❤︎ five years ago on valentine's day, you left twisted wonderland and left ace behind
❤︎ ace trappola x gn reader
❤︎ wc: 1k
❤︎ content warning(s): spoilers for chapter 7/inspired loosely off of ace's dream, reader is mc
❤︎ farteline prompt day one: see you again
❤︎ happy valentine's day guys -🍝
ace trappola doesn’t consider himself to be a philosophical kind of guy, but as of late, he’s started to detest the growing infinity of numbers.
sometimes in his dreams, he’s still a sixteen year old boy. the biggest concern in his mind is how he’s going to steal part of deuce’s lunch and manage to wiggle his way out of it without getting shoved into a headlock by his roommate, and if his brain is feeling particularly agreeable, he can make out the peals of soft laughter in the distance under deuce spewing insults towards the redhead.
and without fail, the alarm goes off, and ace is left with the humiliation of groggily rubbing his eyes open to an oddly cold bed.
it’s one extra day that he wakes up without you by his side. without you in this world.
the number of days since you’ve left twisted wonderland only grows bigger. they get further and further away from zero and closer to unending infinity. it takes ace a bit longer this morning to force himself up into a seated position. it’s as if there’s a physical weight in his chest bogging him down, making it that much harder for him to get up.
it’s been 1,825 days. he hates that he cares enough to keep count. if he didn’t care as much, he wouldn’t keep count, and then, it wouldn’t hurt as much to ruminate over it. some days are better than others, and the grief is just a whisper in the back of his mind. on other days, it’s all he can think about, especially when his dreams are so vivid.
ace wants to close his eyes and sink back into the fleeting comfort of his bed again. his version of you in his sober, waking mind is so blurry and hazy, but behind his eyelids, you’re right at his fingertips. it’s almost like if he gathers his courage and reaches out, you’d be right there. you’d melt into his arms and scold him for being so reckless and brazen, and he’d soak up your voice like a spoiled cat throwing a tantrum in its owner’s arms.
it drives him crazy to think that this is the only way he can have you.
would you still recognize him if you were to see him after all this time has passed? would you ruffle his hair like you always did and call to him as if he were still nothing more than the stupid boy in your class? or would you get shy about how much taller and slimmer he’s gotten? he can imagine the way your eyes would widen slightly before averting your gaze, fidgeting with the ends of your fingertips, and just imagining the scene before him has ace’s heart reacting noticeably.
but there’s no point to it. you’re not here.
no matter how much he runs, fantasy only ebbs away into heartbreak. his veins feel as if they’ve been filled with lead instead of blood, and the grief gnaws away at him until it causes physical pain. ace winces and grits his teeth, recoiling into the plush material of his bed, but even though he tries to hide from the monsters by retreating into the safety of his blankets, reality is far scarier and far meaner than any boogie man he could conjure up.
he can’t even console himself with the thought that you might be happier in your world. he doesn’t know where you are or what you’re doing. maybe everything would hurt less if he could at least see you, hear from you, but as the days tick by, the only answer his desperate prayers have netted him is the silence that he just can’t seem to get used to. time won’t heal him. it never will.
it makes him feel so helpless. even more inferior to the sixteen year old boy that squandered the one and precious love that crash-landed straight into his lap. everything was easier then, sweeter, since he had no idea of the lifetime of hurt he’d have to face when the idyllic daydream would end. there are no retries for him, no second chances, no do-overs to do the right thing and chase after you and cling to you and beg and beg and beg until his voice goes hoarse in one final futile attempt to force this twisted world to listen to his own selfishness.
it’s too late. it’s no use. he knows this. he accepts this. but god, he can’t live with this.
you’re gone now.
ace is no longer the immature sixteen year old boy that you knew. time has cruelly nipped at his heels, and as his ongoing count of seconds, minutes, hours, days, months, and years carry on, they’ve caught up with him too. the lively, boyish charm in his eyes is gone, and the lingering baby fat in his face has slimmed down. his once deft fingers are now lifeless, and his smooth palms that would grab at you are calloused and lonely. when ace looks at himself in the mirror now, all he sees are sunken eyes with dark circles and pallid cheeks.
