, she could have gone the bath route, but she doesn't want to waste all her time getting clean. Alina has decided her hours alone should end with a much needed date with her vibrator and an Owen Gray video that she's going to watch without headphones.

Olivia Rodrigo's Brutal is pounding from her speaker, and though Alina's twenty-one, not seventeen, the lyrics hit all the same. She's so into the music, thinking about her life for the past four months, thinking about moving as soon as she possibly can, thinking yeah, it really is fucking brutal out here, that she does not notice the telltale signs of someone entering her apartment, and even more worrisome, someone entering the bathroom. Not until it's too late.

"Thought you were too cool for Olivia Rodrigo," a very male voice says, and then the shower curtain opens.

Screams fill the air from both of them. Alina's already holding her conditioner bottle, and on instinct, hurls it at the man's chest while her other hand reaches for her razor.

"Oi!"

Only then does her mind register that it's not a strange man come to sexually assault her, it's Mal. Her best friend. Her roommate's casual lover slash fuck buddy slash whatever. It's Mal, completely naked before her. She gets a quick glimpse of his cock, half-hard, before he curses and turns around.

It doesn't help that his backside is just as nice to look at. He's well toned, muscles flexing as he reaches to grab the clothes he must have just discarded. He bends, giving her the most sinful view of his ass, and Saints, her mind goes wild. She pictures him turning back around and pushing her against the wall, slamming inside of her. As he fucks her, she would reach around and grab that delicious ass of his, dig her fingers into the plump skin, and leave little half-moon indents.

Mal is apologizing over and over again — "I thought you were Zoya!" — as he gathers up his clothes and makes a beeline for the door. Alina finally snaps out of her filthy fantasy and slides the shower curtain closed with a shaky hand. She leans back against the tiled wall, breathing hard. Her heart is pounding like never before.

The song is winding down. Olivia is crooning, God I don't even know where to start.

Neither does Alina.

By the time she musters the courage to finish her shower and leave the bathroom, her robe clutched tightly around her, there’s no sign of Mal in the apartment. Zoya isn’t back yet, either.

With a sigh of relief, she flops onto her bed. Her previous plans were out the window now. Taking a breath, she goes over the facts in her head.

One: Mal has now seen her completely naked.

Two: she has now seen Mal completely naked.

It was the wrong thing to think about, because now she’s picturing the smooth expanse of his skin, his perfectly tight ass, and the quick glimpse she had gotten of his—

Heat pools between her thighs. She’s positively aching, when she should be feeling horrified. She should absolutely not be reaching for her vibrator as she lets the images of Mal’s naked body settle in her mind. It’s wrong, because Mal is, at least somewhat, Zoya’s, and Zoya is her friend. Besides, it was Zoya that he had come looking for, Zoya that he wanted to fuck against the shower wall.

But Alina does grab her vibrator, and as it buzzes her to multiple releases, she imagines Mal shoving her against the wall, pressing kisses to her neck, fucking her like it’s his sole reason for existing. Fucking her like she’s his, and he’s hers.

She doesn’t see Zoya until the next morning, passing out sometime after orgasm number three. Saints, if the memory of Mal’s bare skin had been enough to keep her going for three rounds, she wasn’t sure she could even handle actually being with him.

When she walks into the kitchen, Zoya is sitting at their tiny excuse for a table. “Good morning,” Alina says as naturally as possible.

Zoya only says, “Sit down, Starkov.”

It’s unnerving, how quickly can could take over her entire body. Saying nothing, still going for casual, Alina sits across from her. “What’s up?”

“That’s my question, actually.” Zoya arches a brow. “What happened with you and Mal last night?”

Shit, shit, shit. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I think you do. I know he stopped by before I got home. When I asked why he left, he got all weird and said something came up with Dubrov. But I know that’s a lie, because Dubrov was happily posting drunken stories last night. So obviously something happened when he was over.” Zoya sits back in her chair and stares her down, making her insides twist. “And since I don’t live with him, the only person I have to grill is you. So get talking.”

Alina sighs, knowing she isn’t strong enough to deny Zoya when she’s like this, and babbles out the story. Really, it wasn’t her fault. Mal was the one that walked in on her. It was just incredibly embarrassing for both of them.

When she finishes, Zoya lets the information sink in, and then she laughs, harder than Alina has ever seen her laugh.

“Well I’m so glad this is funny to you,” she huffs, arms crossed over her chest.

“It is! I can only imagine your faces, shit.” Zoya wipes at her eyes. “Too bad you already know each other, that would make for one hell of a meet cute.” She pauses and says, “Well, it still could be your origin.”

Alina frowns. “Our origin?”

“You know, if you guys dated.”

She momentarily loses her breath. “What? No, you guys are a thing.”

Zoya rolls her eyes. “We’re fucking, Alina, that’s it. And actually, I was planning on cutting it off after last night.” She stands and pours herself what is at least her second up of coffee. “There’s someone else I’m interested in.”

“Someone else? Who?” Zoya says nothing. Alina pops up as it comes to her. “Oh! It’s that rich blond guy from the bar, isn’t it? The one that transferred here this semester. Nikolai or something, right?”

The tiniest blush spreads on Zoya’s face, and Alina squeals. “It is him! Saints, he’s attractive.”

“Yes, he is,” Zoya snaps. “And not bad for conversation, either.”

“Conversation?” She grins. “Why, Miss Nazyalensky, do you actually have feelings for this guy?”

Zoya scowls. “Shut it, Starkov.”

“Oh, you totally have feelings for him!”

“Keep it up and you will pay for this. I’m devising a plan as we speak.”

Alina just laughs. “Okay, Mrs. Whatever Nikolai’s Last Name Is.”

Under her breath, Zoya mutters, “Lantsov,” and stalks off with her coffee as Alina laughs harder.

Zoya, apparently, hadn’t been kidding when she said she was devising a plan.

When the weekend rolls around once again and Zoya texts the group chat they have with Genya about getting lunch, Alina jumps at the idea. She missed Genya, and it had been a hell of a week between juggling exams and thinking about her encounter with Mal. They haven’t spoken at all, and she had used her classes as an excuse to get out of any hang outs where he might show up.

Zoya’s words from the morning after had been on her mind a lot, too. It still could be your origin. Could it? Was Mal even interested in her — and would he even want to try, after he’d had something with Zoya, or would it just be inevitably awkward?

Alina approaches the restaurant and sucks in a breath. She’s decided to finally tell Zoya about how she’s had feelings for Mal all this time, and maybe with her and Genya, the three of them can come up with what the hell Alina should do next.

Zoya had texted five minutes ago saying she grabbed them a table in the restaurant’s outdoor patio, so she makes her way there. Only it’s not Zoya or even Genya waiting for her.

It’s Mal.

He looks just as surprised to see her as she is to see him, and for a moment, she believes it really is some crazy coincidence.

“Alina,” he says, standing. Neither of them can quite meet the other’s eye. “What are you doing here?”

Her hand is doing some nervous twitchy thing at her side, so she shoves it into the pocket of her dress. “I’m supposed to be meeting Zoya and Genya.”

Mal curses under his breath. “I’m supposed to be meeting Zoya, too.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Shaking her head and feeling incredibly stupid, Alina takes out her phone and fires off a text to Zoya, WHAT THE HELL????

The next message she receives comes from Zoya — only not in the text chat between the two of them, but rather a newly created group chat with the two of them and Mal.

consider this the official end to our fuck-mance, oretsev. yalls little bathroom flash show was the perfect opportunity for a new beginning, because yes, i see the doe eyes you give alina when she’s not looking. you too, starkov. i’m sorry for getting in the way for so long. have a good date, no throwing bottles at each other xoxo

They finish reading at the same time, looking up from their phones, eyes meeting before flickering away again.

Mal sighs. “I think I hate her.”

“I think I hate her, too.”

He scratches the back of his neck. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

Alina bites her lip. Because he doesn’t want to do this, she thinks. “Oh, well, I guess—”

Mal cuts her off. “But it might be a nice chance for us to talk.” Her head snaps up, and this time when their eyes meet, neither of them look away. He smiles shyly. “I missed you this week, Lina.”

Her smile matches his. “I missed you, too.”

They sit, and after the waiter takes their order for drinks and an appetizer for them to share — a sample platter, both of them too indecisive for any singular thing — Mal starts to stutter out an apology. Alina stops him with a hand on his arm. He looks down at where her fingers brush against bare skin, and she wonders if he’s thinking about all the skin they’ve bared to each other now. She certainly is.

“You don’t need to apologize, Mal,” she promises. “It was an accident.”

He shakes his head. “Still, I can’t imagine how terrifying that was for you.”

“Well, it was,” she admits, then adds, “at first.”

“At first?”

She shrugs, but says nothing, thankful for their drinks arriving to save her from answering. Because the truth was she had been scared for maybe three seconds. Once she had realized it was Mal, she’d only felt desire.

With their awkward shower encounter out of the way, they fall into fairly easy conversation, complaining about exams and projects, annoying classmates and neighbors. Soon enough, they’re back to being themselves. Alina pulls out her phone to show Mal all the memes and TikToks she had wanted to send him this week, and he does the same. Hours fly by without their notice, and now the dinner crowd is filing in.

“Oi, I think our waiter is silently praying for us to leave.”

She laughs, pulling out her wallet. “Definitely.”

Mal waves her off. “Let me get it,” he says, taking his own wallet out. “I mean, since this is apparently a date and all.”

Alina hesitates, a little flutter in her chest even though he’d said it teasingly. “Okay, fine. But I’ll get the tip.”

“Deal.”

When everything is paid for, they stand. Going home is the last thing she wants right now, and not just because Zoya will be there.

Mal looks ready to pull her into one of their standard hugs, but pauses. “Do you want to come over? We can find something shitty to watch. Mikhael and Dubrov will be around, but I just really don’t want to see Zoya right now.”

Alina smiles, the flutter in her chest returning with vigor. “Yeah, okay.”

At Mal’s flat, they settle onto the sofa together, close enough that their shoulders brush. Mikhael and Dubrov tease them about looking like lovebirds, but otherwise surprisingly leave them be. She doesn’t mind their company — but admittedly, she was glad they stayed to their respective rooms tonight. Mal puts on an indie horror flick that’s so bad it’s good, and they laugh and joke with each other throughout, per usual.

About halfway through the film, they share a knowingly look — their that foreshadowing is so obvious, RIP to that character in twenty minutes look — and sport matching grins. But when the moment passes, neither of them looks away.

“Alina,” Mal says softly, and her breath hitches. Has he ever said her name with such longing before?

His eyes flicker down — to her lips. She thinks of Zoya’s text then, basically calling both of them out for having feelings for each other. And while neither of them had confirmed it, they hadn’t denied it either.

Her heart is beating so fast. She gives him the tiniest nod.

Mal understands, he always does, and then he’s leaning in. Their noses brush before their lips do, and it could be silly or awkward, but instead it’s a different kind of intimacy she hadn’t known she wanted.

“Alina,” he breathes once more, and then he kisses her, so softly at first, it’s barely anything. Her stomach is doing cartwheels regardless. She takes initiative, kissing him back. Still soft, still careful, afraid that whatever this is between them is something fragile, something that needs delicacy. In some ways, it is. Her closest friendship, blossoming into something more.

Mal lets out the softest moan, and it snaps something between them.

He pulls her closer, his hand on the back of her neck, and now Alina is the one moaning, fervor replacing the softness, the delicacy. It’s the kind of kiss she’s been fantasizing about, made even better from how obvious it is that they’ve both wanted this for a long time. A desperate kiss bursting with desire.

Alina shifts closer until she’s practically straddling his lap. Mal brings one hand to rest on her lower back, the other curling into her hair. His lips move to her neck, trailing down until he reaches her collarbone, where he nips and sucks, undoubtedly leaving a mark.

“Mal,” she sighs, her head tipped back from the feeling as her hips roll against his. He curses against her skin. Her hands move to the hem of his shirt, ready to pull it off.

All of a sudden, Mal pulls away, stopping her hands with his own. “Alina, don’t.”

She blinks her eyes open. “Do you want to move to your room?”

Mal bites his lip and shakes his head.

Alina frowns, any warmth in her chest turning cold. She quickly returns to her own side of the couch. “I don’t understand. I thought you wanted this.” Wanted me, she thinks but doesn’t say. Because he certainly had no issues with Zoya.

“I do!” he says quickly, taking her hand again and trying to pull her back. She holds her ground, pulls her hand out of his. “I do want this, Alina. Saints, I do. But this is technically our first date, right? I don’t want to do first date sex, not with you.”

Alina rolls her eyes, looking down and tugging at a loose thread on her dress. “Is this where you say something you think sounds respectful but really just puts down all the girls you have had first date sex with?”

“Alina, please look at me.”

Grudgingly, she does.

“You’re different because you’re my best friend, and because I’ve been hooking up with our mutual friend.” She flinches, but Mal continues. “I don’t want you to think we have to have sex because of that. What I had with Zoya — it was good, and I care about Zoya, but it didn’t go beyond the physical. That’s all we wanted from each other. But that’s not all I want with you.”

Mal closes his eyes. Alina’s unconsciously holding her breath. He exhales and opens his eyes again, holding her gaze. “I want everything with you, Alina. I want your highs and your lows. I want to take you against the wall as much as I want to hold your hand.” He does so now, both of his hands around one of hers, and this time she doesn’t pull away. “And if you didn’t want to be physical? I’d still want you. I don’t want you to think there’s anything we have to do. That’s why I want to wait — even if I also want to take you to my room and pin you against my bed, too.”

“Oh,” she says, barely audible. Alina shakes her head, a little speechless. “I don’t know what to say.”

The corner of his mouth tugs up. “Was that too rom-com confessional?”

The tension breaks. She laughs and climbs onto his lap again, wrapping her arms around his neck. “You’re such a dork, but you’re the perfect dork. So we’ll wait.” She pauses and looks up at him with innocent eyes. “But will you kiss me again?”

Mal grins, pushes her down against the couch, and does just that.

When she gets home, Zoya is waiting in the living room, reading a smutty romance book Genya had recommended. “Hey, how’d it go?” she asks, too casually to actually be casual.

Alina ignores her and walks straight to her room. She’s decided to let Zoya sweat it out a bit for the weekend after her little stunt, even if it was successful.

Though really, she didn’t think it would bother Zoya that much. Hard as steel Zoya, who never let anything get to her. But on Sunday, she bursts into Alina’s room, interrupting her studying.

“Okay, I know you hate me now or whatever, but at least let me tell you that I’m sorry. I didn’t know how much you liked him, Alina. Not until Genya told me.”

Alina closes her book, frowning. “Genya told you?”

Zoya nods and sits at the end of her bed. “Recently, when I told her about Nikolai and that I was thinking about cutting things off with Mal. Don’t be mad at her, just be mad at me.”

“Well—” she starts, but Zoya cuts her off.

“And honestly? The worst part is, part of me did know. I saw the looks you gave each other, but I brushed them off because I was selfish and enjoying myself. I was a really, really shit friend to you, and I’m so sorry, Alina. You don’t have to forgive me, but I just—

Zoya stops mid-sentence, cut off by the laughter bubbling out of Alina.

“Saints, I never thought I’d see the day that Zoya Nazyalensky grovels.” She shoots her a grin. “I accept your apology. And as much as I want to hate you for your meddling stunt, it worked, because we definitely spent the night making out. I just did the whole silent treatment to make you suffer a little.”

A moment passes — Zoya is completely still, too still — and then she grabs one of Alina’s pillows and smacks her with it. “You little rat!”

Alina only laughs harder, fighting off Zoya’s pillow attack with her hands. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say sorry non-sarcastically! You did so well, Nazyalensky!”

“And you’ll never hear it again! You’ve lost apology privileges!

Eventually, Alina moves into the living room to study, and Zoya joins her. When their brains need a break, Alina tells her about her date with Mal, and Zoya tells her about her own with Nikolai. If this is their new normal, Alina finds that she really likes it.

The next week is outstandingly better than the previous. She’s back to talking to Mal each day, even more than before. Halfway through the week, he sends her a song with the message, This song made me think of you the first time I heard it, still does every time. It has her heart beating extra fast as she listens on her walk to class, not only because it’s incredibly sweet, but because Mal has played this song for her before, months and months ago, which means he’s felt this way the whole time.

Early Saturday evening, Zoya announces that she’s spending the night at Nikolai’s. “He has his own apartment, so it just makes sense. I’ll be home in the morning, probably.”

Thank the Saints for rich boys.

She texts Mal, and Zoya’s barely gone for ten minutes before he’s there. They make dinner together — well, Alina sits on the counter while Mal does the actual cooking, but he spends any down time kissing her, so she likes to think she was the moral support. They eat on the couch, watching their favorite trashy reality television, and play a few rounds of Mario Kart afterwards. Really, it’s just like how things were when they were simply best friends, except now Alina drapes her body over his as they watch their show, Mal’s thumb moving in slow circles on her ankle, and instead of talking or playing on their phones during ad breaks, they pick up where they left off in the kitchen, their lips pressed together in a blissful ease.

They’re on their fifth game of Mario Kart, Alina in the lead, as she has been every round. She’s bragging about how she’s going to beat him again when suddenly her vision is blocked as Mal presses his lips to hers.

Her surprise doesn’t stop her from dropping her controller and kissing back. She’s just getting into the kiss when Mal pulls away as quickly as he had started the kiss. He stands, and only then does she see he never dropped his controller. Picking up right where he left off, he steers Luigi towards the finish line. (“Who the hell picks Luigi?” Alina had asked him once. To which Mal responded, “It’s not fair people only care about his brother when he probably works just as hard at their plumbing business. It’s just like people only knowing Adam Levine and ignoring the rest of Maroon 5—” which led to a very cute rant that Alina spent less time listening to and more time staring at his lips while he was distracted.)

Alina fumbles for her controller, but it’s too late. Mal hasn’t come in first — some of the computers still beat him. But he’s beat her, which by the smirk on his face, was his only goal.

“You’re such a cheater!”

“It’s not cheating, it’s strategy.”

“I suppose you need your strategy, since you don’t have any skills.”

Mal raises a brow, a devious look in his eyes. “Is that so? Perhaps I should show you my skills, then.” He moves in front of her and kneels on the couch, a leg on either side of her body, essentially pinning her there, and kisses her again.

Immediately, she can feel the difference from the strategy kiss and even the ones from earlier that night. He’s kissing with purpose, cradling her face with one hand, the other on her waist, and Alina is melting against him. She is putty in Mal’s hands, his to mold how he pleases.

He’s holding himself so that his weight isn’t pressing down on her, but that’s exactly what she wants. Her hips buck up against his, and Mal pulls back to moan, “Fuck, Alina,” so she does it again.

“Please tell me we can have second date sex.”

Mal chuckles. “Are we even going to bother with the dating process?”

“I don’t know, are we?”

“I don’t know. Do I need to ask you to be my girlfriend?”

Alina grins. “I wouldn’t mind hearing it.

“All right. Alina, my beauty, my beloved, will you bless me with the honor of calling you my girlfriend?”

Her grin widens, and giddy butterflies dance inside her chest. No, not butterflies — fireflies. She can feel their warmth and wouldn’t be surprised if she was glowing from their light. “Oh, I suppose.”

Mal laughs. “I can’t stand you,” he says, and kisses her again.

Alina returns the kiss for a moment before murmuring against his lips, “You don’t have to stand me, but now that you’re my boyfriend, can you fuck me?”

He practically growls as he says, “Saints, yes,” standing and lifting her with him. Mal brings them to her room, kissing her the whole way. He unceremoniously shoves her school books off of her bed, laying her down and crawling over her. “You don’t know how often I’ve imagined this,” he murmurs, lips on her throat.

“Tell me,” she gasps.

“Every time I came over, Alina. Every time.”

A shiver runs down her spine. “Even when you were here to—”

“Especially then.”

She has no idea what to do with this information. Her head is empty of thought save for the screaming need for more of him, so she pulls his shirt over his head. This time, Mal doesn’t stop her. Her hands roam over all the places she’s been dying to touch; down his back, tracing along his spine, up over his stomach, fingers running along the muscles of his chest, brushing over a few scars he’s accumulated through the years.

“You’re so perfect,” she whispers. Smooth in some places, rougher in others, but so incredibly warm everywhere.

Mal tips her chin up, kisses her lips once, hard, and then another to her jaw, down her neck, her collarbone. Then he’s the one tossing her shirt aside, his lips continuing their decent. He’s pressing soft words into her skin as he kisses her — beauty, beloved, cherished, my heart —murmuring his love for her even as he brings her nipple between his teeth.

“Shit, Mal,” Alina breathes. Her hips keep bucking, far beyond her control. He chuckles, murmurs something along the lines of no patience, and quickens his pace. Soon enough, he’s got her undressed completely — which isn’t too unnerving after the shower incident. Any lingering nerves flee once his head is between her thighs. She’s suddenly very thankful Zoya isn’t home, because even though it’s never been a problem during sex before, she absolutely cannot control the noises she’s making — and she’s loud.

Mal returns to her with glistening lips. She kisses him and tastes herself, a thrill better than any rollercoaster. Her hands move to the waistband of his pants, giving a half-hearted tug. “Off.”

“So lazy,” he teases, unclasping the button on his jeans, tugging down the zipper. “I could always make you work for it.”

“Have mercy on me, Oretsev. I’m still recovering from the pleasures of your cocky mouth.”

He looks so proud of himself, she wants to kiss him just to wipe the smirk off of his face. “If you enjoyed my cocky mouth, just wait until you feel my—

“Do not finish that sentence.”

But then he’s pushing down his boxers, and all Alina can do is stare as the cock in question springs free. He’s fully hard this time around, and her thighs squeeze together at the sight. He watches her as she practically drools over his dick, his smirk becoming even, well, smirkier. She reaches out and curls her fingers around his length, giving him two quick strokes — both to clear the smirk from his face and because she so very much wants to touch him.

“Fuck, Alina,” he hisses. He’s reaching for his jeans, probably to grab a condom from his pocket, but she grabs his hand.

“I’m on the pill, and I’ve been tested recently.” Of course, there’s still a slight risk. But it’s Mal — finally Mal — and she wants to feel every inch of him.

He pauses, then nods. “Okay.” Crawling over her, he takes one of her hands and intertwines their fingers. With his other hand, he grips his cock and drags the tip through her folds like the damn tease he is, eliciting needy mewling from her that he seems to enjoy. In her ear, he murmurs, “How do you want this, Alina?”

“I don’t want to be able to walk tomorrow.”

Mal chuckles softly, but the sound so close to her ear sends more shivers down her spine. “As you wish, moya solnishka.” My little sun.

She has only a brief moment to bask in the sweetness of his words before he’s slamming into her all in one go, anything sweet flying out the window. Mal keeps a steady rhythm while sucking on her neck, which is good, because all Alina can do is moan incoherently as her nails leave scratches down his back.

When he senses her getting close, Mal brings his finger to her clit, circling just right. “Saints!” she cries, and comes undone beneath him once again. But this time, she gets to watch him fall over the edge with her, his eyes so incredibly dark as he moans his release. He’s the only man she’s ever let come inside of her, and it feels very right that it’s Mal — she doesn’t want anyone else filling her like this, marking her in a sense as his spend drips down her thighs.