valentine’s day tastes like regret to ace. the numbers 2 and 14 are a curse you’ve left on him, as punishment for his idiocy and for his lack of action. all the words he’s left unsaid sink in his stomach year after year like tears he can’t seem to fully choke down. his heart is nothing more than a heavy rock in his chest, no longer able to muster the strength to even scream and cry and claw at his skin until he tires himself out physically. all he can do now is to learn how to live with the heartache, to constantly oscillate between the void and the distance that only grows and grows between the two of you.
it’s been five years. 1,825 days since you’ve left his side—left this world.
@lolitsleia's post made me start shaking like a rabid dog honestly - 💌
It was almost too easy—that was the only thought in your head when you stared at Skully's face. You arrived at a point where you started wondering if you were that charming or if Skully was just easily embarrassed, although you think that both could be true at the same time. Still, with the way he flamboyantly kissed your hand during your first meeting, you certainly didn't expect him to be so rattled by a compliment of all things.
“Why… Why thank you!” He barely kept himself together when he gave that response. You swear that he was more composed than this but considering the possibility of him acting strange because the compliment came from you of all people made you slightly embarrassed as well. Skully placed a finger over the tip of his nose, trying to hide his embarrassment.
“You don't sound too well. Are you alright?” Perhaps it was mean of you to dwell on the situation but it was his fault for showing an adorable response to mere words.
“Of course! Don't worry, I’m simply…” he trailed off. He pinned his gaze somewhere else, trying to avoid yours. “—just not used to it.”
You didn't expect him to answer honestly. That caught you off guard. He gave you a bigger reason to continue the conversation. He was practically serving himself on a silver platter.
“People don't tell you you're cute?”
He turned red again. The vibrant colour stood out on his deathly pale complexion. It was a good colour, you think.
“Not at all.” You could tell he was struggling.
“That's unfortunate.” You tilted your head slightly and crossed your arms. “You're really cute after all. I can't believe people don't tell you that.”
Cute, cute, cute—that’s all you thought of when you looked at his face again. You let out a childish giggle when he tripped over his words, you could tell that he didn't know how to reply. You wished that he was reacting this strongly because of some sort of hidden feeling that remained a secret. You wished that if it was anyone else who told him that, he'd react normally with his usual tone and a gentlemanly smile.
The answer to those wishes remains a mystery. But you're fine with that, for now. You can make do with his flamboyant reaction on display in front of you. Hands cupping his cheeks in embarrassment and lips that were slightly agape, not knowing how to reply.
Yeah, the sight was fine for now. Everything else can come later.
in which you get lost in a forest after being transported into a strange world
— leona kingscholar x gn!reader
this is sooo unedited i did this at like 3am - 💌
If the situation was any more ridiculous, you would have found it in yourself to laugh. In a world full of magic, there are only a few things that you could deem truly impossible; traversing through worlds was not one of them. A simple book was all it took to burden you with unfamiliarity—a new place, a new sky, and new clothes that paint you as an entirely different person. All your senses were working fine, your memory didn't feel hazy either so really, how could you laugh in this situation?
Being unfamiliar with the whole place was bad enough so it's even worse when you realized you strayed from the path and separated from the group. It was already night and the forest was dark and silent. The only thing you could hear was the occasional crow that was filling your head with unsavory thoughts.
Mindset was the key here. If you panic, then the scarier everything will seem. That's why you should take a deep breath and calm yourself. Be rational. Don't make obvious mistakes. And lastly, stay cautious. Being alone made things worse, you only had yourself to rely on.
Although it was easier said than done. The sound of rocks and branches crushing underneath your feet with every step you took put you on edge. It made you conscious of the fact that you were the only one there and amplified your anxieties. You clenched your fist and bit your lip slightly, trying to calm your beating heart.
“... I wonder if they're looking for me.” Saying those words out loud made you stop in your tracks to think. When you said that, there was actually just one singular person in your head—surely he must have noticed that you were gone, right? As for his reaction… that was something you didn't know. Leona was quite a headache to decipher after all, especially when your more-than-a-little admiration for him made it difficult to think logically around him.