They stay like that for a while, foreheads pressed together, sweaty and sticky, but blissfully so.

“So, is the sex still good on this side of the apartment?”

In answer, he dips his head and bites down on one of her tits.

“Shit, Malyen!”

“Ridiculous questions get ridiculous responses,” he teases, then wraps his arms around her, tucking his face into the crook of her shoulder. “You’re all I’ve wanted for two years, Alina, and this still beat my expectations.”

Smiling, she rests her chin against the top of his head. “Good. I would hate to have to start fucking in Zoya’s bed just because you like the airflow better there.”

“Smart ass,” Mal mutters, but he’s smiling. Then he says, "You know, this may not be my first time fucking in this apartment, but I’m still checking off a first tonight — of many, I hope.”

Alina rolls her eyes. “Yes, I’m aware this is your first time fucking me in this apartment, dumb ass.”

"That’s not what I meant, rude ass.”

She frowns. “Then what did you mean?”

He squeezes her hip. “It’s my first time spending the night.”

Her heart does a little jump in her chest, and she doesn’t even have it in her to tease that she hasn’t actually asked him to stay yet. But stay he does, though he gets her off a few more times before they pass out for the night — definitely beating her vibrator. One time it’s with his fingers, so incredibly long that she knows all her fantasies will involve the slender digits now. Another is after Alina murmurs about how filthy she is and that she really ought to take a shower.

Mal waits long enough to join her that she starts to worry he hadn’t understood her intent. But then she hears his footsteps, and the shower curtain opens. There’s no bottle throwing this time, though she can’t say the same for the screaming. He steps into the shower, kisses her slowly, sensually, then pushes her back until she shivers from the feeling of cold tile against her bare skin.

“I meant to ask, you do know you have mirrors in here, right?” Mal murmurs huskily into her ear. She’s too disoriented with want to understand until he says, “I saw you staring at my ass last time.”

Then he slams into her, and Alina no longer has to imagine how it feels to be fucked against the shower wall.

#malina #malina fanfic #alina starkov #malyen oretsev #grishaverse fanfic #college au #PHEW THIS TOOK MUCH LONGER THAN EXPECTED #because i wrote much more than expected sksksksk #but this time i think i'm happy with what came out #i will never tire of writing these two idiots in love so i hope yall don't tire of reading me writing these idiots in love teehee #this one is steamy folks!#TY FOR THE PROMPT LINA I HOPE U ENJOY!!!!#writing #mine #ps the song he sends her is in the title teehee #for inquiring minds #also i've only read through this once so sorry in advance for the inevitable typos lmao

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elvendara · 3 years

Text

Mysme Reverse Big Bang

This was such an exciting project! I got to work with the

AMAZING, FANTABULOUS, INCREDIBLE, TALENTED, SKILLED, BEAUTIFUL @koutone !!!

We gushed, we sighed, we giggled over YOORAN and brought you some angst!

Here is my half of the contribution for the @mysme-rbb ! Make sure to check out @koutone 's art too! It will make you WEEP!

AO3

*spoilers for Mystic Messenger's Secret End*

The room was dark and stuffy, as if the window hadn’t been opened in months. Saeran knew that wasn’t the case, he’d been over just a few days ago. Yoosung and he had been seeing each other exclusively for almost a year and traded spending the night at each other’s places. His house was more comfortable but sometimes they didn’t want to be bothered by his brother, Saeyoung and his wife MC. It wasn’t that they minded hanging out with them, it was just that sometimes they wanted to be alone.

The younger man was an avid texter. There were times when Saeran would have to mute his phone, as it could ping ten times in thirty seconds, every thought something to be shared. It didn’t bother him one bit, though Saeran preferred to read and answer maybe once an hour. It was a system that worked well for them both. Yoosung had early on let him know that he didn’t need to respond to every text. The last several days however, Yoosung’s texting had begun to dwindle. It was so slight that at first Saeran had not noticed. Once he did, he assumed it was because his boyfriend was studying for upcoming exams, but complete silence was not something he would ever do. There hadn’t even been a single complaint about being too tired to study. He would usually try to engage Saeran in conversation so he could procrastinate. To so suddenly go radio silent for several hours was not normal for the blond. Saeran had then tried to call him, but the calls went straight to voicemail. It seemed like a giant red flag, so he had decided to check on him.

Yoosung’s room was notoriously chaotic, clothes strewn about, empty soda cans, and a trashcan that was constantly overflowing. Yet Saeran had never seen it this bad. He had to sidestep several aluminum cans and a couple of convenience store plastic food containers, and he might have stepped on a half-eaten piece of pizza. He shook his slippers off and hoped he could keep his socks clean at least. When he finally made it to the window, he threw the curtains wide open. There was a startled sound from the middle of the room and Saeran noticed a blonde head pop up. Yoosung rose to his feet, his hands over his sensitive amethyst eyes. His blond strands were in disarray and he made it more so by running his hand through the yellow locks. He sniffled, bleary eyes swollen and red, it was obvious that he had been crying for a good long while.

“Yoosung! Oh my god what is going on? What happened?” he hurried to the man, forgetting all about opening the window and letting the stuffiness out. He reached out to take his boyfriend in his arms but Yoosung startled him.

“Don’t touch me!” he slapped Saeran’s hands away. The red-head backed up a step and held his hands out in front of him.

He looked at his boyfriend critically from head to toe. There was something wrong here. This was more than just sadness. Saeran recognized the symptoms, knowing that while Yoosung hid his depression well from others, he had always been completely open with Saeran about it. This episode looked like it was going to be a hard one. He usually let Saeran comfort him quite easily and he had never seen him so angry either.

“OK.” he tried to stay calm, knowing how easily it was to overstimulate someone who was having a depressive episode. He wanted desperately to take Yoosung in his arms but knew from personal experience that it would be one of the worst mistakes he could make. Any contact when he didn’t want it would be catastrophic. He kept his voice even and tried not to sound condescending.

“How...how can you look at me! How can you love me? You can’t! I know you can’t!” Yoosung spat, some blond strands plastered to his forehead from his sweat. “You hate me! I would hate me if I were you!”

“Don’t say that. I don’t hate you Yoosung, you didn’t do anything to hurt me.”

“That’s not true! I was blind, and stupid! How could I believe she was so innocent? I should have known! I knew her the best besides V! I should have seen it! He tried to hide it, hide what she was! I did the same thing. I didn’t see who she really was because I didn’t want to! She was a monster, and I...I... I’m a monster too!” he screamed, his tightened fists striking at his thighs. It tore at Saeran’s heart.

“Please...please stop Yoosung.” Saeran pleaded, his own tears trailing down his cheeks uncontrollably.

Yoosung fell to the floor and began to slam his fists against his head. Saeran didn’t hesitate, crouching down and grabbing his wrists to pull his fists away from his head. Yoosung reacted violently, slamming his fists against Saeran and connecting with his nose painfully. It made him see stars, getting hit on the nose was excruciating, as the stinging sensation confirmed. No wonder so many defense experts taught how to do it in several different ways. He shook his head and tried to clear it, attempting to keep his balance as Yoosung kicked out blindly, hitting his legs and arms. Saeran fell back, his bloody nose forgotten as he fended off the sudden attack. He understood it was a defensive coping mechanism and not Yoosung trying to hurt him on purpose.

“I said don’t touch me!” he screamed and scuttled backwards. “I don’t deserve kindness. I deserve pain. As much pain as you went through. As much pain as everyone else that she ensnared went through! I should have seen it! But no, I didn’t want to!” he pulled his knees up to his chest and hid behind his hands sobbing uncontrollably. He continued his tirade but the words were unintelligible.

Saeran wiped his bloody nose absently with the sleeve and sat heavily. He felt useless as Yoosung raged out of control. This wasn’t the first time, but it was turning out to be his worst yet. The younger man was usually bubbly and happy, though Saeran was well aware of his depressive side. It mostly manifested with mild symptoms. Quiet crying, some shaking, negative thoughts but it had never been this severe. Yoosung had never said such horrible things about himself. He wondered what had triggered the intensity of the outburst. He got up on his knees but refrained from getting any closer to his boyfriend.

He watched helplessly as Yoosung’s body shook, the only sound between them the occasional sob and cough that wracked his body. He looked so frail, so vulnerable, as if he could be snapped in two with a snap of his fingers. He sat there in silence and felt Yoosung’s pain. He sat in the pain with him. He shared it as best he could. Whether the blond wanted him there or not, he wanted him to feel his presence. It tore at his heart to see him like this, knowing all he could do was be there. As bad as it was to go through an episode like this, being on this side of it, in his opinion, was much worse. He felt helpless, impotent, useless.

Once Yoosung’s sobs subsided somewhat Saeran spoke softly, “Yoosung, please look at me.” Yoosung only shook his head, the despair coming off him in waves. It was devastating to witness, and it made Saeran feel even more respect and appreciation for what Yoosung went through as he suffered his own bouts of depression. When they had first began to date Saeran had tried to hide those bouts, but it had only made the ensuing explosion worse. Yoosung had taken his verbal attacks with patience and love, never showing irritation about any of it. It had taken months for the red-head to realize that Yoosung was there to stay.

Now Saeran could see what a Herculean task his boyfriend had had. Several times over. The least he could do now was be there for Yoosung, no matter how much vitriol the man threw at him. This wasn’t the real Yoosung. The kind, compassionate, ray of sunshine. Yes, this was part of him, but it was a deceptive part, something deep inside of him that felt wrong or guilty for things he had no control over.

He looked like a lost child, frightened and alone. Saeran scooted forward, being careful not to come into contact with him. “I know you feel out of control right now.” he spoke gently. “And that’s OK. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Yoosung shook his head muttering, “No no no no no... You don’t know SHIT! How could you! She hurt you, she hurt you for years! She’s my cousin! How...how can you look at me? I’m so ashamed! I’m nothing, I’m dirt, garbage! You deserve better.” he closed in on himself, his body molding against itself.

Saeran sobbed, his body shaking as he cried for the pain Yoosung was in. “Babe please, don’t do this, don’t say those things, they aren’t true.” he leaned forward wanting desperately to touch him, holding his hand out, hovering an inch from the man.

The blond looked up, red rimmed lavender eyes swimming with tears. The pain in them was agonizing. He kept his hand where it was, aching to touch him. Yoosung moved, kneeling and sitting back on his heels. He lowered his head as he rested his palms on the floor. Saeran retreated his hand back to give him room, fingers itching to settle on the mop of unruly strands.

“Yo...you don’t hate me?” Yoosung murmured quietly, his voice hoarse from so much strain. Saeran noticed stains on the front of the blond’s shirt and wondered how long he had been in this state.

“Never. I love you.” the red-head said soothingly. He dared to lay his hand on the man’s shoulder. He felt Yoosung tense up and made ready to lean away from him, but then he felt a shudder run through his body as his shoulders rounded inwards. Yoosung hugged himself and rocked back and forth, tears falling freely. Saeran wasted no time in wrapping him in his arms, whispering in his hair, rocking them both. The blond wept, his body vibrating, pain washing through him.

Saeran held him as they both sobbed. Sharing their individual pain and taking comfort from each other. He wasn’t sure how long they stayed that way, the rocking slowing to a gentle sway. Yoosung wiped at his face with the sleeve of his shirt and lay his cheek against Saeran’s chest letting out a huge sigh. “Talk to me.” Saeran said, cajoling him to voice his fears. Hoping he had calmed enough to do so.

The blond buried his face in Saeran’s shirt but his tears appeared to have been spent. “I’m so ashamed.” his voice was muffled as he spoke against the red-head's shirt.

“Of what? There’s nothing to be ashamed of.” Saeran soothed, rubbing Yoosung’s back gently.

“I let her go. I... I helped Zen help her escape.” His voice sounded like he was on the verge of more tears but they didn’t fall.

“You didn’t know.” Saeran kissed the top of his head. “Something happened, tell me.”

Yoosung hesitated. He clutched at Saeran’s shirt. He shook his head but finally took a deep breath and the red-head waited to hear something that was sure to be painful.

“She called me.” he breathed in a rush, the words seeming to need to be evacuated quickly. Saeran tensed at the revelation. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! I heard her voice. All she said was my name and it made me nauseous!” Yoosung cried. “I dropped the phone and ran to the bathroom. I don’t even know where it is now. I don’t care. I don’t want to touch it ever again. Oh God Saeran, I’m sorry!” he wrapped his arms around the older man. “I’m sick and disgusting, why would you want me? I admired her, loved her. Part of me still cares about her! How can you stand being with me when I’m such a monster?”

Saeran swallowed, closed his eyes, and tried to do the breathing exercises he’d been taught. Knowing that her voice had touched Yoosung’s ears made him almost as nauseous. He breathed in through his nose deeply and let it out through his mouth while tightening his arms around his boyfriend. The man he loved, who loved him. It wouldn’t do to lapse into his own episode and even though she had reached out to Yoosung, she could no longer touch him. He was free. Free of the pain, the fear, the brainwashing, the addiction she enfeebled him with. Free of the lies she fed him for years, that made him a true monster.

He made some shushing noises as he got himself under control, having Yoosung in his arms helped immensely.

“I know I sound crazy. The words come out of my mouth and I know they’re wrong but I can’t stop them. I feel like I’m losing my mind. It hurts. It hurts like nothing I’ve ever felt before. So deep I don’t know if it will ever stop hurting.”

“You’re not crazy, you’re just in pain and I know what that feels like.” they held each other, Yoosung still weeping softly against him. He felt the tension in Yoosung’s body loosen up as the blond leaned heavily against him. “You’re not a monster, if you were you wouldn’t feel like this. She’s been a big part of your life, of course you still care about her.”

“But...”

“No, no buts. This isn’t about me, this is about you. Come on.” he stood and pulled Yoosung up with him. He led him gently to the unmade bed. Saeran sat and lay Yoosung’s head on his lap. The blond curled up and snuggled against his thigh. The red-head ran his fingers through Yoosung’s hair, letting the golden strands fall through his fingers.

“Tell me about her. Before all of this. Tell me about the girl you knew. The one that inspired you to be a better person.” he whispered. The ache in his heart was palpable. Talking about Rika hurt him, but not as much as he thought it would. The initial shock had already worn off and all he cared about was helping Yoosung.

He felt the man stir beneath his hands, shaking his head awkwardly.

“Tell me. I want to hear.” and he meant it. Every word. He wanted to know the woman Yoosung knew. Wanted to understand what it was about her that had captured a young man’s admiration and respect. It took a few more cajoling words and murmurs but Yoosung finally opened up. He told Saeran about a young, vibrant, kind woman, who helped others, who inspired more from a young man. Yoosung fell asleep mid-sentence as Saeran’s tears fell silently above him.

#my posts #Yooran #mysme-rbb #Yoosung Kim #Saeran Choi #@koutone #best partner #spoilers #for AE #depression #angst #hurt/comfort

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monster-bait · 4 years

Text

Monster Match: Alon the Sea Krait Naga, NSFW continuation; M Naga x F Human

Original Alon commission by @lovelylittlenova ... you can read the first part of his story HERE ... NSFW continuation commissioned by @atalantaroars

Your rideshare deposited you at the top of the boardwalk, and the glittering ocean ahead stole your breath for a moment, as you gathered your bearings.

Alon lived in a little cape cod-style house at the end of a long side street, about a block from the waves, and you moved with purpose, your little roller bag bumping rhythmically over the slatted sidewalk. You knew you’d reached your destination at the sight of a sweet-looking calico on the wall of the wrap-around porch, with two more cats sharing a basket on the ground. Your phone buzzed, and you knew it would be him.

Coming to visit him had been a “last minute decision,” or so you claimed. In truth, the idea had been turning in your mind for weeks. You had no concrete plans for spring break, you couldn’t afford to fly home, and the shelter would be closed for several days, as the entire place received an annual painting. The cats had all been brought home with the owner, so there was little reason for you to hang around...and you did have a friend who lived at the beach...

Alon had enthusiastically suggested that maybe you could visit him, when you mentioned that the fictitious spring break plans you’d made fallen through at the last minute, and you’d giddily accepted his invitation. You felt only slightly guilty for the white lie: you were desperate to know if your feelings were one-sided.

After the events that had occurred in your apartment on Christmas, he’d been bashful and stammering once more, and although you’d quickly resumed your comfortable banter with him on the phone once he’d returned home then next afternoon, you weren’t sure if he regretted having kissed you.

You were still able to feel the soft drag of his thin lips against your throat, the tickling pressure of his forked tongue at your ear. He’d been freezing once you’d returned to your small apartment that night, and you’d quickly provided him a blanket to coil in, perching on the sofa as he rested on the floor before you. You’d put on a nostalgic Christmas movie, although it wound up being background noise to your easy conversation.

He had been the one to initiate the kiss, brushing a lock of hair that had fallen forward behind your ear, before leaning in slowly. It had been soft and hesitant, but you’d met his lips gladly. Kissing him before the orange glow of your apartment’s small space heater had more than made up for the fact that you weren’t home for the holidays, as the heat and urgency of your kisses steadily increased.

It hadn’t gone beyond kissing, although you still smiled, remembering the way you’d bumped his glasses. Now you were going to see him again, and find out, you hoped, if it had been a fluke.

Are you planning on telling me what time your bus pulls in or are you going to make me glower at people in the station all night?

The text was accompanied by an annoyed-faced emoji, and you chuckled. You hadn’t told him you’d wound up getting a ticket on the late morning bus, arriving hours earlier than you’d initially planned, hoping to surprise him. The phone buzzed again.

I can’t wait until you’re here, there’s so much I want to show you! Do you like sushi? There’s a great place I was thinking of taking you to for dinner

Otherwise, maybe Thai?

It’s totally okay if you don’t eat sushi, I should have asked you earlier

Just forget about the sushi, we’ll find something else

You had to bite your lip to keep from laughing aloud. He was an adorable dork, and you could almost hear his nervous hissing stammer through the rapid texts.

Actually I love sushi, that sounds perfect

Did you know that there’s morning glory strangling your catnip in the garden?

In an instant, the front door to the house flew open, Alon silhouetted in the frame. You beamed from the sidewalk, waving brightly.

“Oh, you are just the worst,” he groused with a scowl, moving across the porch, bending to scoop up a tufted-eared tuxedo cat that followed him out the door. “I wanted to meet you! How do you know I didn’t spend the whole morning making an elaborate welcome sign to hold up at the station?”

You beamed at his outrage. His silky black hair was half-up, pulled back from his face and tumbling over his black t-shirt-clad shoulders. His square-framed glasses moved up his nose as he scrunched it, his thin lips pulled into a pout. He was adorable.

“Because last month you went three days without any groceries because you kept forgetting to stop at the store on the way home from work, even though you told me about it every night." When his handsome face screwed up even further, you were unable to hold back your laughter. "I thought the odds were good you’d be all out of glitter glue and poster board.”

“Yeah well, just because you’re right doesn’t mean you’re forgiven.” The tuxedo sprang free, darting back indoors and he held his arms out for a hug as you ascended the steps, despite his words, lifting you from the ground as he squeezed you tightly. He smelled fresh, like the glittering water blowing over the sand, and your stomach flipped as you melted into his embrace. “I’m ssso excited you’re here! C’mon, let me give you a tour.”

“Slow down, Speed Racer,” you sing-songed as he laughed, slowing his long undulations, allowing your shorter stride to catch up with him.

The sidewalks through the quaint Main Street were flanked by long strips of grass, accommodations for the non-human residents of the little seaside town, of which there were many, you’d discovered. Alon moved through the grass with surprising speed, fast enough that you were obliged to quicken your steps to keep up with him several times, until he realized he was outpacing you once more, twin spots of blue gracing his cheeks as he murmured a sheepish apology he didn’t need to give. His leanly-muscled upper body was encased in a fitted black button down, and the contrast between the fabric and his frosty white skin mirrored that of his powerful tail, a ludicrously long length of black and white banded scales.

He was striking.

You remembered how your own downtown had been much more difficult for him to traverse, how he’d eventually moved into the slush along the curb, finding it easier to push through. Here though, he crossed the little town with ease.

The previous night had been low-key and relaxed—he had taken you to his favorite sushi restaurant, where you’d tried the pickled eel, his personal favourite, in addition to the more familiar california rolls you knew. Afterwards, you’d strolled back up the boardwalk, taking the long way back to his house, and you’d marveled over how beautiful the ocean was.

“So I was thinking, tomorrow we could go to the outdoor museum? And there’s an amazing animal rescue program we have! We can drop by and visit...I’m so glad you’re here!”

The guest room in his house was prepared with fresh linens and a chocolate kiss on your pillow, and after you said goodnight, the rolling, rhythmic sound of the nearby wave had lulled you to sleep.

True to his word, Alon had a full agenda planned for your visit. After breakfast in his sunny kitchen, the afternoon had been spent at an outdoor garden and art exhibit, and then the wildlife ark, a community-supported project to ensure the local critters were plentiful and healthy. You got to meet dozens of displaced frogs and scuttling lizards, homeless after a recent storm that swept up the coast, completely submerging the marshy land where they’d lived.

“She’s involved with feline rescue,” Alon told the serious, eagle-faced woman who ran the ark about you, a note of pride in his voice, and your stomach bunched, the subtle weight of his hand at your lower back warm and welcome.

“We can go to the movie in the park or just back home if you’re tired? I don’t want you to feel like you can’t have any downtime,” he’d fretted.

You tried something called ‘water ice’ for the first time as you strolled up the boardwalk, and your heart had nearly climbed into your mouth when you offered him a taste of your flavor. His tongue was forked and blue, flicking out rapidly to the cup you held out, and his cerulean eyes seemed to glitter like the sea. Your cheeks were warm when he held his own cup to your mouth, his gaze locked on your mouth as you licked the watermelon-flavored ice. As your tongue moved slowly over the icy-sweet surface of the frozen treat, Alon’s own lips parted, the long points of his fangs visible as his mouth opened.

In an instant, his jaw had snapped shut and his head swung away, his gaze trained on the sparkling waves as they rolled in. A faint blue flush crept up his neck as your own ears burned.

The early evening movie in the park was the next stop, where you learned just how comfortable his coils were to rest in. As you moved across the big lawn together, Alon laced his long fingers with yours, swinging your arm merrily. “I’m so happy you’re here!” he exclaimed for the hundredth time that day.

“I am too,” you agreed, as you found a spot in the big lawn. Leaning in, you kissed his cheek quickly, before your nerves got the better of you. “I’m really glad to be here.”

There were folding beach chairs for use, but you’d hated the idea of elevating yourself, blocking the view of the little harpy hatchings behind you. You were unable to get comfortable on the ground, and Alon had endearingly hissed that you could sit with him. Resting in the center of his coils turned out to be like sitting on a beanbag chair, and you’d happily settled in. A firm, muscular bean bag chair…Heat once more crept up your neck as you trailed a light hand over the thick band of muscle that comprised his reptilian lower half.

The end of his long tail had curled around your ankle, and as the movie went on, more of your bare leg was wound in his scales. The tip of his tail flickered back and forth, a seemingly unconscious movement that grazed the hem of your shorts, tickling the inside of your thigh.

It drove you crazy.

Back and forth, the slightest brush against your skin, heightened by the nearly imperceptible pulsing of his tail wrapped around your calf, causing heat to pool low in your belly. A slight shift on your part had given that flickering tail better access to the inner meat of your thigh, making you wonder how it would feel if you open your legs fully, desperately wishing there weren’t so many children present. Your panties were drenched by the time the movie ended, and you wondered if he could smell your arousal.

You don’t even know if he feels that way about you...get a grip!

The little thai place was your choice for dinner, and once more, the end of his tail swished like a cat’s, grazing your ankle beneath the small table you shared. Alon chattered happily, telling you about his work and some of the other sights around town he wanted to show you during your visit. He’d been so bashful when he’d stayed with you over Christmas, and it was a relief that your near nightly phone conversations since then had given you each the confidence to be silly and open with each other.

“Do you want to go down to the beach when we get home?” he asked innocently, pulling you from your thoughts with a blush. “You’ve been here a whole day and we haven’t even gotten you wet!”

You felt the blush up to the tips of your ears. If he only knew...you’re soaked.

The sexual tension you felt was close to bursting by the time you arrived back at his quaint little house, and he excused himself to make a work call, promising that he wouldn’t be more than a half hour at most, and then you’d go down to the beach. The instant the door to the guest bedroom he’d prepared for you closed, you were schucking off your clothes, wondering if you had time to relieve some of the tension that coiled through your core, much like his tail had coiled around your leg.

Checking the room for any wayward felines, you reclined on the pillows, sinking into their softness, letting your hands trail down your body. Sure enough, when you slid a finger through your folds, it came back glistening.

Back and forth, light stokes, just barely grazing that sensitive bud of nerves, you tried to recreate the sensation of Alon’s flickering tail. The winch of pressure within you continued to tighten as you stroked yourself, crying out when you moved over your clit from a different angle.

Instantly, there was a knock at your door.

“Is-iss everything okay?”

Alon’s voice was concerned and you gasped, giving him a strangled response. Somehow, he interpreted did gasp as an indication that you needed assistance, because in the next heartbeat the knob was turning and he was looming in the open doorway, gaping at the sight of you naked on his guest bed, your fingers still thrust between your legs.

Blue color splotched Alon’s face, but he did not move back into the hallway.

The world stopped moving, it seemed. It was not possible that the handsome naga you’d been crushing on for the better part of the year, whom you’d made out with at Christmas and spoke to nightly was standing there, watching you marsturbate in his house.

This was, you decided, just a terrible dream.

“Do...do you need help?”

This was, you decided as Alon pushed into the room intently, a wonderful dream.

His hand was cool around your ankle as he lifted your foot, caressing his thumb over your arch. You shivered at his gentle touch, your stomach bunching as he stroked up your legs, pushing them open at the knees. It seemed impossible to believe that he was brushing his nose up the inside of your leg, but when his forked, flickering tongue darted out, tickling at your clit, your back arched and you were forced to accept that this was reality.

The tip of a long, white finger toyed at your dripping entrance before pushing in slowly, stroking your inner walls before being joined by a second. At the same time, his tongue danced over your body, flicking and teasing, and you found yourself raising your hips to meet it, gasping every time it connected with that pulsing little pearl at the apex of your sex, until you keened, gasping his name.

You weren’t sure how long he subjected you to such blissful torture, but you were a shuddering mess, fisting the bedding, an ankle over his shoulder, loving the teasing but needing more. Alon was breathing hard, with a wild look in his deep blue eyes, and you wondered if it mirrored the look in your own.

“Please,” you whimpered, desperate to come. The white and black tip of his tail wrapped around the leg that wasn’t over his shoulder, holding it wide as he slipped off his glasses with a trembling hand. His flickering blue tongue continued its movement, and a long-fingered hand slipped under your hips, tilting them as he lowered his head, adding his thin, white lips to the mix. You wanted to bury your fingers in his silky hair, wanted to grip his lean shoulders or play with his ears, but all you could do was continue to grip the bedding as he gave your clit the suction it craved.

The entire afternoon’s worth of sexual tension released like a dam, and your orgasm burst forth, lifting your back from the bed as fireworks exploded in your mind, and your leg shook in its scaled confinement. Alon kept his face pressed to you, lapping at your release as best he could with his flickering tongue, and you felt the vibration of him moaning against your heated skin.

You could hear the ocean, the steady push and pull of the waves, from your open window. For a long moment, the sound of the tide coming in and the thudding of your heartbeat were the only sounds your mind could absorb.

The bed dipped when Alon pushed himself to recline beside you, snapping you back to lucidity.

His long tail curled around the bed, as he stared up at the ceiling still breathing hard. “I...I didn't want to make any assumptionsss,” he murmured in an aspirant hiss, as you rolled on your side to face him. “I’m sssorry if that wasn’t what you wanted.”

“It was!” Alon tilted his head back to meet your eye, wide and hopeful. “It absolutely was. I’m sorry you had to walk in on me like that, but...I couldn’t stop thinking about you today.”

The sound of the ocean was lost as your mouths met, the flickering of his tongue dancing across your lips before he stiffened and groaned. Your hand had slid down his human torso to that spot where his scales began, finding a bulge in his skin where moisture seeped. His white underbelly was marred by a patch of deep blue, the same color as the spots as his cheeks, where his twin cocks were sheathed.

You’d done your research. You knew about naga anatomy, how different Alon would be to the human partners you’d had in the past, and you were ready.

The slippery wall of muscle contracted against your fingers when your pressed into his sheath, caressing him from the inside out, as he’d done to you. His back arched against the mattress, and in no time at all, you felt something spiny pushing against your hand. Bright blue at their pronounced heads, with a viscous secretion easing their forward movement, his twin cocks slid free.

You hesitated only a moment before running your fingers over the spiny heads, slickened with his lubrication. To your relief, they were soft to the touch, reminding you of the squishy, spiny balls you got out of the vending machine at the store when you were a child. Soft, and evidently sensitive, as Alon let out a guttural moan.

The rest of the sizeable lengths were smooth, and you stroked one, then the other, before Alon’s big hand wrapped around yours, stroking his cocks together. Sliding a finger from your free hand back into his sheath earned you another moan, the thick cocks writhing.

“Can we...am I able to—”

You’d risen on your knees as you spoke, releasing his cocks as you straddled his wide tail, but he gripped your thigh, preventing you from attempting to sink onto one of his thick lengths.

“No–you’re not prepped enough,” he gasped. “I don’t want to hurt you. Maybe later.”

His voice cut off on a strangled hiss as you gripped his cocks once more. From this angle, you had better traction, could grip each tightly, which you did then, pumping him to release.

It didn’t take long.

The winding coils of Alon’s tail thrashed out in the hallway, his long back arching once more, as you worked him in a steady rhythm, twisting up his shafts in a corkscrew motion, being sure to stimulate the spiny heads. His moans cutting off was your only warning as his head dropped back, long jaw falling open, venom dripping freely from his fangs. His eyes closed as he came, each of the cocks in your hands pulsing as they released, a pearlescent fluid that coated his belly, mingling with the venom that sprayed from his long fangs. His stomach muscles quivered, and his jaw shook, his beautiful icy white skin flushed with blue.

He was beautiful.

The sound of the sea gradually came back into the room, as his breath slowed and the pounding of your own heart steadied. Sliding off his tail, you quickly fetched a towel from the guest bathroom, and wonder how many of these very human accoutrements he’d purchased especially for your visit. Wiping him clean, you settled on the mattress beside him, pulled into his arms to rest against his chest just a moment later.

“That was nice,” you murmured, breaking the comfortable silence. “Do you think it’s too late to go to the beach now?”

Alon’s laughter was a warm rumble that vibrated under your cheek, his long fingers pushing through your hair. He’d retrieved his glasses from the jumble of bedding, sliding them back on his slim face.

“Oh phew, it’sss you. I was worried there for a minute.”

Your gasp of mock outrage was swallowed by his lips as he pulls you over him, his nails skimming down your back. He was sweet and kind, and you were glad that a chance decision to stay home for Christmas had lead to this.

Alon kissed the tip of your nose, bumping your foreheads.

“I’m so happy you’re here.”

“I am too,” you agreed for the billionth time. “C’mon. Someone promised to take me to the beach.”

Monster Matches are currently being queued for March! Please visit my ko-fi for more information...if you like what I do, don’t forget to like and reblog!

#monster boyfriend #Exophilia #monster lover #naga boyfriend #Naga #monsterbait writes #monster match #monster matchmaker #exophilia writer #exoerotica

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red-jaebyrd · 4 years

Text

Another Person, Another Promise

The concept for this fic was inspired by this lovely piece of art by @drawing-cookie.

Whumptober #5 Rescued

Batman had told him to stay, that it wouldn’t be too much longer; that he’d find a way to get him out of the boys’ detention center and find him a home. For the first few weeks, Dick held onto to the hope of those words like a lifeline until the promise of escape fell away like water through cupped hands. After a month those words were nothing but useless platitudes said to him to keep him from asking further questions about his parents’ murder.

He wouldn’t listen to Batman anymore no matter how scary the man appeared to be. This place was poison. He didn’t belong here. He wasn’t a criminal. He was just a boy who no longer had parents. Perhaps the cops thought they were doing him a favor; a pre-emptive strike bypassing a foster home and instead sending him strait to jail. Social Services in Gotham City was seriously messed up.

Dick had been at the boys detention center for a month and it was already the longest month of his life. Every day was a lesson in finding new hiding places so he wouldn’t get his butt kicked. No one cared that he didn’t do anything to start the fight. No one cared that he didn’t belong here with young criminals. All that mattered to them was that he was “fresh meat” and needed to know the rules and the “lay of the land”.

There was a twisted hierarchy that existed at these centers. Dick postulated that it didn’t really matter who was the biggest in size (though it helped), what mattered was who had the seniority.

Dick had gotten jumped on his first night at the detention center. “The welcome wagon” had been five boys that came into his room at lights out. They had told him if he knew what was good for him – he’d keep his mouth shut. This wasn’t a problem, who was he going to tell? The guards didn’t care. The cops that had come to question him about his parents’ murder didn’t bat an eye at his busted lip or the way draped his arm over his bruised ribs.

After the first two weeks Dick started to get a bit braver. He embraced the anger and started to fight back. Not enough to cause any damage, but enough to send a message that he wasn’t anyone’s punching bag. He used these fights as an outlet to let out the anger he had felt at being ignored by Batman. The man hadn’t come to see him since his first night at the Center.

This newfound bravery of course backfired and now the beatings increased with more frequency. The anger soon started to drift into depression and indifference.

At his one month anniversary of being at The Center, Dick got a visitor. The Batman had come to see him. Under different circumstances he’d be happy with the visit, but truthfully Dick was tired. He was tired of the lies and promises that came with every adult visitor.

Dick didn’t smile, make eye contact or say a word to the towering man standing in front of him in the small visitors’ room.

“What happened to your eye?”

“I fell,” he answered. “Any leads?”

“Some. The progress is still slow.”

“Right…so…why are you here?”

“I just wanted to check on you.”

Dick nodded. He wanted to ask Batman when he could leave and go home or go back to the circus, but it was pointless. No one seemed to know how much longer he still had to be at The Center, so he stopped asking. Every time he had asked, it was the same answer, ‘Not much longer. I promise’. It was the promise that stung the most, because a month had passed, and he was still here in this hell hole getting beat up every night at lights out.

“Are we done?” Dick asked.

Batman nodded. “You won’t be here long. I promise.”

There it was, the empty promise to ring in a new month in Hell. It was exactly what Officer Bullock had said, and later Commissioner Gordon and now Batman. Another person, another promise – this time from a guy in a mask.

“Whatever,” Dick sighed.

---

The meeting with Batman only made Dick more depressed. He lay in his bunk pressed up against the wall hoping the shadows would swallow him. He had reached the point where he had stopped caring about anyone rescuing him. He had no one in his corner. No one was fighting for him. There was no one else in his life anymore that he could depend on for safety, reassurance, or love. The only people he had in his life were he parents and they had been taken from him. God, he missed his parents.

He missed their touch, the pressure of their hugs, and the proximity of their existence in his life. The weight of their absence pressed on his chest until he could no longer breathe. He fought hard to push down the lump in his throat, but it was no use. He finally let out the sobs he had been holding in for a month. A month had passed and he hadn’t even allowed himself to mourn them.

He still had nightmares of the night they had died. He could still hear the rope snap, smell the metallic scent of blood, and see the look of horror on his mom’s face as she fell.

Dick pulled himself further into the shadows of his bunk, allowing himself the space to cry. He hugged his pillow tightly to his chest just for the pressure in the hopes that it would help calm him down. No comfort came from hugging the pillow, but it did help muffle the sound.

This place was slowly suffocating the life out of him. If Bullock, Gordon or Batman weren’t going to get him out of here, he had to do it himself. He couldn’t wait to make a thorough escape plan. It had to be tonight.

Ultimately this plan was dumb and impulsive. But Dick had reached a reckless desperation that planning would take too long. He knew where all the great hiding places were as he had honed this skill over the last month to avoid fights with the older boys.

He stuck to the shadows using the darkness to sneak through the halls using his agility as an acrobat to his advantage. Dick’s goal was to make it to the basement laundry room. There was a window high up on the wall that lead to the street level. No one without acrobatic experience would be able to reach it. It was an easy climb to maneuver. He planned the jumps in his head many times when he was assigned to the laundry room.

Dick’s biggest hurdle was getting passed the guards’ station. He took his shoes and socks off to avoid them squeaking on the tile and giving him away. He knotted the laces of both shoes to keep them together and placed them around his neck to free up his hands. Waiting behind a wall he watched as the three guards leave the station to walk the halls. Luckily the laundry room was in the opposite direction. Dick wasted no time heading straight over there.

The door was never locked, but it was sticky. It squeaked something terrible as he opened it but Dick was careful not to let it slam shut behind him. Dick wasted no time making his way down the stairs into the laundry room. The Warden had purposely not placed any machines under the window should any of the boys use it as a boost to sneak out. Dick didn’t need anything under the window to make it. He climbed onto the nearest machine and jumped.

Just as his hands made contact with the windows ledge, he heard the door squeak open and the sound of jingling keys as someone descended the stairs.

“Hey, where do you think you’re going?”

Dick scrambled to get the window open with one hand. He could hear the heavy footfalls of the guard approaching. It was at this moment that he thanked the universe for making him a very short and agile 12 year old. The guard couldn’t reach his legs, but it wasn’t for a lack of trying.

The handle on the window was hard to pull up. Especially since Dick could only use his one hand. He knew the window opened. He’d seen it opened during the day when the dryers were on. His sweaty hand was making it more and more difficult to grip the handle, but he wasn’t giving up. He was so close to getting out of here. He couldn’t give up now.

Dick tried not to get distracted by the scraping sound of a ladder below him. He continued to pull up with all his might on the handle. Finally, the handle budged and he pushed open the window feeling the cool Gotham air in his face. His victory was short-lived as he then felt his body jerk down as the guard grabbed his ankle.

“You’re not going anywhere, you little shit.”

Dick tried to shake out the grip on his ankle while still holding onto the ledge of the window.

“Get off!”

Dick kicked out and made contact with the guard’s face. The guard lost his balance and so did he. The ladder clattered to the ground, and Dick struggled to find purchase on the window ledge with arms. He had the upper body strength to hoist himself up but the exertion used to open the window and fight off the guard exhausted his muscles. Tears started to swim in his eyes. It wasn’t looking like he was getting out of here.

His biceps were straining to hold him upright on the window ledge. His toes anchoring him on the wall were getting sore. The ankle the guard yanked throbbed along with his rapid heartbeat. He could hear thunderous sounds of more guards coming into the laundry room. He was so screwed.

Dick took a breath and proceeded to hoist himself upward. His muscles shook horribly at the effort.

“Here, I got you,” a gravelly voice said from outside the window. Hands suddenly grabbed Dick under his arms and helped pull him out of the window.

Dick allowed the help once he registered that the voice belonged to Batman. He only had a moment to collect his bearings before three guards surrounded them outside; including the one Dick had kicked off the ladder.

“We’ll take it from here,” The guard said, reaching out a hand to grab Dick.

Dick scuttled away and stood behind Batman, using him as a shield between him and the guards.

“Please, Batman, don’t let them take me,” Dick whispered. He was on the verge of tears now as the adrenaline slowly started to seep out of his body. “I can’t go back there. Please, you promised.”

He looked up in time to see Batman looking at him and giving him a small nod of the head before returning his attention back to the lead guard.

“I don’t think so, the boy coming with me,” Batman growled.

“Under whose authority?”

“The Division of Child Protection and Permanency. All the necessary paperwork is on the Warden’s desk. Richard John Grayson is now a ward of Bruce Wayne.”

Dick’s head snapped up at the name Bruce Wayne, the billionaire wanted him to be his ward? This had to be a joke. He didn’t trust the information. Why would Bruce Wayne want to help him anyway?

The guard looked like a fish out of water struggling for words that were not coming.

“We’re done here,” Batman said. “Dick, get into the car.”

Dick did what he was told and got into the sleek black car that was parked near where he had climbed out of the window. He wasn’t sure that he trusted Batman yet. He wanted to believe that Batman had his best interests. He wanted to trust that Batman was telling the truth and was sending him somewhere safe.

Dick tried to brace himself for eventual bad news, because living with Bruce Wayne was just too good to be true. There had to be a catch somewhere. There was always a catch to something. He never used to be this cynical when his parents were alive, but their death changed him in ways that even he never saw coming.

They drove a little ways before Dick was brave enough to ask his question.

“Is it true, about my paperwork?”

“Yes.”

“You weren’t lying…about Bruce Wayne wanting to take me in permanently?”

“No.”

In only a month he saw the worst in people, mostly kids around his own age, but also adults. Some adults meant well, but none of them kept their word. They easily made promises but constantly broke them.

“What’s the catch?”

“No, catch. I pro –,”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Batman.”

Batman kept his eyes on the road and his hands on the steering wheel. He pushed a button that must have been an auto pilot feature, because the car started driving itself. He slipped his cowl off and turned to look at Dick.

Dick immediately recognized the face.

“Whoa, you’re Bruce Wayne.”

“We’re going home, my home. I promise you, Dick, no more surprises. No more secrets.”

Dick just stared at him trying to find his words. He had so many things to say to that statement. None of them were good; most of them were offensive and started with an ‘f’.

“Will you let me help you with the investigation into my parents’ murder? Tell me all the leads you have so far on their case. Leave nothing out?”

Bruce sighed. “I promise to tell you everything of relevance. But if it starts to be too much for you, and leads to negative change in your behavior, I’m restricting your access. Deal?”

Dick thought over the terms and found them agreeable.

“Deal.”

The car rushed through a waterfall leading further into a dark tunnel. The car stopped and spun lifting on hydraulics as it settled into an elaborate underground lair.

“Welcome home to the Cave.”

“It’s a BatCave,” Dick corrected.

“Follow Alfred, he will show you to your room upstairs.”

“There’s more?” Dick asked.

“Much more, young sir. I shall give you the grand tour, but first let’s get you something to eat.”

Dick was in awe of his surroundings. He just became the ward of Bruce Wayne, who was also Batman. Batman was still on the case looking into his parents’ murder. He was no longer staying at a detention center and constantly worrying about getting beat up. He was home.

“Mr. Wayne,” Dick called.

“Yes, call me Bruce.”

Dick ran full tilt toward his new guardian and wrapped his arms around his waist.

“Thank you, Bruce, for getting me out and bringing me here.”

“You got yourself out, Chum.” Bruce said, returning the hug. “I just pulled you out of the window.”

#whumptober2020 #no.5 #failed escape #rescued #Batman #fic #Dick Grayson #Bruce Wayne #fic inspired by fan art

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angsty-violet · 3 years

Text

In a Flash (I’ll be at your side)

So this year I did the ColdFlash big bang. This is my story. Here is the AO3 link because it is really long. Here is the art link because it is gorgeous and perfect.

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Barry glowered at the man in front of him, marveling at his pure idiocy. The man ducked his head in shame and tried not to look at Barry. “I want you to do your job, Lawrence. You have had plenty of time to deal with the last of the Santini’s men. I want you to start doing what you are supposed to. Now get the hell out of my sight, and don’t you dare come back here before you have taken the last of them out.”

The man ducked his head again and scuttled off. Barry buried his face in his hands and let out the most aggravated sigh he possibly could. This day had been impossibly long, and he wasn’t finished yet. He heard a soft chuckle and turned to his best friend and right-hand man, Eddie Thawne.

“See, boss, this is why you should be delegating. One of the underlings can deal with this sort of nonsense. I know you like a hands-on approach to your people and your business, but this is taking it a little far. You can’t do everything yourself, you know.”

Barry blew out a breath. “Yes, I’m aware. That doesn’t make it any easier. If something gets screwed up, that’s on me. I don’t know where I would stand with punishing someone who was in a leadership position.”

“I’m sure you’d figure it out. Look on the bright side.”

“Oh? What’s that?”

“Today is Friday.”

Barry lit up at that and grinned at his friend. “You’re right. It’s Friday. What time is it? I want to have on a new suit before we head over there. Maybe one of my new ones, see if I can impress him a little.”

“Just after 4, boss. Home to get dressed?”

“Oh, yes. I need to make a good impression after all.”

ColdFlash

Leonard allowed himself a moment to lean heavily against the bar. He gave a little sigh but continued making drinks. Bartending was better than waiting tables, but that didn’t make it great. However, it was the only day a week he could stand behind the bar and interact with customers as little as possible. Most of them just wanted their drinks anyway, not idle chat, making the experience better than waiting tables.

It was also the only day when Barry Allen was able to talk to him at work without getting him into trouble.

He mostly just kept his head down and did his work. There was talk amongst the managers of letting him have more bartending days. He knew that he could’ve just asked Barry to make it so he worked the bar every day. No one was willing to tell him, no, but he didn’t want to risk someone who needed the money getting bumped.

Saints and Sinners was likely the only bar in town where bartenders made better tips than waiters. Partially because most of their clientele, workers, drop-ins, and even the owner were mob. If you knew how to make the drinks right, give the right kind of alcohol to the right people, you went far. Otherwise, in a week, you’d be out of a job.

He needed this job, at least for a little while longer. He might be able to live endlessly off of Barry’s money, but he wasn’t that kind of man. He wouldn’t allow himself to become overly dependent on Barry’s charity, even if they were together. Eventually, his thieving would get off the ground better. He would be able to take more extensive, better-paying heists. Once he got his business and his reputation up, he’d be doing better.

Then he’d be able to pay for Lisa to go to college wherever she wanted. She was only 8, but Len knew that she was going to go so far. She was going to have a much better life than he did. That was a guarantee.

“I’d like to get a tall glass of you, handsome. Something to quench my thirst and warm me up.”