Thump!
You heard something drop down. You held your breath and tried to hide behind a tree from something you couldn't see. What was that strange noise? Was it a fruit dropping? A branch? Is it a person? Or was it an animal? Seriously, you overestimated yourself by convincing yourself that you can get through this rationally. You can already feel the fear taking hold of your fingers and feel them shake at its icy touch.
You really wished that there was someone with you right now. That would at least be a little comforting but you weren't even sure if they ventured in the forest again just to find you. Hopefully it was the lion who does the saving, no matter how far-fetched the notion was but right now you were too preoccupied determining if it was safe for you to come out.
A few more seconds without another sound and you told yourself you could finally start moving again. You let out a sigh of relief and started walking once again.
Crunch!
Ah.
Those are definitely footsteps.
That was the sound of branches and twigs being crushed under feet.
You heard it once, twice, now thrice… It's getting louder.
There was no time to hide. You inhaled sharply and started running through the forest without looking back. You cursed yourself when your feet got stuck on a branch and you felt your whole body losing balance, you stretched your arms in front of you just a few moments before falling to stop yourself falling on your face. You winced at the stinging pain that came with it, the small splinters dug into your palm and the rocks and pebbles scratched your palm.
“Aah, this sucks…” You groaned as you tried to get back on your feet. You stared at your palms, it was bleeding from the scratches and you could tell that it was only a matter of time before the adrenaline would settle and pain would make you bite your lip.
And as if things weren't bad enough, you heard footsteps again. Your eyes widened and your body went stiff. You tried to run again but a sharp pain in your right ankle made you freeze in place. It was a horrible time to realize that you had a sprain—you could no longer run. When you realized that, you closed your eyes as the footsteps approached closer and closer until…
“There you are.”
Huh?
You slowly opened your eyes to take a peek. The next sight you saw was Leona crouching down next to you, his hand finding your calf and slowly making its way near your ankle. Carefully and slowly, he let out a sigh when he turned his sight towards you. Was he seriously annoyed right now?
“Grim told me you ran off when he tried approaching you. Seems like that rascal doesn't have the slightest clue as to why you did.”
“That was Grim?” You let out a sigh of relief. You were glad that it wasn't some unknown otherworldly monster that tried to hunt you down. But the adrenaline soon settled down and you could finally see the situation for what it is—you were injured and the one in front of you was Leona Kingscholar of all people. Call it destiny, fate, or whatever but this was definitely a wish heard by the heavens.
“You should've been more careful.” His tone shifted when he narrowed his eyes. “Look at the state of you.”
“Are you going to scold me or help me? I'm an injured person, you know.”
“Give me a bit more time to be mean to you. I just spent the last two hours looking for you nonstop.”
“Huh? Just you?”
“—And Grim.” He added almost too quickly. “Having everyone jump back into the forest and split up would be dangerous. And I refuse to let that lizard show off.”
“... Pfft.” He shot you a small glare after hearing your giggle. You couldn't help it. It's one of the few moments where you had an idea of what's going through his mind. “We could've avoided this situation entirely if you'd just let Malleus do his thing.”
He turned to look at you and you stared right back at him. A few moments of silence pass until—
“Do you want him to save you instead?” Leona pinched your cheek, visibly annoyed at your words. “You ought to be nicer to the guy you like. Whether you like it or not, I’m the one who came for you.”
“Aah, don't get angry! I didn't mean anything by it.” He didn't reply when he turned his back towards you. You had every part of your mind telling you that he wasn't going to leave; and you were right. He dropped his coat to the ground and crouched in front of you. Oh, so this was definitely—!