Leonard smirked at his line. “I’m afraid that I’m a bit too cool for you. You’d be frozen to the ground before you knew it.”

Barry laughed delightedly. “God, you’re sexy. You should come home with me and let me show you just how sexy you are.”

Len’s ears turned pink, and he avoided eye contact. “I’m working, Barry. You know that.”

“I know, honey; I’m just teasing you. You know I like to harass you when you’re at work, and Fridays are the only days that I can do it without being too much in the way. Besides, this is the only job I’m allowed to harass you at. I’ll let off of you if you give me a little kiss on the lips.” Barry knew that it was a long shot. Len hated public displays of affection. However, he figured that he might, just might, be able to get away with it.

Len glanced around and saw that everyone in the area was diligently looking away from the two of them. One of the bonuses when it came to dating a crime king. He leaned over quickly and pecked Barry on the lips.

Barry grinned in delight. “Oh, you are the sweetest thing. I could just eat you up. Hard to believe you ever spare a second glance on little old me. Now darling, can I get a whiskey, neat?”

Len nodded and reached for the top-shelf whiskey. Barry allowed himself an ogle at the tight little bum but resisted the urge to pinch it. Len would be agitated, and he didn’t want to ruin their evening together.

Len poured him two fingers and left the bottle on the bar, knowing that anything claimed by Barry “The Flash” Allen wasn’t going to be touched by anyone else.

Len winced as the thought occurred to him that he fell into that category. Not a single person had dared even to look his direction romantically since Barry had begun to make his attraction known. Now that they were dating, most people would only speak to him when necessary—terrified that it would appear as hitting on someone who belonged to the city’s most dangerous and ruthless mob boss.

He tried not to dwell on thoughts like that too much. They often led to thinking about his past, and if he could never think of his history again, life would be good.

The rest of his shift passed in a blur of bartending and flirting. Listening as Barry tried out every single cheesy pickup line he could think up. Also, he was eavesdropping, just a little, as Barry conducted some late-night business. He completed most of his official mob business at his headquarters, but Len knew that some things happened under the guise of a drink and the cover of a dark corner booth.

He usually didn’t care about the mob business; it didn’t really have any bearing on him. Lately, though, Len had tried to pick up a few tidbits here and there. That kind of information could be beneficial, both at this job and at his other. It might even save his life. Len believed that you could never have too good of an understanding of what was happening in the world. Especially when that world was the crime world.

The night passed in both a flash and a drag. He was desperate to get out of there, which made the time move slowly, but the bar was busy. Friday night, right after the first of the month, they had many drinkers in there. Both of these contributed to his exhaustion once he finally hit the end of his shift. His feet were killing him, and he really wanted to just go home and sleep. This was warring with his want to jump Barry’s bones. He figured he’d decide in the car.

As soon as he had clocked out, Barry wrapped his arm around Len’s waist and led him towards his car. Barry led Len towards the expensive car and then guided into the back seat. Barry sat next to him and gestured for the driver to take them home.

Barry placed a hand on Len’s thigh, sliding it up just a little towards his cock. This pretty much made the decision for him. He wasn’t going to go to sleep, trying to pretend he wasn’t horny, not when he had access to what he wanted so desperately.

Len tried his best to keep the flush down. A battle he assumed he was losing and knew that if he’d let him, Barry would’ve had him in the back of this car right now. But Len had already decided that he didn’t want to do anything that made him feel as though he were nothing but a cheap hooker, someone Barry paid to fuck.

So, they would wait until the two of them were comfortably ensconced in Barry’s overly expensive bed, and Len could be laid out the way that he thought he was entitled to. However, waiting till they got home for the main event didn’t keep Barry from groping, kissing, or dragging him around like this pet. It just meant that he wasn’t allowed to fuck him in front of other people or in semi-public places.

They were silent the majority of the way home. Barry wanted the anticipation to build, and Len was desperately trying to keep from cumming in his pants like a teenager. Every time Barry shot him that smile, though, it made his desperation even stronger. This was only exacerbated by Barry refusing to take his hand off of Len’s thigh. He gave regular squeezes and smiled every time Len looked at him in exasperation.

When they got back to the house, Barry thanked his driver and pulled Len from the car, placing one possessive hand on his neck and one on the small of his back. Pushing him towards the house and towards the one evening where they could do anything they wanted.

Len got one day off a week, and Barry rearranged his whole schedule to also have it off. They had one day where he wasn’t at the bar or doing his other work, and Barry wasn’t going to waste a single second of it. He escorted his lover into the house, a possessive arm around him the whole time.

When they got to the bedroom, Barry nudged him towards the attached bathroom. He didn’t care about how Len smelled when they got home, but he knew that Len did. He wanted a few minutes to shower off the stink of the bar and to take a moment to separate himself from work.

Barry took a moment to appreciate himself in the mirror they kept in the bedroom. It was a bit narcissistic, but he didn’t care. He had explicitly changed to impress Len, and this was definitely impressive. The tailored suit fit him like a glove and helped make his naturally slender frame look more masculine. Unlike Len, he didn’t have the ability to have large bulky muscles or look intimidating with nothing but a towel. He had to stick to more tried and true methods.

He took the time to straighten out his jacket and pants and tame his hair a little. When Barry heard the water turn off and tried not to grin in excitement. This was one of his favorite parts of the evening. He waited for a few more minutes, listening to Len moving around, and then the door opened up, and Len entered the bedroom.

Barry’s breath caught in his throat, and he took a moment to remember how to breathe. Len glanced at him shyly, staying partially out of his line of sight. Despite his penchant for skirts (kilts as he would call them), he wasn’t very comfortable flaunting his occasional cross-dressing, and he wasn’t comfortable with lots of skin exposed.

This outfit combined both of those.

A thin blue camisole covered in lace and a blue miniskirt. Barry grinned and beckoned Leonard closer to him. He approached cautiously, a little skittish in his outfit, but came without any complaints. Barry allowed his hands to slid up the skirt and took a firm grip of the plush ass beneath it.

“Hey, baby. Ready to have a little fun?”

Len nodded, reaching out his arms to place them behind Barry’s neck and sliding firmly into his lap. Barry grinned a little and chuckled. “Someone’s a little eager tonight. Had a rough week?”

Len sighed and pressed his cheek to Barry’s, closing his eyes. “I had this weirdo that kept watching me all week long. He came in every single day. Shawna threw him out after getting a little too close to me and wouldn’t lay off the staring. He was right back in there the next day. Had me on edge and worn out.”

Barry narrowed his eyes. “Baby, you’re supposed to tell me these things when they happen. I know you don’t like how I deal with things, and I won’t, if you ask me not to. However, I at least need to know if you are in any danger. That was our agreement. Remember?”

Len nodded a little, chastened by Barry’s words. “I know, but it didn’t seem like that big of a deal. A lot of guys stare. Usually, they just want to think they have a chance with me. There was something else about this guy, though. He had the oddest look on his face. Almost like he expected me to recognize him, but if I do know him, I couldn’t figure out who he was.”

“I’ll have someone look into it in the morning. Now, where were we?” Barry pressed a harsh kiss to Len’s lips, nipping lightly at the bottom one. Then he firmly gripped Len’s waist, sliding his hands underneath the camisole and pressing upwards, searching out the little pink nipples. Len arched into the touch as Barry tweaked his nipples and moaned out loud. Barry smiled lightly at him.

“You are such a sweet lover. I don’t know how anyone keeps their hands off of you.”

“Mm, you.”

Barry smirked as Len entered his nonverbal phase of arousal. It happened a lot when he was comfortable. His words just escaping him as he became aroused. Barry liked to try and get him to talk even with it.

“Oh? Me? You say that like I scare away all the people that want to grope your perfect ass. I just don’t think that’s true.” He pressed one of his fingers against the tight opening, and Len whimpered.

“You-ahh-do. Scare them. They think you own me.”

Barry smirked possessive, “Do they now?”

Len glowered at him, and Barry pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“I don’t own you, of course. You are your own person, and you can leave whenever you want. You are with me because you are choosing to be with me. Which in my mind,” Barry flipped them, so Len was on his back underneath him, “is a million times hotter than owning you. You have the choice to be with anyone that you could possibly want, and you decided to be with me. It's scorching in my mind, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Len relaxed. He smiled soft and slow and pressed a langued kiss against Barry’s lips, pulling back before Barry had the chance to introduce any tongue. Barry smiled at him and then reached for the lube bottle that he kept on the table beside the bed.

He slicked up his fingers with plenty of lube and pressed one to Len’s puckered entrance. They didn’t have sex nearly as often as Barry would’ve liked, their schedules not allowing it. However, every day was likely an impossibility anyway. Neither of them had that kind of stamina. Even Len, as young as he was, had limits. However, they did it often enough that they were usually able to keep Len mostly open. Len slid his hands up to his own nipples and then began to play with them gently. He liked the feeling of light tugging.

Before long, Barry was sliding a second finger in, and Len moaned at the feeling. Barry grinned at him and pressed a kiss to his thigh, just to the left of his erect cock. Len reached for his cock with one of his hands to give it a stroke, but Barry batted his hand away, not allowing him the satisfaction.

“You know better than that baby. If you’re, going to cum tonight, it’s going to be from my cock and nothing else.”

“Bastard. I don’t know why I stay with you.”

Barry grinned in delight and bit Len’s thigh, sucking just enough to leave a mark.

“I’m wonderful in bed. Besides, you like being tormented. Like the feeling of a cock pressing into you, the desperate build that comes from knowing that your satisfaction relies entirely on how well I fuck you. If I choose to fuck you at all. One of the reasons I love you. Go on, then, play with your tits. Pinch and torment them the way you like.”

Len nearly shrieked when his fingers pressed against his prostate. Finally, moving his hands away from the abused nubs. He was going to need them in a minute. Barry pulled out his fingers and slicked up his cock. He chose to start off with a bit of teasing. Nudging the head around the hole, pressing in only a little.

“Give me more asshole!” It seemed he was a lot more verbal this go around. Barry must not be doing his job properly.

Barry gave Len a punishing slap on his ass but decided to comply anyway. He started pushing in steadily. Stopping halfway through because he feared that if he didn’t, he wouldn’t be able to control himself. Once he had his breath back and knew he wouldn’t embarrass himself, he continued with the steady inward push. Once Barry was seated deep inside of his lover, he paused and waited for a moment, wanting to tease him just a little more. Len let out a desperate sound and tried to push back, and Barry took pity on him.

“Is this how you want it gorgeous? Want it hard and fast?”

“Yes! Please, more!”

He pulled out fast and then thrust into him harshly, and for a few moments, there was only the sound of panting and skin slapping, with the occasional moan thrown in. Sometimes Barry wished that his lover would be more vocal in bed. Then he remembered the pure pride he felt at wrenching those few and far between sounds out of him.

“God, I could just keep you like this forever and ever. You’d never leave my bed; all you would ever do is just service me when and where I wanted it. would you like that, huh?”

Once Barry got his rhythm, he adjusted his angle and began to strike that beautiful little place inside Len. Len continued to moan and beg for more. It had been too many days since they had sex, and he was desperate. Len wrapped his arms around Barry’s shoulders and pulled himself into an even better angle.

“Oh, God, Yes! Len. You feel so good, you are so good. You are unbelievable.”

After that, it didn’t take long for either of them. The extra stimulation was enough for Len to start towards his climax and the feeling of friction urging Barry on and on. Len was first, arching up and spilling all over both of them, coming untouched as he often did when it had been awhile. He made absolutely no noise. Simply clenched his teeth and came forcefully. To Barry, it was hotter than anything else he could’ve done.

Only a few thrusts later, and Barry followed, filling up his boyfriend and shouting “Len” at the top of his lungs. He pressed in close, bottoming out completely. He could feel the warm cum flooding into his lover, and if he had been 10 years younger, it might have inspired another round. However, he wasn’t. 1 round this intense was pretty much all he could take. He pulled out carefully.

The two collapsed in the bed together. Barry reached out to Len and pulled him close. Len followed, pressing his face to Barry’s chest, and Len silently decided that the clean-up could wait. He usually preferred to get cleaned up right away, but he knew that this was only round one.

They might not be able to get it up right away, but an hour of pillow talk and dozing, and they’d be ready to go. They had all night to make the sheets filthy. After they got through a few more, they would change the sheets and go to bed. Until that point, it was just a futile effort.

ColdFlash

When Barry woke up, he gave a deep sigh and glanced over at his lover. Len was still asleep, his eyes shut and pressed close to Barry. Barry extricated himself from his lover’s grip and decided to make them both breakfast.

“So, what do you want to do today?” Barry questioned over his omelet. Len shrugged and took another bite of his own scrambled eggs.

“I need to do some work this morning. Play around with a few blueprints. Didn’t plan anything beyond that, so whatever you feel like.”

Barry grinned, delighted. “You’re going to regret that. I’m taking you out for a new tailored suit. We can run a few more errands while we’re out, but that’s the main thing I want to do today. Sound good?”

Len sighed but acquiesced. Barry wanted to get Len into a designer suit right after they met, but there was never any time; now was as good a time as any.

ColdFlash

Len let himself into the office where he did his work. Barry had his own office, and the two of them had long ago agreed to stay out of each other’s workspaces. There was too much stepping on toes when they were involved with the other's work.

He pulled out his current project and laid it out on the large drafting desk he worked at. He then started to make notes and jot possible times on a little notepad, making sure to write everything he thought of down. Then he started the beginning of a workable plan for his next job.

Stealing the most expensive piece from the current ruby display at the museum wasn’t going to be any cakewalk. He worked diligently for several hours. Losing himself in the calming motions of work. He didn’t realize just how much time had passed until he felt a firm hand on his shoulder. Len startled a bit, but the relaxed when he realized it was only Barry.

“Hey, handsome. It’s been nearly 2 hours. Get ready to be done. We are spending today together.”

Len blinked at him in startlement and knew better than to argue. “I hadn’t realized I’d worked for so long. You should’ve come and got me earlier. I just got caught up in all of the little details. Let me put a few things away, change, and then we can go do your suit fitting. Alright?”

Barry nodded in agreement, and Len left the room.

ColdFlash

After Len finished changing, they made their way to Barry’s tailor, who immediately began planning Len's perfect suit.

“He is broader in the shoulders but still so slender, particularly in his waist. He needs a cut that flatters his sharp features, no?”

“I agree, Anthony. Something that makes him stand out in the crowd but also says, ��taken, back off.’”

Anthony grinned at him and nodded, knowing what he meant. Len was beginning to get bored watching the two of them talk about suits, mostly since they had already done the measurements and looked at suit cuts. There was a part of him that would never adjust to the expensive way he now lived. This was Barry’s world. Len would always be the kid from the wrong part of Central.

Barry seemed to realize his boredom and wrapped up his conversation, then he led him out of the shop and into downtown. The two of them wandered up and down the street. Occasionally they popped in and out of shops, buying things, and for a while, things were perfect. It was a perfect day off and a perfect day for a perfect date. Unfortunately, it didn’t last.

ColdFlash

When Len woke up, he noticed that his eyes were covered and his hands were tied behind his back. He tugged lightly at the bonds, but they were professional and didn’t budge an inch. They had been deftly attached to each other and the chair he was on. His feet were bound tightly to the legs as well. He breathed softly and listened carefully, trying to get an indicator of where he was.

He had only stepped away from Barry for a moment. He wanted to give him privacy while he was taking a business call. It was always best to know as little as possible about work that didn’t include him. Made him less of a target to Barry’s enemies. Then he felt a pinch in his neck and had woken up here. Despite trying to seem like he was still unconscious, he must have been discovered because he heard a man begin to speak.

“I’ve wanted to meet you for some time, Mr. Snart. I’m dying to get to know The Flash’s pet thief. The one who spends part of his time stealing from all of Mr. Allen’s enemies and part of his time working at a bar. Such an interesting fellow you must be. So young, but you are so talented.”

Len sighed but gave up the act. “I’m afraid I can’t say the same thing for you as I don’t know who you are.”

Another deep chuckle, this time very menacing. Len had to resist the urge to roll his eyes at the cliché. “Well, I really would love to tell you, but if you knew my identity, I would need to kill you. You are simply too beautiful to waste on something like that. You can just call me Sir.”

A hand settled on his thigh. Len didn’t like where this was going; kidnapping and threatening bodily harm were one thing, sexual advances were another. “Well, Sir,” he said ‘Sir’ in the most condescending way he possibly could. “Can I at least know why I’m here?”

“Mm, yes, you can. The Flash has something of mine, and I want it back. Something you didn’t steal. He’s either going to hand it over to me in exchange for you, or we’ll keep you. I would like to say that there’s no chance we won’t kill you, but that would be a lie. We most certainly would kill you if you got out of hand. But I don’t think it will come to that, do you? Besides, if that were to happen, we would want to get our money’s worth, and you have such a lovely body.”

Len shivered at the tone and nodded in agreement. He had no way of knowing when Barry was going to get around to this, or if he even could deal with it. It was impossible to know these days. It was best to bide his time and hope that Barry could get him out of here. That meant playing along with this psychos plans.

ColdFlash

“Find him! Right now! Do you have any idea where he is? A single clue?”

“Boss,” Eddie placed a hand on his arm. “It’s only been a couple of hours. We’re going to find him and bring him home. You’ll see. We’re working on getting him back here as soon as possible. Right now, we need to be calm; that is the best way to locate him. Alright?”

Barry took a deep breath and nodded. He narrowed his eyes and thought desperately of who hated either of them enough or had the guts to do it in broad daylight. The list was short but Barry knew that he was probably missing some.

“Check to see what the Santinis are up to. My money’s on them. They wanted a war between us. This is a sure-fire way to get it.”

ColdFlash

Len was a little concerned about how cold he was. In this damp weather hypothermia was a definite risk. He shivered a little and sighed. At least there were no strange hands on him right now. It seemed that every time he relaxed, someone would slide their hands along his body. He was getting sick of it. When he got out of here, he was going to kill every single one of those bastards.

“I’ve sent the ransom note. Let’s hope that Mr. Allen loves you as much as we think he does. I have to say though, even if he doesn’t, we’re going to come out ahead. Some acquisitions can be very lucrative even when you were planning on exchanging them for something else. Are you curious about what we’re trading you for?”

Len ignored the bit where he was relegated to an object. “I suppose I am. Kidnapping is hard. You have to get your victim away from prying eyes as quickly as possible. Then you need a place to store them while you work out the ransom agreement. Someplace that no one ever goes but can get to easily, if need be. It’s tricky business, so whatever you’re after, must be important.”

The man laughed. “You are a very astute man; I can see why Mr. Allen thinks so highly of you. You see, Mr. Snart, we are after the blueprints to S.T.A.R labs.”

Len paled at the thought of these monsters with possible access to all sorts of dangerous new technology. S.T.A.R Labs was known for its production of weapons. Powerful, vicious weapons that are used in some of the worst situations in the world. The mere thought of them having something like that made his stomach turn in a horrible way.

The man seemed to sense his horror, or maybe it read on his mostly uncovered face. “I’m sure you are imagining all sorts of horrid things that we might do with all those lovely little toys. We’re only after one thing, though. If we have access to others, we might allow a bit of a detour, but we aren’t focusing on those wonderfully powerful weapons. We have something else in mind.”

The man leaned very close to Len. Len breathed out tensely, not daring to move with his presence so near. It took everything in him not to recoil when he felt lips press against his ear.

“I’d tell you what we were looking for, but I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’d have to either kill you or keep you forever. I don’t think you’d like that very much, would you darling?”

Len gritted his teeth. “No, I wouldn’t,” he said.

“I didn’t think so. Now darling, we just need to wait for your lover’s reply and hope that it’s a favorable one. You just sit tight. This should all be over in a few hours.”

Len heard the steps as the man walked away, and regardless of who was watching, hung his head. He didn’t want to deal with this situation at all. Partially because the idea to break into S.T.A.R labs had also occurred to him.

ColdFlash

Barry’s hands clenched as he read the ransom note. Did this punk think that he would get away with taking his beloved, stealing him away, and then attempting to ransom him? What kind of moron went after his lover?

“Eddie,” Barry growled.

“Yes, boss?”

“I want you to track down exactly who wrote this note and where it came from. I imagine you won’t have much trouble since whoever wrote it didn’t make Len do the writing. See if you can find any traces that indicate where he’s being held.”

Eddie nodded and then hesitated. It seemed for a moment that he wanted to reassure his old friend. To tell him that they would get his lover back. He had a feeling, though that it wouldn’t do much good. Barry wouldn’t be at ease until they had Len back safe and sound.

“If it comes down to it, we will hand over the blueprints.”

Eddie stared at him aghast. “You’re not serious?”

“I am completely serious. I will not lose Len over a bunch of papers. No matter how valuable they are. I am aware of what the blueprints are and what they could mean. Despite that, I refuse to lose him. Do you have a problem with that?”

Eddie regarded him for a moment and then shook his head. “No, Sir. I’ll start trying to figure out where he is. Perhaps it would be best if you contacted them and informed them that you were complying. That would help guarantee Mr. Snart’s safe return. If they know for sure that you are doing what they want you to.”

Barry nodded in agreement. “Let’s find him before it becomes necessary.”

ColdFlash

Len wasn’t enjoying his stay with the assorted menacing goons. He was cold and hungry, and all he wanted to do was go home and not have to deal with this mess. Len desperately hoped that Barry was coming to get him because his plan making was failing him. No matter how hard he tried to gather more information, all he came up with was a blank.

He was someplace cold. Not rare in Central City being so close to the water. It was industrial. Again, not unusual. That was all he could glean with the blindfold on. Since someone was watching him continuously, he had no hope of attempting to work the blindfold off. With it on, he was limited to what he could hear and feel, which was hardly anything.

He heard the clomp of boots that he had come to associate with Menacing Goon in charge of other Goons and tilted his head towards the sound. He flinched back when a finger traced along his face and down his neck.

“You’re in luck. Your boyfriend wants his toy back, and he’s willing to trade us for you. I’m sure you’re glad that he actually cares about you. I would’ve thought he’d be willing to throw you over. That does mean we won’t get to have our fun, but I think the blueprints will be an adequate substitute.”

Len resisted the urge to glare at him. Likely Menacing Goon wouldn’t even see it. He knew that Barry loved him, that he was more than just a toy to pass the time with. He was comfortable in his relationship with the crime lord that Barry saw him as an equal, some he was on par with, despite the age difference. He knew all of that.

So then why did his stomach tie into knots?

The rope that bound him to the chair was severed. Although that still left his hands tied behind his back and the blindfold, he felt better about his odds. He was unceremoniously pushed down the corridor. He stumbled because he couldn’t see, and he heard a grunt of annoyance at his slow pace.

Someone took his arm and began to drag him along the corridor at a much faster pace. Len did his best to keep his footing and not fall. He wasn’t going to let these people have the satisfaction. He desperately wanted to be reunited with Barry.

So, he could watch the crime boss kill every single one of these motherfuckers.

ColdFlash

Len didn’t know where he was being taken to be exchanged. He attempted to keep track of how long it had been and then calculate it, but that was mostly in vain. Although there were only a few places he could be kept, dozens of locations from each of those spots they could’ve driven to. Most of the city was well within the possible area.

All he could do was sit back and hope that whatever happened next was going to be in his favor. Although he knew Barry would try everything to safely get him back, he also knew that these kinds of exchanges often went horribly wrong. He closed his eyes behind the blindfold and hoped desperately for this to all be over.

The van came to a halt, and he heard someone get out, and someone else, presumably, get in. He jumped when he felt a familiar hand on his thigh.

“We made good time. We’re here nearly an hour early; it seems a waste to just sit here and wait. Why don’t you and I spend a little time getting to know each other.”

Len felt bile rise in his throat. His voice seemed caught, and all he could do was shake his head.

“No need to be shy. Your boyfriend never needs to find out. The two of us could just spend a few minutes learning each other’s bodies, and that will be that. Or I could always just put a bullet between your precious lover’s eyes as soon as he gets here. Would you prefer that?”

Len went pale and desperately shook his head.

“Then, darling, why don’t you keep those lips closed and just hang on for the ride?”

Len kept his eyes closed behind his blindfold. He figured it might help blot out what was about to happen to him.

ColdFlash

Eddie finished his phone call and glanced at Barry, giving him a defined nod. That was the signal that everything of value had been moved out of S.T.A.R labs and replaced with useless junk. He might be willing to hand over the blueprints, but he wasn’t going to allow the bastard the satisfaction of getting his hands on whatever he was after.

The trick was to do it before he gave the blueprints, so when they started casing the joint, they didn’t see anything that seemed overtly suspicious. Barry nodded back and then picked up the plans. He had multiple copies, so he wasn’t losing anything, but he still didn’t like giving up something that was his.

He wanted Len back a hell of a lot more, though.

He made his way to the car, where Eddie would be driving him to the rendezvous point. He took the back seat, and Eddie assumed his role as driver. Barry allowed himself a few deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself down. It wouldn’t do to lose his temper in the middle and Len get caught in the middle of a firefight.

Eddie shot him a look in the mirror but didn’t say anything. For which Barry was very grateful. The last thing he wanted to do was admit just how badly this whole event had shaken him. That he could have the one thing that meant more to him than anything else in the world be taken from him so easily. That he would become so helpless in the face of a true adversary.

Before he knew it, they were arriving at the rendezvous spot. He could see the dark van already in the abandoned parking lot and knew that it contained his lover. He wondered when it had gotten there; Barry himself was very early. What was going on?

“Something’s wrong.” He said this to Eddie, who nodded at the words. Barry pulled out his sidearm and watched as Eddie did the same. They both checked the weapons, made sure they were fully loaded, and they started towards the van, parked in the middle of the parking lot.

On the far side of the van, just out of eyesight was one of the men. Barry gestured to Eddie to make his move and soon the enemy was laying on the ground unconscious. It crossed Barry’s mind that the van could be filled with people. In a few seconds they might be outnumbered and taken out without a chance of rescuing Len. Barry doubted it though. This wasn’t a well thought out professional job. It was someone hoping to get their hands on something they shouldn’t the easiest way they could think of.

There was a second goon out of sight. He saw them and gave as shout to alert whoever was inside of the vehicle before Eddie brough him to the ground. It didn’t matter, they had the advantage of surprise and it all would be over soon. They shot the two men sitting in the front of the van before they could even get out of their seats.

Barry moved quickly to the back of the van. He whipped open the doors and saw red. Len’s hands were tied, and he was blindfolded, but he didn’t look much worse for wear. What upset him was the sight of the asshole’s hand on his thigh. He gave a growl and was about ready to attack when the man pressed a guy to Len’s head.

Barry stopped and looked at him carefully, tamping down on his temper in the process, wondering if he indeed was willing to shoot Len or if it was a bluff. He decided that he didn’t want to take the chance that the man was a psycho ready to shoot a blindfolded unarmed man and held his hands up in surrender. He still had Eddie with him, and Len wasn’t out for the count, even tied up.

ColdFlash

Len kept his eyes closed behind the blindfold and was startled by a loud shout from one of the men. He opened them again, although he still couldn’t see anything. His captor made a noise of anger and shifted a little. He heard two gunshots and figured that this entire situation was about to be over. Barry had come for him.

Next to him, the man yanked him close, pressed a gun to his head, and then placed his other hand possessively on Len’s thigh. Len figured that he was going to be threatened so that the man could get away.

Len wasn’t going to put up with it, all he needed was a single moment, and he could be free. It wouldn’t even take that much energy.

“Mr. Allen, I see that you broke our agreement.”

“Actually no, you see, I was just a few minutes early when I saw the van was over here. Figured we could get the trade out of the way. It was your men that attacked. This is all on your people.”

Len wished he could see his lover’s face but knew that trying to dislodge the blindfold could be deadly. He just needed a few more moments to work his hands from the ropes, and he would be able to move. He heard that horrible chuckle again, and it set his nerves on edge. The man clearly thought he had the upper hand, and he might very well have it. If he did, it could mean that Len’s attack would mean nothing. If he didn’t, it would mean the whole thing was over.

“I will give you the blueprints. I just need you to hand over Leonard. This doesn’t need to end in bloodshed.”

“Oh, Mr. Allen, it most definitely does. You were never supposed to see who I was. With your knowledge of my identity, I know that it is just a matter of time before you come after me. I won’t stand for it. I’m afraid that I am just going to have to kill you both.”

There! Len finally got both of his hands worked free of the bindings, and he knew the time was to act now. If the man actually still had some of his goons left, they already would’ve attacked. No attack, no goons, which meant that the only thing complicating this was Len, and he could finish it.

ColdFlash

Barry could see Len pulling his hands out of the ropes out of the corner of his eye. He just needed to stall for time until his lover could do so. He offered up the trade even though he knew it was pointless. As soon as he and Eddie had attacked, he had known it was never going to be a smooth transaction. Men like these always had a bit of an ace up their sleeve.

He didn’t allow the anger at seeing another touch his lover continue cloud his mind. He could kill this bastard as soon as Len was safe if Len didn’t do it first. He watched as Len finally managed to get his hands free of the ropes and winced at the thought of the rope burn he would have.

Len was able to get the man by surprise. One minute he was the docile hostage, the next, he had his hands around the throat. Thankfully, the man had pressed very close to him, allowing Len to know precisely where he was. Otherwise, the blindfold could’ve inhibited him. He clamped down on the throat and did his best to strangle the life out of his hostage-taker.

Len was so focused on his task that he completely missed Barry moving closer to him. However, he didn’t miss his lover pulling the blindfold away from his eyes and restoring his sight. For the first time, Len laid eyes on his hostage-taker. A man that had threatened to rape and murder him.

His face was shockingly normal and gave nothing of his cruel nature away. He was also startlingly familiar. Len realized precisely who this man was. Callum Miani, the Santinis’ enforcer. A man who was attempting to move into the mob business by shoving others out of it. Len knew him because they had worked a few jobs together, a few years ago when Len was still young and needed help. His identity explained his threats to Len. The man was obsessed with him, both in Len’s refusal to climb into his bed and the fact that Len was a much better thief.

Len was so startled by the realization that he relaxed his grip and slumped backward. It didn’t matter, though. Barry was already pushing a gun to Maini’s head and tugging Len out of harm’s way. Len went placidly, too shocked to object.

“Alright, Len?”

Eddie’s questions startled Len badly, and he turned to look at the man in surprise.

“Yeah, I’m okay. You guys got me out of the situation before he could do anything too bad to me. Thank you for that. Thanks for coming along to rescue me at all. I know that Barry would’ve let you off if you had said you didn’t want to come. Means a lot to me.”

“Yeah, well, you saving Iris’ life means a lot to me. It seems only appropriate that I respond in kind. You’re one of us now, even if you are a thief. Not like we can object really to the illegality. Just don’t like someone showing us up in the business.”

“Still, thank you for coming.”

“Come on, Len, we can let Barry deal with this scum sucker. Get you into the car and warmed up again. I’m sure you are thirsty and probably hungry. You just watch, in a few days, all of this is going to be behind you, and you can get on with your life. Forgot all about this asshole screwing up your day off.”

Len allowed Eddie to lead him from the van. To lead him away from the man who threatened horrible things on him, and to where the car was parked. Eddie opened up the back door, and Len slid in. He glanced at Eddie, seeming to consider something, and then spoke.

“Tell Barry to make it as painful as possible. You wouldn’t believe the things that he threatened to do to me.”

Eddie gave him a considering glance and nodded. Then he closed the door and walked back to where the van was. Len wanted to stay awake until Barry came back, and he knew that both of them were safe, but he didn’t have the energy. He thought he would just close his eyes for a few moments to get some energy back. Before Len knew it, he was sound asleep in the car, dead to the world.

ColdFlash

When Len woke up, he was relieved to see that he was back in Barry’s house, lying in their bed. For a moment, he thought that it might all have been a nightmare, something conjured up by his paranoid exhausted brain. However, when he sat up and felt the bruises, he knew that it was all true. The kidnapping, the threats, and Barry and Eddie dealing with the bastard.

Len felt a little sorry that he hadn’t been able to fulfill his wish of killing every single one of those assholes who had dared think they could ever lay their hands on him. Len assured himself that Barry dealt with it and likely did a much more painful and creative job than he ever did.

Len was relieved that although Barry had brought him home, that he hadn’t been undressed. As safe as Barry made him feel, he would’ve been very uncomfortable to find that someone had taken his clothes while he was asleep. It was nice to know that Barry understood his boundaries well enough to know that.

Len allowed himself the rare luxury of simply lying in bed, doing nothing. Usually, he would get up and start working on his endless plans, but today he just allowed himself the comfort of home. He figured that anything he had to do could wait until he had his emotions and life a little better under control. Nothing was pressing anyway and he deserved some time off to recover.

Len came out of his thoughts when he heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs. For a moment, his paranoid brain spat out several horrible scenarios where his kidnappers had returned to reclaim him. Managing to kill every single guard, employee, and even Barry in their way. That they would rip him from the world he lived in and send him back to the horrible dark, cold place.

After a moment of deep breathing, he regained control of his wild thoughts. He knew the sound of those footsteps. He heard them every single day. That sound was ingrained in his mind from Barry returning from late hours with business or needing to get up early to make a meeting. Len was perfectly safe here; he just needed to convince his pounding heart about that.

Len heard a knock on the door and breathed deeply to steel his nerves. “Come in.” He was glad to see that his instincts were right. Barry was carrying a tray piled with food, carafes, and tableware. Len was a little surprised. Barry was shockingly against breakfast in bed. He claimed that it was much easier to get up and go to the table. That way, you had plenty of room and didn’t have to worry about crumbs getting into your bedsheets. Today seemed to be the exception. Len sat up and gave Barry a smile, but even he could feel its brittleness. No doubt, Barry could as well.

“Hey handsome, I brought you some breakfast. I figured you’d be up by now and needing a little pampering, especially after the time you’ve had. I just brought you up to bed last night. You were so exhausted I didn’t want to wake you. You’re more than welcome to have a shower and freshen up before you eat. I can’t imagine it’s very comfortable to be like that.”

“You always seem to know exactly what I need, Barry. I’ll just pop into the shower, have a quick rinse off, and then put on some clean clothes. Then I’ll eat.”

Barry smiled patiently at him. “If I couldn’t take care of you the way you deserve to be taken care of, you’d have no reason to stay with me, would you?”

Len tilted his head in a teasing manner and sent a lewd glance towards Barry’s crotch. “Oh, I think that I could come up with a few more if I thought very hard about it.”

“Go ahead and get cleaned up, you tease.”

ColdFlash

Barry couldn’t help the pure relief that came with Len’s teasing. He didn’t know what had gone on while he had been in Miani’s confinement, and without knowing, he had no idea what Len might be dealing with, no clue as to what might trigger him. Or even if anything would trigger him at all. Without that, he would need to tread carefully, at least until Len was more comfortable in his presence. Until he felt he could reveal what he needed to.

That had been part of the reason he hadn’t undressed Len the night before. Usually, he wouldn’t have hesitated. They had been together long enough that a few lost clothes wouldn’t phase either of them. However, Len wasn’t a fan of strangers touching him on an average day. Barry had no clue how much physical contact he would’ve been subjected to during his captivity. Len’s veiled comment about the threats against his person didn’t inspire too much confidence.

He listened as Len showered and set the tray on Len’s dresser. He took the chance to make the bed, fluffing the pillows and settled onto it, waiting anxiously for his lover to return. As little as he wanted to subject Len to any more emotional upheaval, they had to talk about what happened while he was captured. He needed to be reassured that he was safe from Miani and the accompanying goons.

Otherwise, any trauma he experienced would cement and become an underlying issue in his life. It was better to get it out in the open and out of the way before that happened. Even small traumas could haunt you for the rest of your life if they weren’t deal with properly. Then, Len could begin to heal from this experience.

Barry heard the water shut off and listened as Len shaved at the sink. He went to the closet and picked out Len’s softest, most comfortable clothing. The things he only wore on days he didn’t plan on leaving the house. He knocked on the door, and after a moment of silence, he heard Len say come in.

Barry only cracked open the door and handed him the clothing. Len thanked him softly and took it, shutting the door once he had it. Barry tried not to be discouraged about not being invited in or Len leaving the door open. Len had had a long few days. He could want to get cleaned up as fast as possible without any distractions. Or he could be uncomfortable with someone seeing him naked.

Barry ordered himself to stop catastrophizing. Until Len talked to him, he had no way of knowing what went on. After their talk he could freak out about what happened. Until then, he would hope for the best while treating Len like the worst happened.

Len exited the bathroom in fresh, clean clothes. Barry stood up and moved for the breakfast tray. “Have a seat. This is the only time you have permission to get crumbs all over the bed. I planned on changing the sheets today anyway.”

ColdFlash

Len gave him a smile and sat against the headboard. Barry knew how to treat him, and he really did need a bit of pampering. Barry brought over the tray and set it over Len’s lap then sat next to him. For a few minutes, the only sound was the two of them enjoying their breakfast. Barry allowed Len to become comfortable with him and then broached the subject.

“If you don’t want to talk about what happened right now, you don’t have to. I just want you to know that I am right here if you have anything to say about what happened.”

Len gazed at the breakfast tray, thinking over his response. Truth be told, he didn’t really want to talk about what happened ever, but he knew he should. That the faster he got it out in the open, the faster he could leave it all behind. That didn’t make it any easier, though.

“I woke up, blindfolded, and tied to a chair. I wasn’t sure where I was, and my memory of being snatched was foggy at best. I knew that you were going to come looking for me and that I would be out of danger soon enough, so I didn’t panic.”

“I feel like there’s a “but” coming.”

“I knew I wasn’t in any danger. However, the way he talked to me, the way I could feel him leering unsettled me. I was supposed to just be a business transaction, his behavior wasn’t what I expected, and that unnerved me. I couldn’t get a feel on where I was being kept, which made things worse. I had trouble keeping perspective. Then when he told me what I was being traded for, I was worried about what would be done with what he was stealing.”

Barry tilted his head and gently placed a hand on his cheek. “You had to have known I wouldn’t let someone like that get something really dangerous. I had everything moved before I set the time for our trade. Got it out of the way before he would even have people watching the place. You had to know I would take care of things.”

“I knew that logically. My emotions had other ideas. I was worried about what would happen if he really did get his hands on what he was looking for. Or, if you got caught in the middle of his plan and killed. Or, even if you decided that it wasn’t worth the chance to turn over the blueprints and that I would be gang-raped and murdered.”

Barry drew back, feeling a little offended, and took a moment to remind himself that Len didn’t really think that way. It was just fear from the situation combining with his concern over some assholes destroying the city with a super-powerful weapon. Now was not the time to blame his boyfriend for his emotional response.

“I know that it must’ve been terrifying, but I need to know that there is nothing in this world worth more to me than you. You are my number one priority, and I would burn down this entire city, the entire world, if it meant keeping you safe. No matter what your terrified mind may tell you in a moment of terror, you will always be my number one priority.”

Len sighed softly and pressed his head against Barry’s chest. “I know that. I know you would make sure that no one would ever do something like that to me. If you’re dead, though, you won’t be able to stop anyone from doing anything to me. There is always going to be a worry that one day some psycho is going to kill you and take me, and there won’t be anything either of us can do.”

Barry pressed his face into Len’s hair and stroked it gently. “I don’t think you are giving yourself nearly enough credit, darling. You were a massive help in your own rescue. You were able to keep a calm head even when he was threatening to rape or murder you. You are a good fighter and loyal to me. If worse comes to worst, you could do some serious damage. Truthfully, the only reason they got their hands on you is that we weren’t together. Together, we could face the world.”

Len looked up at him with a tilted head and smiled. “Together, we can face anything. We will face anything. God, Barry, I don’t know what I would do without you.”

Barry leaned down and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I’m sure you can come up with something, my love. You are the smartest person I’ve ever met, and the only one that always lands on his feet when things go wrong.”

Len smirked and leaned up for a kiss on the lips. “You know me, throw away the plan.”

#the flash #coldflash #leonard snart/barry allen #leonard snart #barry allen #established relationship #attempted noncon #protective barry allen #hurt leonard snart #mafia au #mafia boss barry #bartender and thief leonard #coldflash big bang 2020

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chestnut-b · 4 years

Text

Clueless (Art + Fic)

Iruka’s sense of self-awareness has never been his strongest suit.

“Good afternoon Iruka-sensei.” he greeted. Kakashi turned to the back of the room. “A busy day in the mission room I see.” The silence was deafening. “There are some reconstruction projects near the Forest of Death that could use some extra manpower. Anyone keen?”.

In all his years in the mission room, Iruka had never seen a room clear out that fast.

He’d been receiving his second report of the day when he felt the sudden release of tension, but Iruka was nothing if not professional. Without even skipping a beat, he pulled his hitae-ate to his neck, tucked the curtain of hair behind his ear and out of his face. Iruka issued a quick apology to the Jounin before him and smiled amicably as he put away a freshly approved report. But the shinobi, whom Iruka had known to lack a chatty disposition, had not moved immediately as he usually did, and instead opted to stare at Iruka in a way that made him feel just a bit self-conscious.

He must have looked more of a mess than he thought.

“Is there something else I can help you with, Jounin-san?”

Iruka only received a mumbled thanks in response before the ninja quickly removed himself from the room. Quickly, he dug into his new vest pocket and felt absolutely nothing. He groaned inwardly, realising that in equipping his newly issued vest, he’d neglected to include his supply of spare hair ties.

“I’m getting a bit too complacent now that the war’s over.” he chided himself. It was too late to excuse himself to look for a spare; Iruka could only sigh as he ran a hand through his now loose, tousled hair, attempting to make himself look, at the very least, presentable for the day’s duties. So lost in his own thoughts he was, that he failed to notice the sudden dip in chatter that usually filled the room.

The back of the mission room had always been a bit of a watering hole for the returning shinobi of the village, but as the hour passed Iruka was starting to wonder if he’d missed a memo somewhere. Between reports he took the chance to scan the room. Too many people whom he knew had no business here, some weren’t even on active duty at the moment. Heads kept peeking through the entrance and disappearing just as quickly. As he read the latest report before him, he resisted the urge to grip the knot of tension that had been building up at the back of his neck. But of course, by the time he could look up any shinobi worth their salt wouldn’t be caught dead looking in his direction.

Two hours in, and Iruka was starting to get annoyed. The line stretching in front of him was not only growing, but seemed to move at a snail’s pace. He’d had to engage in more than the usual small talk, and for some inexplicable reason, received three invitations to drinking parties and just as many invitations to a meal or tea.

While it was nice to see that Konoha’s peaceful days were bringing good business to the village eateries, the proposal for a new Academy roadmap he was to present to the Rokudaime and elder council in the coming week wasn’t going to finish itself. He’d had to politely decline each invitation, prompting a chuckle and snicker from Kotetsu and Izumo, who were manning the table beside him. The pair looked disturbingly amused by it all.

Speaking of the Rokudaime - he glanced at the clock across the room. It was about the usual time he’d spot the Hokage wander past the mission room door on what Iruka guessed, was his afternoon break. If Iruka knew anything from having assisted Tsunade-sama in her bureaucratic duties before, it was that Kakashi must have been drowning in more paperwork than the former jounin sensei had ever seen in his life.

The teacher smiled to himself; it didn’t feel like that long ago since he’d last received reports from Kakashi right across this very table. While the man wasn’t the most meticulous shinobi in that regard, Cell 7’s reports always made for an entertaining read (when they weren’t missions gone horribly awry, anyway), and Iruka found himself looking forward to receiving them on their return. Their argument during the Chuunin exams naturally caused some awkwardness between them, but when Naruto had left to train with Jiraiya, it was to Iruka’s pleasant surprise when of his own accord, Kakashi offered to buy drinks on the rare occasions Naruto wrote back home. Iruka hadn’t known what to expect, but their conversations had flowed as easy as the sake on those nights.

A sound of shuffling papers made Iruka pause. Hmm. The heat of the late afternoon sun on his back was making him feel unusually nostalgic today.

There was one Autumn, he remembered, when the first saury had come into season; Iruka passed a home-made bento to the older shinobi, along with an omamori containing soldier pills from their village shrine. Kakashi was due for a long mission that would see him away for a few months, and Iruka had wanted to thank him for all he’d done. Naruto’s absence had been unexpectedly hard on him, and Kakashi’s efforts, he’d realised, had kept the worst of the loneliness at bay. He’d regretted not bringing something for the rest of his accompanying team though, because Gai-sensei, upon witnessing this exchange, burst into a flood of tears in front of the village gates.

Really, he never knew Kakashi could look so pleased. Naruto was right, his sensei really did have a soft spot for saury.

Dragging his mind back to the present, Iruka added another report to the stack. The kunoichi before him was looking strangely flushed, but he just couldn’t muster the energy to suggest a cautionary visit to the infirmary. When she’d finally scuttled away, Iruka’s musings continued. Could a mere teacher and desk worker be friends with a Hokage? He wasn’t quite sure. But he did miss the conversations they’d shared over the letters in those years. Pein’s attack and the war had brought the meetings to an unfortunate end.

The reality of their situation; the new shinobi age, and Kakashi’s appointment as Hokage meant they couldn’t just pick up where they left off, Iruka thought. It’d been only two months since everyone had returned from the front lines. Many people were still mourning, but many were trying their best to move on with their lives.

Perhaps that why he’d received so many invitations. Iruka felt a twinge of guilt at the possibility of this, but remained firm in his decision. It would simply have to be another time.

As Hokage, Kakashi made few appearances in this room now, but on the days Iruka spotted him slouching past, the former jounin would send a surprisingly enthusiastic wave in his direction. Though the teacher never felt quite comfortable casually waving to the leader of their village in the middle of work (and a room full of shinobi), he never failed to send a genuine smile of acknowledgement back. An interaction that lasted mere seconds, but always gave Iruka the boost he needed to finish his shift.

Something he could really, really use right about now. That, along with a cup of tea. His throat was uncomfortably dry from all the extra talking he had to do today. The line at least, was making some progress.