“Just shut up already. Let's go back to the others.”
would you take someone else's hand if you had the chance?
fem reader
warning(s): fanon personality, fanon name, i'm writing this fic literally hours after the video dropped we deadass know nothing about this guy -🍝
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skelly, as much as he hates to admit it, has to come face-to-face with the fact that his little pumpkin patch has developed a bit of a trespasser issue. normally he wouldn’t mind—after all, what kind of pumpkin king would he be if he weren’t to share the spoils and wonders of his humble kingdom with the rest of his people—if it weren’t for the fact that whoever kept romping about his lovely abode wasn’t like the other pumpkin patch visitors.
see, skelly considers himself to be a gracious host. he is the pumpkin king, and the duty of any good ruler is to ensure that everyone within the gates, or in his case: sprawling fence, of his kingdom is enveloped in joy thanks to his wise governing. be they the resident mice or a lost passerby, his responsibility is to make sure they all leave with a wide grin. macabre perhaps, but his best dealings are in sparking happiness through the morbid.
but you.
each time you come to his pumpkin patch, you come ready to burst into tears. your eyes are watery and glossy, vision undoubtedly blurry as you stumble over the pumpkins through the pitch black dark of the night. the first few times you’d come to the safe haven of his pumpkin kingdom to sniffle your eyes out, he ignored it. he figured you came here after something sad to cheer yourself up and would want space more than the consolation of a pale, creepy lonesome man, but once it becomes a semi-routinely occurrence, he makes the sage decision that now your issues have fallen under his jurisdiction.
isn’t he such a benevolent ruler? he knows it’s wrong to find excitement in someone’s despair, but he can hardly remember the last time he’s had a proper, breathing human visitor. it’s like fate, like destiny itself has drawn you from whatever it is causing you this much sadness and into the soothing comfort of his soon-to-be embraces.
“don’t you worry ‘bout a thing, sweet darling. i’ll be right there,” he hums to no one in particular when the quiet sounds of your clumsy footsteps alert him to your reentrance into his pumpkin patch. he thinks that he looks rather dapper, dressed to the nines in his finest tattered suit and pulling on a matching pair of gloves decorated with bone motifs. “your dearest king is but your humble servant. soon enough, i shall turn that melancholy of yours into unabated joy for none other than me. a far better outcome than whatever is ailing you, don’t you agree?”
there’s no one to respond to him, but he still stretches his dry lips into a satisfied smile. the final touch is his trusty pair of dark sunglasses. a good king never shows his true emotions even during the simplest of diplomatic journeys. that, and he doesn’t want to scare you with his bright orange eyes from the get-go.
it doesn’t take him long to find you. you’re planted in the heart of the pumpkin patch, ensconced and hidden away in the comfort of the long shadows of the night, hunched over and wiping futilely at your eyes while big fat tears drip over your waterline. the sight of you crying makes skelly’s heart wrench inside of his chest. what in the world could possibly make such a sweet creature like you cry like this?
he clears his throat. he’s a gentleman, and he doesn’t want to scare away his lone guest. “my dear… what’s troubling you?”
his voice is soft and careful, but it still makes you gasp and jerk away reflexively. he doesn’t blame you: the last thing you’re expecting during your nightly trips to what you probably assumed was an abandoned pumpkin patch would be a tall, lanky man hovering over you while you cried. he stays in his place and holds his hands up in mock surrender as if to signal to you that he has no foul intentions.
you wipe at your eyes and peer up at him through your clumped lashes, the serene moonlight bouncing off of your wet cheeks. your voice wavers and cracks, “who… who are you?”
“oh! i’m so sorry,” he gasps, placing a hand over his heart. “where are my manners? you may call me skelly. i’m the ruler of this quaint pumpkin patch, so to say. some even call me the pumpkin king. a bit pompous, if i do say so myself. i’d say that maybe you’ve heard of me, but given how surprised you are… i’d wager that you haven’t.”
he flashes you an innocent smile. you know the smart thing would be to run and never look back, but when he squats down so that he’s eye level with you, some part of you can’t bring yourself to muster the strength to flee. you’re already this miserable, what’s the use in trying to wade off an inevitable end?