Mere minutes later, as if summoned by an unsaid wish, a silver headed figure ambled by the door. Having noticed him out of the corner of his eye, Iruka looked up, ready to return a smile he was sure was waiting for him. However, there was none to be seen (though with the mask on, he couldn’t be completely sure). Instead, Iruka could only blink as he made eye contact with the man, who had stopped dead in his tracks at the door, looking at him with a mixture of surprise and weirdly enough, a tinge of......panic?

What?

He wasn’t sure if it was a teleportation jutsu or just sheer speed, but in the next moment, the person standing in front of him wasn’t a stammering chuunin, but one Rokudaime.

In all his years in the mission room, Iruka had never seen a room clear out that fast. His line mysteriously looked shorter too.

Looking rather pleased, Kakashi turned back to face him.

“Working on a new image?” The Hokage beamed at him, gesturing to his own head of silver. Two grey eyes, Iruka noticed, the same colour as his new vest. It suited him well. Two eyes though, he’d have to get used to that. Kakashi emoted so well with one, that two seemed a bit overwhelming at this point. Iruka felt his face grow warm. To be seen in such a disheveled state by his leader. How embarrassing.

“Please forgive my attire, it was certainly not my intention.” Iruka apologised, with a slight bow of his head. Kakashi merely shook his in response.

“No need, sensei. If anything, I should be the one apologising for interrupting your work, but it wouldn’t do to have everyone so distracted.”

Kakashi turned to Kotetsu and Izumo, who’d been enjoying their front-row seats to this scene a bit too much.

“Kotetsu-kun, could you kindly take over Iruka-sensei’s duties for the rest of his shift?”

“As you command.”

“Do you need something from me, Hokage-sama?” Iruka was getting more confused by the minute. This wasn’t how he’d imagined their first proper conversation in months going. Kakashi merely nodded. Kotetsu took no pause and began shooing him away from his seat.

“Regarding the Academy proposals next week. I’d like to hear your thoughts about it so far. If you have the time to spare, of course.”

Well, he’d just had the rest of his shift taken over, it wasn’t as if Iruka had much of an excuse. Not that he minded at all. There was an unsettling energy in the room right now, and Iruka was more than happy to end what was an odd stint, by any means. Gathering his things, he said his goodbyes to his comrades, and made his way to the exit, where Kakashi was waiting for him. Iruka startled a bit when he felt a pat on his shoulder, but exited with a small smile on this face anyway. Even if they were just talking about work, he found himself looking forward to it more than he realised.

As soon as they’d left, the mission room seemed to take a collective breath, and the world returned to its natural state.

Izumo turned to Kotetsu, who was stamping the report Iruka had left unfinished.

“Think Iruka will ever get a clue?”

Kotetsu grinned and shook his head.

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

Author’s notes:

Thanks for reading! I’ve been thinking a lot about Iruka these days and felt the need to just write and draw something! It’s been so long too.

I think Iruka has always been fairly sharp to everything around him, but himself. A little awkward and self deprecating, but that’s what we love about him!

I’d love to know how you think about it. It was really fun to draw and write after years of just lurking. :D

#kakairu #iruka #kakashi #iruka umino #umino iruka #hatake kakashi #naruto

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flutteringphalanges · 4 years

Text

Hold Me Tight Under The Moonlight

Summary: It's 1945 and the war with Germany is officially over. While all of Whitby has its own means of celebrating, Count Dracula has something a little bit more intimate planned for his night with Agatha. A surprise that surely will be memorable.

Chapters: 1/1 *Complete*

Pairing: Dracula/Agatha Van Helsing

A/N: Just a little, fluffy fic for you folks! Thank you again to my partner-in-crime, @mitsukatsu, who makes all of this possible! She is responsible for this glorious cover! Please go to her tumblr and check out all of the fantastic art she does! I hope you guys like it! Feedback is greatly loved and appreciated! -Jen

Read on FFN and AO3

It was well into the night and yet, the atmosphere in the old tavern, Prospect of Whitby, was only growing. Cheers and loud conversations intermingled, all sharing the same theme. The war was finally over. Hitler was dead. Germany had surrendered. And soon, loved ones, some separated for years, would be reunited. It was cause for celebration. Peace would once again find England.

"Can I get you anything, Miss?"

Agatha turned her head to see a young man standing before her. A soldier. Handsome, with a wide smile and the brightest green eyes she'd ever seen. His accent was clearly American. New York perhaps? She'd never sampled one before, as tempting as it always was. Unlike someone, impulse control and resisting temptations came easy to her. But even though she fought it, her throat always burned making it painfully aware of her true nature.

"Oh, I'm quite alright," she assured him with a soft smile. "I don't drink."

"It's the end of the war," the young man laughed. "Can't you make an exception? Why, I…"

"She said she doesn't drink," came a low voice.

The scent of fear knitted with the sweet aroma of the soldier's blood. Agatha didn't need to turn around to know who stood looming over her. She chewed on her lower lip, biting back a grin as Dracula glared menacingly at her suitor. So overprotective. Almost annoyingly so. But she'd be lying if she didn't admit that it was charming in its own way. Not that he ever had a reason to be so possessive. Her heart, though still for decades, belonged to him. Just as his centuries old one was her's.

"I'm sorry," the man stumbled over his words. "I didn't realize she…"

"Wasn't alone?" Dracula finished. "Far from it. Now I highly suggest that you run along. It's never good to stray away from a party. Especially when it's so late."

Agatha rolled her eyes and turned forward, listening as the human scuttled off. She pretended to be interested in a spot on the counter as the other vampire sat beside her. It was rather surprising that it took him this long to locate her.

"Well, I didn't expect to find you here," he commented. "When I invited you for a drink, I hadn't intended on going to a pub."

"I know," she replied, trying to feign disinterest. "I desired a change in scenery. The war is over. What a time it truly is to be alive."

"Yes, yes, I know," the other vampire waved dismissively. "But with such festivities, we are missing out on a great opportunity to savor the diverse nightlife." He always had quite a way to put things. Even making the idea of sucking blood from a helpless human appealing. A trait she both despised and desired in him. "Won't you join me?"

The former nun turned her body just enough so that she was facing the majority of the bar patrons. People watching was something that fascinated her. It still hadn't quite sunken in that she was immortal. That sooner or later, every single being in the room would die. It certainly showed that life shouldn't be taken for granted. An acknowledgement she always did her best to keep in mind.

"Look how happy they are," she mused. "It's good to see that around."

"Your sentimental nature is both alluring and bothersome," her mate huffed. "There will always be more wars, more victories, more celebrations...you'll grow tired of it eventually. Humans are rather predictable."

"Was I?" She questioned, finally meeting his gaze.

"You were...an anomaly," the Count smirked. "A rare specimen amongst a drab populace."

"How poetic of you," Agatha snorted. "I'm surprised it took you centuries to find someone who could stand you."

"Ah, and it's always reassuring to see that both your sarcasm and quick wit have survived far past our first introduction those many, many years back." Dracula grinned, leaning close so that their foreheads touched. "I'd begin to worry if they didn't."

"You have a very odd way of flirting." She remarked, cocking an eyebrow. "One might even find it a little endearing."

"And that someone being you?"

"Perhaps."

She smiled and pressed a chaste kiss to his mouth before pulling away-much to the other vampire's dismay. By dawn, many ships would be docked at the port awaiting to transport soldiers back home-whether that be the United States or elsewhere. But until the sun rose, they seemed more than content to spend their last hours in England here.

"Have you reconsidered my proposal?" Dracula ventured, breaking the silence. "About leaving this establishment and going somewhere more private?"

"Do your intentions involve the consumption of blood?"

"Originally," he admitted. "But I'm assuming that is no longer an option. In any case, I'd at least like to leave here. Go somewhere more fitting. If you'd be so kind as to humor me."

Agatha looked at him thoughtfully. "Where did you have in mind?"

The Count was smiling once more as he extended a hand towards his mate. "I believe it's best that I show rather than tell," he answered. "It'd ruin the surprise."

If she had known that they'd be taking a midnight stroll through the fields, Agatha would've certainly put on different shoes. Her heels sunk into the soft ground, still saturated from the morning's rain and she found herself gripping onto Dracula's forearm to keep from slipping out of them. They'd be ruined for sure, but she didn't mind that much. She'd never really been into material things-something the Count didn't exactly understand. So there wouldn't be any shock if he'd immediately replace them.

"So," the former nun began, cutting through the silence. "Can I at least ask how far we are from your destination?"

"Reasonably close," he answered. "Not much longer now."

They kept walking, the breeze picking up and bringing with it the salty smell of the ocean. It reminded her of home. Of Holland. Of when, as a child, her family would travel to the sea. Good memories she hoped would stay with her as the years passed. That's why she'd grown to love Whitby. Watching as the little seaside town developed over time.

"And here we are!"

It took Agatha a moment to register where they were. More so why than anything else. Before them stood the ruins of what used to be Whitby Abbey. She remembered very clearly when it was severely damaged in the Raid on Scarborough, Hartlepool and Whitby in 1914. It had been the first time she'd witnessed war. Something that she would never forget.

"The Abbey…" She said slowly, looking at him in amusement. "Are you saying I should rejoin the Church?"

"I was going for the more ironic aspect of it," he smirked. "Though, you did wear that ridiculous habit of yours very well...even if you do look better without it or," and his eyes grew dark. "Without anything on."

"We didn't come up her for just sex did we?" Agatha snorted, arms folded over her chest. "While I'm quite fond of you, I'm not in the mood to roll around in the mud like some pig."

"A very beautiful pig," he added, earning him a smack on his arm. "What? I'm merely being honest."

"Flattery will get you nowhere, Count Dracula," the former nun grinned. "Especially when you're doing a terrible job at it."

"Very well," the vampire sighed. "But we shall be revisiting this subject later. For now, my main reason for bringing you here," he motioned forward. "Ladies first."

The abbey was one of the greatest highlights of Whitby, provided that it offered such a great view of the town and the ocean depending on where a person stood. Agatha stood in the very center of it, watching as lights twinkled in the windows of nearby houses. She felt Dracula join her by her side, his fingers lightly brushing against hers. It truly was a wonderful place.

"Gorgeous," he commented.

"It is, isn't it?" Agatha greed.

"I wasn't referring to the view."

The former nun turned and eyed the Count's crooked smile. Her own lips pursed as he tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. They stood there silently, gazes locked on one another until a faint noise cut through the air. Music. Distant, most likely from one of the far off houses, but clear enough to be picked up by their heightened senses. Dracula once more held out his hand towards her.

"Might I have this dance?"

In the beginning, Agatha might as well have been born with two left feet with how poorly her skills on the dance floor were. She stumbled. Tripped. On more than one occasion stepped on Dracula's toes. It took months on his part to teach her to teach her to the point where one might consider her remotely decent. But it was worth it. She could now dance, on his lead of course, without feeling like a total fool. And so, with a small smile, Agatha took his hand.

"Are you surprised?"

Dracula watched her closely as they spun gracefully, careful to avoid pieces of stray stone that stuck up from the ground. Their dance floor was far from an ordinary ballroom, but they weren't exactly ordinary people.

"If I had known you planned to take me dancing, I would've dressed better for the occasion," she smirked, leaning into his chest. "Perhaps I was wrong about you lacking in the department of romance. This is rather nice."

"I try my best for you," he grinned. "Emphasis on try."

"And tonight you successed." Agatha complimented, gliding gracefully across the grass. "I'm impressed."

"Oh?" Dracula's movement changed to match the rhythm of the song. "Do I win an award?"

"Yes." A small smile played across her features. "You get to bask in my presence."

Her mate snorted, rolling his eyes. "You are quite the tease, Agatha Van Helsing."

"I am, as you put it, an anomaly." The woman replied, pushing herself onto the tips of her toes. "And you're very lucky to have me."

"I am."

Their lips met and though her blood no longer flowed in the way that a human's did, warmth spread throughout her. Dracula's arms wrapped around her waist as she allowed her eyes to close. There was no fiery passion, no animalistic hunger behind it. It was sweet. Endearing. One of her favorite moments to drink in and savor. Even when she pulled back, Agatha made sure not to break their embrace.

"Well, I suppose I should plan outings like this more often," he chuckled.

"I'm not one to object," Agatha replied, allowing her head to rest against his chest. "Thank you."

"Anything for my love," Dracula murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "Even if it means I must act mawkish."

"If it is any consolation, I think it's rather becoming," she responded playfully. "I quite enjoy this side of you."

Before Dracula could reply, there was a faint buzz of static before the music, wherever it was being played, switched. A new melody began to float through the air and Agatha's eyes gazed off into the distance. Off to where the horizon was still blanketed by the night.

"Come," she finally said, catching his stare. "You owe me at least another dance before sunrise and I quite like this song. Let's celebrate tonight and however many nights we'll have together to follow. We can both afford to be sappy for now."

Dracula chuckled, his dark brown eyes meeting the blues of hers. "If that's what you want," he smiled, touching his forehead to hers. "Then may I have this dance?"

"Always."

#Dracula #Dracula 2020 #Agatha Van Helsing #Dragatha #Dracula x Agatha #Dracula fic #Hold Me Tight Under The Moonlight

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aquilaofarkham · 4 years

Photo

title: end of sanctuary rating: M (violence, gore, disturbing elements, psychological horror, discussions of trauma) chapter count: ongoing summary: Trevor and Sypha enter Alucard’s dream world in order to help him confront, examine, and heal from his trauma while also reevaluating their own personal demons. Cover art by @kamek 💖

additional links: donations for RAINN donations for the Institute on Violence, Abuse, and Trauma

READ CHAPTERS ONE & TWO

I NEED A MIRACLE AND NOT SOMEONE’S CHARITY

The candelabras are made from human arms. Nails chipped, fingers discoloured and pale as they keep their iron grip on brass made to look like gold. Dim candle light flickers against darkness, dripping hot wax along the skin, burning it. They hold on without wavering, do their duty and light the way for their passenger in the corridor.

Yet with every slow step forward, closer along the individual halos of fire, the candles move away from him before they’re snuffed out by an unseen and unfelt wind. There’s nothing behind him, he is alone; so he believes. So would anyone believe, surrounded by the dark and the quiet.

He walks on, further and further, paying no attention to each broken shard of glass littering the hard floor. They cut deep into the soles of his bare feet. Smears of fresh blood follow him, wetting the cold stone beneath, but he doesn’t stumble nor slip. He knows it should be painful, realizes that he should stop, and notices how the candelabras continue to inch ever so subtly away from his presence before extinguishing themselves while his back is against them.

There is nothing on his placid face, nothing in his amber eyes. No indicative expression of what he feels within and outside. Where there should be agony, there is only apathy. Where there should be fear, apprehension, there is only a complacent incentive to put one mangled and bloody foot in front of the other.

A thin white nightgown hangs off his body, not nearly long enough to cover his legs, leaving him both guarded and exposed. Another vulnerability he doesn’t care to rectify just as he doesn’t care for the voice speaking to him in one of those darker corners of the mind. It warns him in a whimpered tone: “there is something behind you”.

It’s uncertain whether this “something” has only just appeared or if it’s been following him since the first candles went out. But he can feel it closing in, lapping up the blood he’s left behind as an offering while he approaches the very last candelabra. It begins to turn away, the light repelled by his mere existence, and he stops. Come to the end of his meaningless journey.

His unseen stalker remains silent, even when he can feel its hot breath as it caresses the back of his neck. He hears a sound akin to the wings of a creature much larger than himself stretching themselves out, preparing for flight. Weary eyes fixate on the last trembling candle flames, holding onto their last seconds of life.

Still, he does not turn around. Barely a flinch even as the nightgown is carefully pulled down, displaying broad shoulders and the top of his chest. His long hair that matches the gold of his disinterested eyes tickles the newly bared skin like feathers. Both parts of his body are caged by precise scars not yet fully healed.

Cold leathery skin presses down upon his shoulders, rough against soft. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a hand reach around from behind. Massive, clawed, and inescapable. Using a single deft nail, it gifts him a choker made of ruby red drops that slide down his neck before outlining the curves and crevices of his chest. With the blood comes a revelation that brings neither peace nor panic, only acceptance:

I am with myself.

–

Alucard listens to the distant voices of Trevor and Sypha talking, huddled into his blankets, his cheek pressed firmly against his pillow. They didn’t necessarily wake him because in order for one to be “woken up”, they have to be in the deep throes of sleep and dreams to begin with. Alucard was never asleep; not for very long. And his vision was far from a dream, yet he wouldn’t consider it a nightmare either. More like a personal realization; something he already seems aware of and his mind is only giving him a helpful reminder.

The kitchen is five levels down from the guest bedchambers, but he can still hear them, if only as low indistinct mumbles. He can hear certain things more than ever before. Rats scuttling about within the castle walls searching for their next crumb of discarded food or an old grandfather clock ticking the seconds away before ringing out three deep chimes to signal midnight. Out of all his hereditary gifts most humans will never achieve, Alucard used to feel displeasure with this one the least. Then it had to grow more attuned, long past when he needed it most. Overstayed its welcome and now it’s useless.

He can’t even make out the words spoken between Trevor and Sypha.

“How long do you think he’s had those?”

The two travelers both feel as though they’re staring at themselves in a mirror crafted by a rather creative toddler. If not that, then a very doting grandmother or toymaker. A pair of dolls placed side by side on a kitchen counter, fashioned out of simple cloths stuffed with wool, buttons for eyes, and spoons in place of limbs. One is dressed in blue to match its eyes with orange fabric atop its head shaped meant to resemble short curls. The other sits next to an empty wine bottle in simple beige with two tiny red straps across its body and brown yarn for its own hair.

“I suppose not very long.” Sypha replies, bent down in order to get a much closer look at their little imposters. It’s the details of each doll; Trevor’s scar along one eye, a thin piece of string attached to his hip, and the high collar of Sypha’s robe. Alucard made these with care and attention, like he remembered every inch of them. Each individual thread, each stitch a reflection of themselves through the eyes of someone who desired their company.

Neither one is entirely sure whether to be charmed or concerned.

Sypha picks up her twin and taps at one of the button eyes with a fingernail. “I think they’re cute. Well made, too.”

Trevor finds it difficult to share her amusement. He knows what an unhealthy coping skill looks like; he could write an entire book on the subject. “Finding a hobby to keep yourself entertained for a couple months is all well and good but don’t you think this meant something else for him? Like a cry for help?”

Sypha holds the doll awkwardly before setting it back down in silent agreement. The worry was there before but perhaps she didn’t want to admit it. After all that’s happened, she needs some respite; to see something and not contemplate its’ darker connotations. Then Trevor had to go and validate her initial unspoken concerns about Alucard. The dolls are not the first sign; they knew something was amiss when they walked down the battered halls of the castle, stepping over untouched broken glass and rubble.

They knew even sooner when those bodies came into view. Both are gone now, removed days ago with haste out of disgust and before other wandering outsiders began to suspect anything, but the blood is still there. Sunken deep into the earth, staining the grass then drying up. Sypha can’t look down, no matter how many times she steps outside.

“There’s so much he will not tell us…” Her thought, voiced by a hushed tone is interrupted by a mere glance at the clock. “Look. The day is half gone and we still haven’t seen him at all.” A sense of responsibility and a desire to help surges through her, the same sort that’s always been a vital part of Sypha’s lifeblood. “We should cook him something. That might open him up to talking.”

Trevor nods. “I’ll go get him. I can only take so many “I’m fines” before I grab him by the shoulders and shake out whatever’s torturing him.”

Sypha expected such a plan. The way that Trevor cares, considers, and perhaps even loves is rougher than how others do it. It may have worked for him all those years alone with no one else to offer comfort, but it might not work now; not for Alucard. “Please don’t do that.”

It takes little time for Trevor to traverse the castle from its kitchen to its hall of bedrooms; during their first day back, he asked Alucard if he had any maps to spare. Perhaps too subtle of a joke as the dhampir merely shrugged it off and showed them to their own chambers. Before either one could say another word, another joined expression of relief to see him again, Alucard was gone. Glided out through the door as though he were a passing phantom.

Trevor stops at one of the doors and raps his knuckles against the carved door. Of course there’s no answer, but he’s lucky enough to have it already ajar. Alucard won’t care if he slips in; he doesn’t seem to care about much these days.

“Hey. You awake?” A human-shaped lump covered in blankets stirs atop the bed with its simple, humble canopy; sturdy and made entirely of wood. Nothing like the extravagant transparent silk curtains of Trevor and Sypha’s bed. A head of golden hair pokes out but doesn’t turn around. No, you’re right, Trevor thinks. It was a stupid question. Alucard’s complicated relationship with sleep runs deep.

“Sypha and I are making breakfast… though I guess it’s lunch now.”

No need to finish his query; Alucard can answer it. “Thank you, but I’m not hungry.”

“You need to eat something. You can’t fool me, I know that half-vampires can still eat human food.”

“I will eat later.”

First strike then second soon after without a moment’s hesitation. Trevor already knows there will be more if they continue like this but he won’t resort to ripping off the covers and carrying Alucard over his shoulder. Sypha wouldn’t approve of that. Even worse, he’d be choking on his own blood before reaching the door, torn out by a certain pair of fangs.

Trevor wants to remain alive. More importantly, he wants Alucard’s demeanor to be a bit brighter. Straightforwardness won’t work, but a different method might. If not, it will at least give Alucard some irresistible blackmail to use against him. Retracing his way through the castle, Trevor makes a mad dash back down into the kitchen. Alucard listens, one ear against his pillow, the other exposed. More voices, more words he cannot understand, followed by a series of quick footsteps coming closer, rising in volume until they stop. Something tiptoes towards his bed. What is it now?

“Alucard… Aluuuucaaaard.”

His sleep-deprived eyes open just a touch wider. It sounds like Trevor’s voice, only with a slightly higher pitch and an imitation of Sypha’s Iberian accent which straddles the line between charming and good enough reason for her to box his ears.

“Please get out of bed. If you don’t come down, I will be sooooooo upset.” Alucard contemplates burying his head underneath the pillow until he feels another presence on the bed; small, light, and flimsy like a doll.

The doll. Panic quickly seeps in, turning Alucard’s body rigid. They found the dolls. He knew it was going to happen but he needed more time to prepare his admittedly troubling explanation. It would have been better if Trevor and Sypha never found them at all; he should have locked the stupid things away and not keep them in plain sight. For this situation, Alucard blames no one but himself.

“We have food, Alucard! Delicious, scrumptious food.”

Still, it is amusing to hear the rugged Belmont carry on in this manner. “I know that’s you, Trevor.”

“I’m not Trevor! I’m Sypha Belnades, the smartest and most powerful Speaker in the entire world! And if you don’t get out of bed, I’ll burn off all your hair with my fire magic.”

Alucard stifles a chuckle at the similarities between Trevor’s impression of Sypha and his own. They both must know her too well. “For some reason I don’t think you’re the real Sypha Belnades.”

“But I am!”

“Really? Then why do you feel much, much smaller and why does your voice sound like that?”

“I was cursed! By… by a witch! That bitch turned me into this. Now I’m trapped in this pitiful body. But if you have lunch with us, the spell will be broken!” This time Alucard doesn’t try to hold back his laughter. Trevor is clearly having too much fun with his little acting production. But when Alucard, despite his brightening mood, remains in bed with his back turned to him, he nuzzles the doll against the dhampir’s cheek.

“Alright, that’s enough of you.”

“Pleeeeeeease, Alucard?” Trevor moves “Sypha” all along his blanketed body as if attempting to tickle him. Alucard feebly waves his free arm, trying to resist but he feels the doll everywhere; on every inch of him. Moving over the scars.

“Enough, Trevor…”

“Pleeeeease do it for meeeeee?”

Alucard flips over and swiftly grabs Trevor’s wrist. “I said that’s enough!”

The two men finally see each other eye to eye, surprised against panic-stricken, as Trevor’s hold on the Sypha doll wavers. A tense moment passes before Alucard loosens his grip as well, realizing how tightly his fingers dig into the skin. Had his nails been sharpened, they might have gone straight through and down to the bone. His intense gaze relaxes and he lets go.

“I… I will be down shortly.”

Trevor nods then leaves. In a way, his ridiculous plan worked yet he doesn’t feel successful or proud. He doesn’t even stay long enough to hear a regret-filled “sorry” shyly muster its way out of Alucard.

–

Dracula’s modern inventions are a marvel—and a nuisance.

Trevor and Sypha endlessly fiddle with the kitchen’s large contraption. A beast of burning wood logs crafted from metal and copper that’s been seemingly neutered by their shared incompetence. They could wait for Alucard instead of fumbling around until both of them reach their limits of agitation. But the idea was to surprise him with a fully prepared meal the moment he walks through the door. Light a few candles, pour three glasses of finely aged wine; just as Alucard would do for himself.

Now they’ve wasted too much time wrestling with basic cooking mechanisms, pining for the days when they could create their own version of hearty gourmet food using only a simple campfire. Even Trevor found himself scrounging about in the cellar, stepping over broken glass, all for a decent bottle.

“I’m using my magic,” Sypha finally announces.

“Don’t do that.”

“I am. I have had enough of this stupid thing.”

“You’ll burn the whole bloody castle down if you do.”

“Would that be such a terrible thing?”

Her reply causes Trevor to stop and think. Just as she whispered exclamations of awe and wonder after first setting her eyes upon the Belmont Hold, Sypha was mesmerized by the castle’s sheer size, the depths of its architecture, and the intricacies of its numerous machinations. Part of her regretted the use of the word “grotesque” before she crushed the castle’s heart in her own hands thus transforming the engine room into an irreparable mess.

She felt so young back then. Now she sees Dracula’s castle for what it truly is and what it may be destined to remain as; a place that causes pain. A place that hurts anything caught within its walls.

Trevor searches every corner of the room before settling on a loaf of bread, a wheel of cheese, and some strips of dry meat hanging from hooks. “He’ll be down soon, let’s just put together something quick.”

He pulls Sypha away and brings her to the nearest countertop just as she contemplates melting the oven down into a steaming puddle. She glares at the butcher’s knife placed into her hand then at the three food items in front of her. Seems too simple given the other ingredients surrounding them, but their time was cut short to begin with.

In the midst of their frantic slicing, pouring, and preparing, they pause to hear delicate footsteps making their way down the corridor. Alucard appears in the doorway, shoulders slouched and the dark circles under his eyes visible even from a distance. He doesn’t announce himself, though his silence does nothing to alleviate the awkward atmosphere. Taking his seat at the table, Sypha joins him along with Trevor, his hands full of three plates. He places them down unceremoniously.

“There. A meal fit for a prince.”

The two wait in anticipation while Alucard sits motionless. He examines the plate’s contents, his so-called “prince’s meal”: layers of stacked goat cheese and bacon sandwiched between two decently sliced pieces of sourdough bread with a thin twig of rosemary placed on top as a last minute garnish. Not a single vegetable or fruit in sight. Then Trevor and Sypha see something from Alucard that’s been missing for almost the length of an entire week following their return: a smirk. Subdued, but plain to see on his placid face.

“Did you make these, Trevor?”

“We both did, but it was Trevor’s idea,” Sypha answers in his stead. Alucard presses his lips tighter together, an honest attempt to keep whatever’s behind them locked away—a laugh perhaps? Hard to believe as it may seem.

“What?” Trevor demands. “What is it about my cooking that makes you giggle like a young nun who’s seen something naughty?”

“There is nothing wrong with your taste in food this time… shockingly so. I’m just remarking on how… humble this all looks. I expected nothing less from you both. Thank you.”

While Alucard takes his first few bites, Trevor and Sypha look to each other with uncertain expressions. He was always genuine in the small ways he showed his gratitude towards them, and they hear that very same gratitude in his voice. But only a sliver of it; the rest felt clinical. Still, they got him out of bed. They got him to eat. That’s more success they’ve accomplished in less than an hour than they’ve had for days. What they need right now, what they all need, are small victories.

The silence they eat in is comfortable, almost peaceful. Trevor and Sypha both know it won’t last. The enjoyment they feel with each bite of juicy meat, strong cheese, and soft bread comes with a sense of guilt. They know the difficult topic of Alucard’s refusal to tell them anything will have to be brought up now. If not, the wound will only meet the same end that all others left untreated do: left to fester and rot until there’s no hope of talking to him.

Alucard seems oblivious to their eternal conflict; maybe it’s for the best. Once half of his sandwich is finished, he raises the glass of white wine and downs every last drop in one bold gulp. Trevor turns to his own glass, barely half empty.

“Show off.” He mumbles under his breath, though not quiet enough as it catches Alucard’s attention.

“Oh? Have I bested you in that particular skill set?”

“Don’t push your luck. I’m still ahead of you in experience. A good couple of years in fact.”

“Remember, there is just as much inhuman blood running through these veins as there is human. I have more of a tolerance when it comes to certain vices.”

“Give me something stronger than whatever I used to find in my aunt Delilah’s liquor cabinet and I’ll show you how to take certain vices with tolerance.”

It always happens like this between them, again and again, over and over no matter the circumstance or situation. One man must compare himself to the other, measuring up his own long list of successes and failures. Sypha suddenly loses interest in her food. This conversation could go in many different directions—merely thinking about the probabilities brings her no ease.

“Well, you’ve never been one to refuse a challenge. Let’s test that famous Belmont tolerance, shall we?”

Before Sypha can interject, Trevor does instead, pushing her further into silence. His expression turns grim as he lowers the wine glass. “I’ll pass on that challenge.”

“Showing restraint? I didn’t think you knew the word.”

“No, I just don’t want to give you an excuse to keep drowning yourself in something that hasn’t been resolved yet.”

Sypha is an excellent judge of character; she considers it to be a gift the same way she regards her prowess in the mystic arts. Simple, quiet observations of how a person carries themselves, how they move the slightest inch, and how they react to certain provocations tell her more than words can. When she sees Alucard’s eyes narrow while his fingers curl in on themselves, Sypha braces herself despite being the only one who predicted this. This will not end the way she wanted it to.

Trevor doesn’t notice those sorts of things quick enough, not like her. If he did, he would have swallowed that tactless statement before it had the chance to escape. Wash it down with the very same white wine he so candidly belittled.

“You think I’m drowning myself. How so?”

“Look at yourself, Alucard.”

“I do. Every day, in the mirror. It’s not something I particularly enjoy doing.”

His words sting, laced with venom but Trevor and Sypha understand what he means. Their eyes are drawn to his wrists and that window of skin exposed by his shirt’s plunging neckline. He tries so hard to hide those new scars—the ones he still hasn’t explained—but more often than not, they catch glimpses of tender flesh turned raw and inflamed. They abhor the thought of him carrying more, yet haunted by the idea that their worries are not unfounded.

If only he would talk to them. Truly and deeply talk to them. Not in this way.

“I also do not enjoy being spoken down to like a troubled infant incapable of making their own decisions.”

“I’m not talking down to you and I’m not trying to tell you what and what not to do.”

“Then what are you trying to do?”

“Sympathize, that’s all. And maybe help. I’ve been down that same road before and it’s not pretty.”

“I never asked for your help. I never gave you permission to coddle me, nor did I ever ask you to come back.”

“But you clearly wanted us to if those two dolls are any indication.”

“Those were not yours to see.”

“You left them out in the open! How could we not fucking see them?”

While voices and tensions rise with every heated exchange, Sypha breaks her vow of reluctant silence. “You cannot keep us in the dark like this forever, Alucard.” Both men turn towards her as all the words she left unspoken for days stumble out less like a steady stream and more like an untempered vomit. “Trevor is right; we just want to help. We want to understand what’s wrong and how we can all fix this. But you need to talk with us. What happened while we were gone? Who were those two outside the castle and why on earth did you display them like—”

A sudden loud clatter causes Sypha and Trevor to jump. Alucard holds his plate whiteknuckled while the rest of him shivers in quiet anger. He dropped it upon the table not hard enough to shatter but enough to crack. His half-eaten sandwich has fallen apart.

“I’m not hungry.” The chair scrapes loudly against the floor as Alucard pushes it back. He takes his leave without another word; not a bitter thank you or something far harsher. In a display of utter defeat, Trevor pushes away his own plate and rubs his face. A way of saying, “that was a fucking disaster”. And it all seemed to be going so well.

Sypha doesn’t want to give in so easily. She follows Alucard out of the kitchen, her voice echoing off the castle’s stone archways and walls that dwarf them both. Nothing more than mice amongst giants.

“Alucard, please.” She calls out, still a fair distance away from him but catching up quickly. “We can fix this, just let us help you.”

“You can’t fix anything. Not even I could.”

Sypha knows she should be more careful with her choice of words but fears that if she hesitates for the slightest moment, she will lose him. He’ll retreat back into his room or another place deeper within the castle unbeknownst to her and Trevor, locking himself away in self-inflicted isolation, shutting out all daylight and human interaction.

“And you can’t keep punishing yourself like this either.” She’s close now; close enough to hold him. Close enough to lay a hand on his shoulder.

“I want to be alone.”

“Alucard…” Sypha keeps her touch light and gentle. For him, it’s just another weight, another burden that’s been forced upon him. A sense of bodily contact he did not ask for. Through the thin fabric of his shirt, Alucard feels her fingertips graze over a scar curving around his shoulder. He spins around and slaps Sypha’s hand away, his lips drawn back into a snarl, revealing fangs that have grown longer and sharper.

She takes a step back, then another until the divide between them is larger than it should ever be. There was no cry of shock or pain even as Sypha stares at Alucard with wide, possibly terrified eyes. He’s never seen her like this; not when their entire world was at stake. She holds the hand that was struck and then he sees it: three fresh claw marks. Alucard glances down at his own hand, though he already knows what he will find.

The rageful lines gracing his face soften while his eyes turn not just sad, but horrified. “Sypha, I…”

“What happened?” Trevor catches up to them, drawing Sypha into his arms. With the utmost care coupled with panic he takes her wounded hand and repeats the question, furiously shouting it in Alucard’s direction who stumbles with his answer.

“I—I didn’t mean—I won’t hurt—”

“What the hell did you do?”

Alucard forces out an apology, but is barely heard by either Trevor or Sypha. Again they fail to hear him when it matters most. They say nothing else, waiting for an admission they might never receive and stare at him as though they no longer recognize their friend. Friend. Alucard cannot breathe, cannot speak, yet his mind screams. Thoughts that plagued him for months which he tried burying now fully resurrected. Was he ever really their friend? Did they ever think of him that way? What must they think of him now?

Do they see him? Or do they see his father?

Trevor and Sypha’s poor attempts to make him stay fall on deaf ears. Alucard is gone from their sight, unable to hear their pleas. They’ll not see him again before the night comes.

–

“I’m not mad at him. It doesn’t even hurt that much.”

They don’t return to the kitchen. Instead, they traverse the ruined castle hallways until they reach what was once the foundation of Dracula’s genius and intellect. A laboratory filled with knowledge of a future not yet realized by humanity; or maybe a past that was deemed too heretical, too blasphemous by modern European institutions and so it fell into the hands of a monster. Knowledge that might thrive in the hands of someone else but now lies amongst broken machines, like every other room surrounding it. Still, there are smaller forms of medicine which Trevor uses to heal Sypha’s mild injuries. He rubs the cream over her hand, soothing the angry red scratch marks left behind by Alucard’s outburst.

“Well, there might be some bruising. Thankfully he didn’t draw any blood.”

“Would you have gone after him with your whip if he did?”

Trevor leaves the question as is; hovering in an awkward silence while he mentally searches for a change in conversation. Not because he doesn’t have a reply, but because he doesn’t want to face the conclusion he’s come to.

“Why doesn’t he use any of the medicine here? Continue his mother’s work, you know?”

“Maybe he’s just being cautious especially after what happened to her. Human beings are not ready for that sort of new knowledge yet.”

“And he spent more effort cleaning up my family ruins than he did with his own home.”

“You did give it to him as a gift.”

“But now that I really think about it, he never even liked the hold or its contents. It was a piss poor excuse for a gift.”

“Then why did you do that for him?”

He closes the lid on the jar of cream and places it back on the nearest shelf. Really, giving away his childhood home was done purely on impulse (as are most of Trevor’s decisions). But there was another motive, one he didn’t want to admit to at the time else a certain someone would endlessly mock him.

“He said he wanted to make the castle his grave and… I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t let him wallow in guilt and self-pity anymore so I thought I’d give him something to live for. A project he could dedicate all his time to and take his mind off things. I didn’t think he’d actually take it to heart like that.”

Sypha gives him a tired smile. “What you did was selfless and good, Trevor Belmont. Give yourself more credit than that.”

He tries, yet all that transpires is an exasperated sigh. “I will never fucking understand what goes on inside his head.”

“Don’t you want to, though? Don’t you want to help with whatever is troubling him?”

“Sypha, I don’t think it’s that easy. You remember those bodies.”

“I try not to.” Nevertheless, she still wants to rationalize Alucard’s current actions which means those two corpses along with his new scars will have to be explained. Her stomach churns at the thought. It couldn’t have been as simple as the shallow excuse of attacking the castle then attacking him.

“I hate feeling so useless.”

Trevor gently brushes a stray curl of strawberry hair from her face. His smallest gestures of affection are the ones she loves the most. “I know you do. You always want to help others and save the day. That’s what makes you so wonderful.”

“Or naive.” Sypha almost misses the time when she was far more optimistic, when her view of the world was a touch brighter, but past comforts do not fix present miseries no matter how fondly we dwell upon them—actions do. “We can’t lose another friend.”

Wrapping an arm around her shoulders, Trevor pulls her in close and kisses her head. “We’ll give it more time. Try again tomorrow.”

–

It’s not another dream but if it were, Alucard would hardly be able to tell the difference. He saunters down the hall, past each flickering candelabra, stopping momentarily to take a closer look. No soft flesh, no pulsing veins of blood, only painted brass. One piece of evidence to suggest that this is not a dream. Alucard needs that reassurance while he wanders dazed and disoriented, like walking through a thick mist.

The thin nightgown clings to his uncomfortably sweat drenched back, chest, and limbs. He’s taken to wearing the longer kinds, ones that reach down to his ankles. Hardly suitable for humid summer nights but he finds it better this way. Alucard continues on his aimless nighttime trek until he stops at a certain closed door. It’s not the first; there are many rooms within the castle which he finds no use for so they remain locked away from prying eyes. This one, however, is special to him.

After his father’s death, Alucard thought revisiting his old childhood bedroom would be too painful. A single glance would conjure up memories best left untampered with. Since then he’s looked inside and even walked among its contents, frozen in time. He’s turned these brief visits into sporadic personal rituals, ways of grounding himself—or punishing, it depends on which feels more appropriate. He never touches or changes anything, not the singed carpet, not the crumbled up bed sheets stained with blood, and certainly not the ring.

Alucard raises a hand to push open the door before pulling back. Not tonight, he tells himself. He carries onward, quickening his pace past another closed door that will stay bolted tight until either his bones disintegrate into dust or the castle does, whichever happens first.

Moonlight streams in through the tall kitchen windows, lighting the room in a nightly blue hue. Not strong enough to reach the ever-present shadows that hide in darker corners. That’s where Alucard left the dolls on their shelf, in plain fucking sight as Trevor said. It rings truer now that Alucard stands before them, staring down at the culmination of his little “hobby” long and hard.

Why did he make them with such love and care? With so much attention to their unique, individual finite details? It would have been easier to find two potatoes, a few buttons, some burlap, and be done with them. If there’s shame in the way he looks at the dolls now, then what must have been the purpose of starting this project?

Alucard knows that the real Trevor and Sypha are safe in their bed. He felt their presence during his walk; skin upon skin, hands resting along the curves of each other’s bodies. Neither one sleeps peacefully, discontented by earlier events. Because of him. He knows this for certain.

Alucard picks up the Trevor doll first, running a thumb over the plush stomach before sharpening his nail. It tears into the fabric, spilling out the toy’s soft insides. Tufts of white wool float gently float down like snowflakes as they clutter the black and white floor, soon joined by a head torn from its body in an emotional fit. Once he’s finished with Trevor, he does the same to Sypha, ripping her into pieces. Everything, the dolls, their destruction and the manner in which they are torn up, it all seems so childish. When Alucard is faced with the mess he created, he’s filled with a confusing sense of regret over his impulsive actions and the frustration that he should have destroyed those dolls a long time ago.

Exhausted, head pounding, and chest aching, he joins what used to be Trevor and Sypha on the floor. Sitting uncomfortably, worsening his ruined posture, staring into nothing. “This is all so stupid.”

–

The large platform sways momentarily, dangling in midair before it begins to lower Sypha down the derelict tower that leads far beneath the Belmont manor. This is the first time she’s seen Trevor’s family hold in daylight; even in ruins, everything is brighter. Remnants of a once grand legacy that’s been holding on by its fingernails through sheer stubbornness and determination thanks to its last surviving son. She can now see the portrait of his founding ancestor without the obstruction of darkness.

Leon Belmont, fabled vampire killer and the first to hunt down Dracula—in appearance, there are no similarities between him and Trevor. Blond curly hair like a Renaissance cherub, noble demeanour, a true knight of old. That’s what the painting tells Sypha. She knows even less about Leon than Trevor does. Perhaps she’ll discover something in their family archives, something more scandalous than a spellbook involving vampire cocks and other unmentionables both human and inhuman. Though it’s certainly not her original intention; Sypha didn’t have any set goal or purpose in mind when she decided to seek out the Belmont archives.

Only that it feels better than being inside the castle. Anywhere feels better than that incubator of sadness, death, and loneliness. Trevor may have questioned it but it’s no wonder Alucard put all of his effort into one family home instead of his own.

Upon arriving at the bottommost level, Sypha steps through the heavy door and nearly repeats her trick of igniting the entire hold in fire light. Until she notices that every torch has been replaced by the same bulbs of glass found beneath Gresit’s catacombs. There has to be a switch somewhere; always some sort of mechanism or device when it comes to the Tepes family and their inventions. She eventually finds a lever and pulls it down. A gentle humming sound fills the chamber and after a couple flickers, the bulbs illuminate bookshelves, cabinets, and other menagerie all kept in perfect condition.

“Incredible…” Sypha thought she was used to the archives. Questions dance in her mind as she descends the staircase. Is the electricity that Alucard installed the same as what she can conduct with her magic? She’ll have to ask him.

Sypha isn’t looking for anything in particular. Simply being present around books interspersed between trinkets of no doubt dubious origins is enough for her. Meandering down each aisle, taking in the various titles containing any variation of “vampire”, “demon”, “mysticism”, and “grimoire”. They merge together until one happens to stand out: The Dream World: Mind Spells, Astral Projection, & Psychological Magick. It almost makes Sypha guffaw. Trevor still insists that the Belmonts were not magicians and never dealt in the more unsavoury aspects of the art, yet the contrary keeps rising to the surface. Sypha knows magic better than anybody and there’s plenty of it running through Trevor’s veins. If he ever picks up a spell and tries reading it, then he might realize.

Sypha holds the weighty tome, carefully skimming over each worn out page lest they crumble under her fingertips. An entire account of how someone could slip their own consciousness into another’s as if stepping into a friend’s home and rearranging its contents. All of which made possible through the simple act of sleeping.

I will never fucking understand what goes on inside his head.

Don’t you want to, though?

Sypha shuts the book without a second thought, feeling shock and a small bit of shame. She deals in elemental magic, manipulating the earth’s natural creations—never human bodies. It’s too dangerous and there are too many risks; something, or someone, could break. Shatter beyond reparation. Some minds are more delicate than others.

But if she did the necessary research, as all good scholars of magic should, she won’t have to jump to such dire conclusions. Her predetermined fears might be dispelled; there might be hope. So, Sypha does the one thing that will always bring her comfort—she reads.

–

YOU SEE YOURSELF AS THEY SEE YOU

The water is always coldest in the morning. Before Alucard fills his two buckets with it, he dips a couple fingertips into the running stream, creating a slight shock that helps keep him alert. At the moment, the castle is empty and for good reason. Sypha is in the Belmont Hold; she always seemed more at home down there. The last time Alucard saw Trevor, he was following her outside and presumably to the archives as well. Still inseparable, those two. Meanwhile he’s here in the woods, away from castles and manors and underground chambers that have held on for generations. This place keeps him both sheltered and vulnerable.

This is a menial task, one of many that fill the days. Yet like all the others, it slipped Alucard’s mind until it reared its head and practically dragged him out of bed. It wasn’t always this way; not so long ago, the task of completing daily chores went differently. Collecting water, gathering ingredients for future meals, he treated them all as though they were part of a religion, a cycle that never stopped turning. Alucard’s mind once thanked him for it. Small distractions were blessings in the guise of simple tasks to keep himself afloat.

Alucard has tried to uphold this new religion. Though his attempts may not be so obvious to others. Occasionally, he’ll see the Belmont tower in the corner of his eye, no longer the crumbling pile of stones stacked atop of each other it used to be. He’ll feel the urge to pick up where he left off with its reconstruction. His palms are getting a bit soft, maybe it’s time to give them a few blisters and splinters again.

Then there’s the one constant thing keeping Alucard from dusting off his tools, the immediate feeling that bars him from other forms of distraction: guilt. The same way he still “lives” within the castle despite its torment, he needs the reminders of what happened and everything he did. Distraction leads to remorse, then comes self-punishment, and finally discipline. This is Alucard’s new cycle, routine, and religion.

This recent excursion may seem like a step forward, but he’s certain it will be followed by many, many steps back.

He doesn’t return with any sense of urgency once the buckets are full. Instead, something in the water catches Alucard’s attention: a grey stone with a near perfect egg shape. He reaches down and pulls it out, wiping the mud and sand off its rough surface.

“Papa, it’s just a dirty old rock. What’s so special about it?”

“Watch closely, my little bat…” Using a single claw sharper than any hunter’s blade, the vampire cuts a perfect line along the stone. It cracks open, revealing colours that only exist in the younger vampire’s imagination. His gasps of wonder bring a smile to his father’s face.

“Do you know what we call a natural phenomenon like this one, little bat?”

“Hm. A geode,” Alucard mumbles to himself. Rocks that look unappealing on the outside but once they’ve been smashed open, they transform into treasure chests of jewels and crystals. He remembers now; Dracula used to bring him to the rivers and mountains surrounding the castle so that he could show his son the smallest of nature’s gifts. Without much deeper thought, Alucard drops the geode into his pocket before picking up the two heavy buckets. Sypha might enjoy such a trinket; perhaps it will bring her some much needed distraction. A paltry way of apologizing for the day before.

Alucard prepares for the trek back to the castle, but not before getting a good long look over his shoulder, then again once he’s started walking.

–

Trevor stares into the fountain, watching as momentary gusts of wind move dead leaves amongst twigs, animal droppings, and other debris littering the cracked stone. Otherwise empty and dried up just like the rest of what used to be the Belmont courtyard. Funny, it’s always the smaller, frivolous things about a broken home that are left to the very end when more important things demand attention and repair. That’s what Alucard did and only now does Trevor truly see the extent of his efforts not just to the Hold but the entire manor itself. Give it a few more weeks of hard honest labour and the building could almost be liveable again.

Why? It’s a question he’s been asking himself since their less than joyous reunion. Trevor remembers what Alucard said on their first night down in the Hold, hearing every word while he himself fawned over a piece of metal and chain. He must have thought the Belmont couldn’t hear. “Museum”, “dedicated”, and “extermination” coupled with other unsavoury terms as the dhampir looked over a casket of fanged skulls—one of which was smaller than the others. Much smaller.

Then why do so much for a family that hunted his kind for generations? Like so much else concerning Alucard, the answer may always elude Trevor. Yet the only reaction stronger than his confusion is his own form of guilt. Trevor would say there hasn’t come a chance to show his full appreciation for Alucard’s work, but it’s just another lie and excuse.

He’s tired. Tired of staking his life on the constant movement from one road to the next, tired of putting walls between himself and others when there shouldn’t be any. During that brief, shallow time when he and Sypha settled down, Trevor felt a subtle sense of peace which had been lost to him for years—it scared him. But now that the manor is no longer a forgotten ruin, Trevor looks upon the structure not with sadness or pain, but hope. Life could return to its many rooms and corridors.

If only Alucard hadn’t halted his reconstruction progress. Still, the manor sits there waiting for the necessary work to be picked up again. He could talk to Alucard, offer a helping hand, rough up his palms a little. It doesn’t have to be a one man endeavour.

Trevor forgoes the thought before it has an opportunity to solidify itself. All of it might be fruitless; there’s no point in having such a conversation if it only ends with more arguing, more yelling, and more of them storming off in opposite directions. More of yesterday’s events.

His flimsy attention span refocuses at the sound of Sypha calling out his name. He turns around and is greeted with an unsteady pile of books where her face should be. “Bit of light reading, eh?”

Sypha peeks out from behind the stack. “If you had come down with me, I wouldn’t be lugging all of these back up,” she says with a strained grunt.

“What’s the urgency?”

“I wanted you to see these.” She places the books down by their feet and begins handing them one by one into Trevor’s hands. He takes them, barely getting anything more than a few seconds to read their titles. What he manages to see doesn’t cultivate much optimism. Dreamology makes him believe that Sypha is simply having nightmares while Thought Manipulation Through Magic fills him with a creeping sense of dread. Those are only two amongst a dozen more.

“… What?” She asks, stopping once she notices Trevor’s usual silent cynicism. He holds up Cognitive Astral Projection.

“Don’t tell me you’re planning on making me your actual braindead manservant.”

She snatches the book away. “This is serious!”

“Hm. These say otherwise. Or are you getting bored of skewering beasties with ice pikes before scorching their arses off and want to try something a bit more subtle.”

“Just listen to me.” Sypha takes a breath to settle herself. “Remember what you said about not understanding what goes on inside Alucard’s head?”

“Vaguely.” But Trevor does remember, clearer than his most sober thoughts. And he already realizes Sypha’s plan before she can spell it out for him. His eyes turn dire while the palms of his hands suddenly feel cold. “Sypha…”

“No, listen, I have looked through all of these and look there are spells one can cast to, to, to project yourself into another’s mind.” She speaks faster than her thoughts. Trevor can’t even get his own opinion out while she excitedly stammers on.

“Sypha.”

“A-and it happens when both participants are asleep, you see, which means we can access Alucard’s mind through his dreams while we are both conscious yet also unconscious at the same time—”

“Sypha!”

“What?” She exclaims. “This is our chance to help him. If he cannot tell us outright then we have to see for ourselves. Otherwise we’ll never truly understand what happened. He can heal and we can all finally move on from this.”

“Maybe. Or maybe something goes wrong and none of us ever wakes up again. Maybe we end up putting another crack in that brain of his whether we meant to or not. Maybe we break him completely.”

“Nothing will go wrong as long as we follow the directions.”

“Have you ever cast a spell like this before?”

“No, but the very scholars who wrote these books were once beginners starting out for the first time in their lives.”

“Yes, and then they practiced and studied for decades before sitting down to write the entire fucking codex on mind manipulation.” While Trevor waves one of the books in her face, Sypha matches the rising volume in his voice.

“You are just afraid.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Of course I am! But you can’t abandon him like this just because you don’t want to attempt the only option we have. Do not go back to the man you once were, Trevor.”

Teeth grind together, hard enough to crack and shatter. He stares Sypha down with fury in his eyes; not for her, never for her, only for what she said. “I don’t want to do this because I am so fucking sick of magic. Sick of enchantments, incantations, and all that other occult bullshit. All it ever does is hurt others and make the world darker than it already is.”

Sypha holds her ground, expression placid and immoveable. “Is that what you think of my magic?”

A simple question that breaks Trevor’s hardened demeanour. He knows his answer— her magic is terrifying in beautiful ways and she might be the only morally decent practitioner in the world—but he doesn’t say it like that. “You… Sypha, you know I didn’t mean it like that, I just…” He tries placing a hand on her shoulder before it’s shrugged off. Calmly but with the right amount of force, she pushes a book against his chest. Trevor manages to guess two words from her intense gaze: read it.

Sypha steps back, about to take her leave, before giving him a valuable piece of information that’s long taken root in his mind. All he needs to do is accept it. “The Belmonts were capable of magic. As are you.”

Trevor opens his mouth when she’s too far away to hear or acknowledge.

–

When Alucard returns to the castle, he’s faced with a choice: slink back into bed and wallow in a false sense of security or take a bath before Sypha starts confusing him for Trevor. The first sounds more tempting but he’s been mobile all morning, it would be a shame to erase that progress. He could have an alright day. There haven’t been any great or even good days, only the alright ones. The slow and dull kind, which Alucard takes happily. Anything would be better than yesterday.

With no windows to the outside world, the castle’s main powder room is darker than the others. It’s only source of light comes from sweet smelling candles scattered throughout, kept firmly in their places by years of hardened wax like pearl-coloured tears. The walls are dyed in that same sort of red that reminds Alucard of red wine or freshly spilled blood. Drenched in soft candlelight, the room is more a boudoir than a bathhouse (in some parts of the world there’s little difference between the two).

He turns a few heavy knobs at the head of the large brass tub and once the pipes clear their throats, buried deep behind walls and underneath the floorboards, clear steaming water begins to spurt out. Alucard checks the temperature; it burns to the touch which he prefers. He removes his boots yet hesitates with the rest. A single passing glance at himself in the ornate vanity mirror, one glimpse at all the pieces of bare skin despite being fully clothed, and his reluctance seems rational. Even alone, he doesn’t want to see the rest of him.

Alucard sits before the vanity, listening while the tub fills itself to the brim. His eyes glaze over each cosmetic alongside his geode. He settles on a small bottle of herbal oil made from lavender and lemon balm leaves which he gently applies to his wrists. Smells divine, hurts like absolute hell. Liquid seeps into the raw, tender skin and he lets out a hiss. The necessary pain subsides; Alucard’s breaths turn deep and slow. He hates looking up into the mirror only to be faced with his overly familiar weary eyes surrounded by dark circles. It’s unavoidable.

Something on the table begins to shake. For a moment, Alucard thinks it’s because of his own trembling hand gripping the mahogany wood until he notices the river stone. It moves from side to side, teetering then tottering, like a child’s spinning top about to fall. He stares not in fear but with caution as the stone cracks, louder than anything that size should sound. An egg ready to hatch.

Alucard expects to be greeted by a newborn chick when the rock turned egg finally cracks right open. What clumsily rolls out instead is still trapped within its embryonic sack, not strong enough to break through. He assists by making a tear with his nail as a viscous substance pours out along with its inhabitant. There’s hair, two arms, two legs, and a pair of wings weighed down by the fluid. Unsure and a little nervous, he helps clean whatever just emerged, allowing its delicate, transparent wings to fully unfold.

The creature stumbles like a freshly birthed calf getting used to its own legs before using Alucard’s fingers for support. At last, he sees the long caramel hair that envelopes its entire body, not much larger than his outstretched hand. He sees the pointed ears and the earthy green tinge that covers the very ends of each limb.

Despite what humans of sound mind and reasonable logic may proclaim, vampires and night creatures exist in this world. They may very well rule it. Why shouldn’t the smaller, daintier beings of fantasy exist as well?

Softly and with the utmost care, Alucard cups the fairy in both hands and lifts her off the vanity. “Now where did you come from?” A silly question, admittedly.

Her eyes, which seem too big for her tiny face to hold, finally open. She stares up at Alucard, blinking rapidly, before her lips curl back, revealing a smile of pristine yet razor teeth. Wings flutter like a hummingbird’s and following a few delighted inhuman chirps, she’s encircling Alucard, unable to decide where she should land first. A second on his shoulder, then another atop his head. Eventually, she discovers the incomparable joy of hiding herself within the smooth locks of his hair.

“Well, aren’t we an excitable little one.” Alucard manages to pluck her free but the fairy isn’t finished with her thorough examination of her chosen imprint. She comes across his marred wrists and lets out a softened chirp of concern. He mutters the same excuse he gave to Trevor and Sypha: it’s nothing. The fairy can’t hear, or she just doesn’t listen. Determined to use every ounce of her miniscule strength, she begins pecking at the wrist, planting kiss after kiss upon his scarred flesh.

“Oh no, please don’t trouble yourself with that.” There are accounts of fairies who carry certain healing abilities, but this one is still a babe. The only world she knows is Alucard. Better she learns how to crawl before she walks. But the fairy couldn’t care less about any of that. This golden-haired giant could end up being the only world she ever knows or will ever know, and she would be overjoyed. Flying upwards, she holds his face in both arms and nuzzles against his cheek.

It’s a surprising development, but Dracula’s castle will continue to play homestead to all things strange and odd. This fairy may just be oddly wonderful.

–

Trevor’s body has always despised him for many reasons, rebelling against itself. He can’t remember what he looked like without his battle scars (if there was ever a time when he didn’t have them), some bones have been broken then rearranged so often they float around amongst muscle and blood utterly ruined. He once considered keeping a log of every time he stumbled into a back alley to cleanse his battered insides through vomiting. One column labeled “drinking”, the other “fighting”. Some nights would require both to be marked up.

Those are understandable reasons. Trevor never thought reading would elicit the same visceral reactions. His head pounds away, the backs of his eyes sting like mad, and there’s an unseen weight pressing down on his chest. It’s been hours since he made Dracula’s disarrayed library his own, surrounding himself with books and half opened scrolls like some hermit monk or scholar holed up in his study. There must be a curse on this room; whoever enters to read its contents and is not the castle’s lord or of undead blood shall be stricken down with nausea, tiredness, and frustration.

Trevor ignores how his mind pulses and aches with every written word. Sypha’s talk of dreams and mind spells is the cause of all this. He’s managed to retain a fair amount of knowledge, though whether or not any of it will be helpful he cannot say for certain. There’s one story concerning an unnamed alchemist of the 10th century who performed dream spells on himself; perhaps he still had some higher morals to not use other bodies for his tests. With these incantations, his mind created absolute paradises where he would live for decades while only a few hours passed in the realm of reality.

The effects on his physical body were apparent; the first time he cast the spell, he aged thirty years in the span of five hours. During his second sleep, he died in the dream world a peaceful old man with no regrets or unfinished business. When whatever colleagues he had left found him, he was a half-rotting corpse in his bed.

Accounts like these—factual or mere ghost stories—don’t encourage much optimism. Which is why Trevor keeps reading, keeps searching in case it’s not enough. His nose buried so deeply in knowledge previously unknown to him. He doesn’t notice that Sypha has found him, not until she lays a hand on his shoulder, startling them both. Trevor drops his most recent find while she lets out an exclaimed gasp and holds her chest.

“Christ…” He says breathlessly.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to sneak up like that. This is the very last place I expected to find you.”

“I’m full of surprises.” As Trevor gathers up his resources, Sypha observes their contents; the very same she herself had been researching all morning long. Dream lore and mental magic, everything he denounced not too long ago.

Trevor makes a note of her silence. “I looked through that first book you gave me. Started thinking… which is never a good sign with me, and wanted to do some reading myself.”

Full of surprises, indeed. “Trevor, I’m shocked.”

“Hope it’s the pleasant sort. But you should know that I did all of this for you… and for him. Mostly for you.”

Sypha is used to Trevor’s deflections. She thought by now he would readily accept his growing ability to care deeply for others when his outward appearance suggests otherwise. There is always much to rebuild. “These are his books… does that not disturb you?”

“Hm, not really.” Sypha almost chides his nonchalant response, thinking back to how violently he reacted to the prospect of Alucard being his father before their silly duel was put to rest. “Dracula may have been a monster but he was a genius. There’s not much difference between what’s down there and what’s up here. Suppose one has to know their enemy.”

Genius. Trevor Belmont of the House of Belmont is either mad or drunk. Sypha assumes that if his family were alive, he would have been flogged for speaking their own form of blasphemy. The same might have happened anyway had they known about his partnership with the son of their centuries old adversary.

“So… you’ve thought about it?”

Trevor takes a breath, eyes downcast. “You wanted me to read, so I did. To be honest, a lot of this is just fear mongering, which is why I kept at it. There are things worth learning and knowing about. I’m not exactly jumping with enthusiasm over your proposal, but you could say I’m more open to it than I was. We just need to find the right spell.”

“I think I have. It was in one of the books from your family’s library.”

“What do we do?”

“There are a lot of steps involved, but the most important element is that we all have to be asleep. In order for our collective consciousness to enter another’s mind, that person has to be in an even deeper sleep. All but dead to the world.”

Trevor suddenly turns grim and angry. “I’m not fucking drugging Alucard.”

Sypha reacts in an offended manner. “Of course we won’t! Why on earth would you ever assume that?!”

“Sorry… some of the things I read about this didn’t give me the best mindset. Does it involve any other unsavory acts like blood sacrifices or ritualistic masochism?”

“No, nothing like that. We just need to prick our temples hard enough to draw blood and burn something that belongs to each of us.”

“What’s the purpose of the fire?”

“As long as the items keep burning, we remain inside the dream world. When it runs out, that’s when we wake up.”

“And the blood?”

“Supposedly to help open up our minds. The chapter explains everything in detail. But we need Alucard’s consent first.”

Trevor bites at his thumbnail, something he hasn’t done since the age of thirteen. “It won’t be easy convincing him.”

“If we fail, we fail. It’s his choice.” Though there’s a part within Sypha, deeper and more persistent than she’s willing to admit, that wants their plan to succeed. Not for her sake and not for her ego.

“Right. Let’s go find him.”

They stand up to leave but only walk so far down the corridor before they turn round a corner and nearly crash into Alucard.

“Fuck’s sake, enough with all the sneaking around.” Trevor grumbles once his heartbeat settles.

“I heard voices coming from the library and wondered if it was you two.”

“Course it was us, who else could it have b—” He squints, peering closer at Alucard. “Is something on your shoulder?” It could be an effect of reading too much, but Trevor knows he hasn’t gone insane—yet. He sees the wings, the miniscule head and the even smaller face staring back at him with suspicion.

“Oh, this. Well, I… I found her in the river and—”

“She’s precious!” Sypha interrupts, bending down to get a clearer look at Alucard’s new companion the same way a child looks in fascination at a brand new doll. “I know about these creatures… she’s a pixie, correct?”

Trevor and Sypha hear a series of quick jingles and chirps but Alucard hears something entirely different. “She prefers to be called a fairy.”

“You can understand that thing?”

More jingles, more chirps followed by a distinct growl from the fairy. “She also doesn’t like being called a thing by giant hairy oafs who smell terrible.”

Trevor would almost feel insulted if he wasn’t already accustomed to far harsher and disgusting terms throughout his adult life. So Alucard’s new friend doesn’t like him. Fine, he never liked fairies to begin with. Too many bedtime stories warning him about those who steal babies and gather in hordes to eat the flesh clean off a human’s body.

“Sypha and I need to discuss something with you.”

Alucard’s muscles seize up; he feels the fairy grow more restless, impatient with these two strangers barging into her life and what they might do to her keeper. He calms her with a light pat on her head. Don’t let what happened the day before happen again. Listen to them. Hear what they have to say then react.

“Go on.”

Trevor glances at Sypha and lets her speak for both of them. “We were thinking about what you said the other day, and you’re right. We can’t fix you. It was ignorant of us to believe we could especially after being gone for so long. But we still want to help in whatever ways possible. Talking about causes you too much pain, we understand that. So maybe if you showed us…”

She pauses, examining Alucard’s demeanour. Still face and even stiller breath. Sypha carries on with extreme care. “We read about a type of magic that focuses on dreams and projecting oneself into another’s mind. If you would allow us, Trevor and I could relive your memories and feel whatever it is you’re feeling through dreaming.”

“What she’s trying to say is—FUCK!” Trevor lets loose an entire chorus of expletives as the fairy swarms about trying to lay another bite somewhere she can reach. In between her efforts, she moves to Sypha and pulls her hair, chirping frantically. They flail their arms, ducking and avoiding the little menace as best they can while Alucard looks on. He doesn’t take any pleasure in watching this chaos, yet is in no rush to stop it. Eventually, the fairy tires of her own antics and hides behind his neck, hissing in their direction.

“If it does that again, I’m pickling it inside a jar full of ale.” Trevor threatens, wiping away the small amount of blood drawn from her many bites.

“How much did you read about dream magic?”

Sypha smooths out her curls and straightens her robe. “A lot. We found books from both the Belmont library and your father’s.”

“Were you aware that you can easily die while in someone else’s consciousness?”

“… Yes, we did read about it.”

Alucard nods, clear that he’s holding something back. He hides it behind an uncomfortable stance and glare. “And when you do, your soul wanders aimlessly between worlds. No heaven, no hell, not even limbo. The only afterlife is emptiness. You’re waiting for peace or punishment or anything you actually can feel, but it never comes. Never to be reunited with your loved ones no matter where they are.”

The final statement instills slight panic within Trevor and Sypha. They know the truth as it’s been sitting with them, a festering wound that demands attention. Neither of them have told Alucard but the way he speaks leads them to believe he somehow knows. The one parent seems obvious, necessary even, but both? Another revelation to weigh heavily upon him. The two brace themselves for his venom and the further erosion of his trust for them. They’ve accepted it; maybe they both deserve his vitriol.

“I will consider it.” Alucard walks away with the fairy still glaring daggers into Trevor and Sypha, plotting their inevitable demise.

It’s not what they were expecting, far from his first reaction to their outstretched hands offering support and help (or rather forcing). Though it does not surprise them. I will consider it, I will think about it, all of it means the same outcome. A gentle, polite method of saying no without pushing someone away.

They have failed, but Sypha was truthful. It is his choice.

–

Night arrives quicker at Dracula’s castle. It rushes across the sky and fills each hallway with rushed excitement. The earlier conversation feels like nothing more than a hazy memory, one that warns him of bad tidings whenever it rears itself, now pushed back in favour of things Alucard wants to think about willingly. He sits on his bed holding a white and gold porcelain box while the fairy balances herself on his thighs waiting patiently. He had to do a bit of searching in order to find the illusive box. There was an image tucked away in his distant memories; something his mother always carried with her during the later hours of the day. He thought it was only his mind conjuring up a false recollection but he found it by chance.

Dracula was an inventor as much as he was a conqueror, a recluse, and a legend to keep hell-fearing morals in their place. Yet in the eyes of a child and mother, his grander discoveries paled in comparison to his smaller, more intimate ones. They appreciated and gazed in wonder at the various devices that kept the castle alive like a ticking clock tower but individual items like a music box carry far more heart than gears or electric lights. With a few turns of a small winding key on the side, a soft metallic melody begins to play. The fairy’s ears perk up as do her wings, twitching rhythmically as she stares in elation.

“You enjoy music, don’t you?” He chuckles. She has another surprise in store for Alucard when her mouth opens and lyrics tumble out in perfect tune with the music box. Her high-pitched voice sounds sweeter than honey in the sunlight, but Alucard is most endeared by her skills as a little musician. Less than a minute of listening to a song she’s never heard, and already the words come more naturally to her than to a seasoned court bard.

He closes the box thus silencing its music and the fairy returns to her happy chirps. It is in these moments when he wishes he could match her cheerful presence. All he can do is return her displays of affection with a tired smile, reopen the box, and fashion a bed just for her. She squeaks in delight, immediately flying in to make herself comfortable before curling up, ready to enter a peaceful sleep after an exciting first day alive.

Alucard snuffs out the room candles and settles himself under the covers. While he dreads tonight’s sleep like all the ones that came before and will come after, he feels somewhat pleased that today has joined his list of “alright” days.

Eyes close and he hears the screams. He doesn’t recognize them as screams but instead as distraught squeals similar to that of an animal caught beneath a predator’s claws. Alucard sits upright and turns to the fairy who thrashes about in her makeshift bed, eyes shut tight as sobs wrack her body. The box clatters against the table with every movement.

“What’s wrong? Here, let me help…” He goes to cup her in his hands but her fearful eyes open, tinged red with tears. She backs away even further when Alucard tries again.

“It’s alright. You don’t have to be afraid.” His fingertips brush along her head; he feels how she trembles at the mere sight of him. She’s terrified of a presence she once loved unconditionally.

It takes a moment, but the fairy holds Alucard’s fingers and hugs them against her chest. There remains a hesitance in every action. It’s clear that members of her kind display certain talents that moral minds could never hope to achieve. They’re naturally attuned to the art of music, the mythic science of healing, and the magic of dreams. What did she see within Alucard’s?

He keeps the question to himself out of respect for her sanity; his own as well. Placing the fairy back into the box, she’s not as quick to sleep as she was before and neither is he. She’s too occupied with watching him close, still shaking, while Sypha and Trevor’s proposition crawls its way back into Alucard’s thoughts. It will keep him awake for the rest of the night.

He did say he would consider it.

#castlevania #castlevania fanfiction #trevor belmont #alucard #alucard castlevania #adrian tepes #sypha belnades #trephacard #my writing #*cvfic #updates will be made periodically #ask to tag #silent hill was a HUGE inspiration for this so read with care <3 #end of sanctuary

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