“so what brings you here? this isn’t the first time i’ve heard you sobbing your heart out. it makes me rather upset to see you this distraught. i’ll lend you an ear, so tell me your troubles.” you can make out the slight glint of his eyes past the dark lenses of his glasses. “maybe i can help you out.”
you bite the inside of your cheeks. your mind is frankly too frazzled to think things through too thoroughly, but you still know better than to spill your deepest darkest secrets to some stranger that crept up on you in the dead of the night in the middle of nowhere. but at the same time, you’re only here because you’re at your wit’s end with nobody to turn to, and a chance encounter like this with a seemingly benevolent being might be your last straw to grasp at desperately.
you suck in a nervous breath. “it’s… it’s silly, really. nothing that the- uh- pumpkin king needs to concern himself over. i’m being dramatic.”
his dry lips twist into a frown as he peers at you. “i doubt it’s anything silly if it’s enough to make you cry like this. you can tell me everything. i promise it. take a chance on me, why don’t you?”
you gaze up at him. his white skin, the strands of his snow white hair, the outline of his body, the silhouette of dark suit and all of the pale ribbons cascading from his chest all seem to glow under the illumination of the night. every part of his man, from his painted smiles to his practiced words, are too good to be true. it makes him look almost deceptively angelic, poised perfectly so that you have no choice but to hand over yourself to him. you should know better than to gamble on something that’s not guaranteed, but you’ve chosen security before only to be stabbed in the back mercilessly.
you swallow back whatever fear bubbles up from the depths of your heart.
“um… i go to a school nearby. night raven college. it’s an all boys school. maybe you’ve heard of it,” the words tumble from your lips clumsily. your heart thunders inside of your chest. “i’m from… somewhere really far away. i can guarantee you haven’t heard of it. no one ever has. the headmaster promised me that he’d help me go home in time, but it’s been so long without any progress. i’m starting to think i’ll never go home.”
you sniffle and hang your head, wanting to bury your face back in your arms. you mumble under your breath, “and… i don’t want to speak badly of anyone… but i’m sick of the students at the school too. they’re all mean and selfish, and i’m just tired. i’m tired, skelly.”
something in his unmoving dead heart stirs slightly when you sigh out his name. he reaches over and places a soothing hand on your shoulder, and a shudder creeps down your spine when you feel just how cold his body is even through the layers of his gloves. it’s like ice against your skin, the grips of frost tracing your body.
“homesickness, is it? i don’t think your sadness is silly at all. it must have hurt you so badly to have to endure everything in such an unwelcoming place. poor thing,” he coos. “no wonder you come here so often. you must have suffered so much if you preferred being alone like this over spending another night in that awful school… if only i knew sooner! i would have done so much more to make you feel welcome.”
you shake your head. “it’s not your fault. i was the one who was too trusting from the beginning. i… i should have never taken the headmaster’s hand through the mirror.”
you feel pitiful under his gaze, but at the same time, you can’t help but feel a knot deep inside of you loosen slightly at his honeyed words. it’s childish, to want to be pitied and cared for, but simultaneously, this was the bare minimum of everything you wanted. all you had asked was for a place to make your own while you waited for a way to return home, and even that much was too much to ask for from the incompetent schoolmaster and his equally intolerable students.
skelly smoothes down the fabric of your clothes on your shoulder, each stroke of his long fingers like the unforgiving touch of winter. it’s like he’s trying to comfort you, but you fight off the urge to shiver under his hand.
“say…,” he starts after a pause of silence, “i know a pumpkin patch is a far cry from the amenities of a school, but if you don’t want to go back… you don’t have to. i know it’s sudden, and you surely don’t have to give me an answer right away if you don’t want to. but what if you were to stay here with me?”
you freeze. you blink slowly, twisting your head so that you’re looking at skelly again. he offers you a placid grin, shrugging his shoulders slightly.
“stay here…?” you mumble. “with you?”
“precisely, my dear. i’ve been growing quite lonely all by myself too. i think we have a perfect deal! a pumpkin queen to a pumpkin king,” his words take on a more lively note. your stomach churns, and skelly claps his hands together. “i would never mistreat you the way those silly boys do. i’m a gentleman, first and foremost. i’ll make you feel at home right away. you won’t even have the time to miss that school and all of the misery it's put you through.”
temptation. you wish you were smarter. more resilient. more grounded to know better than to be swayed by the offer of a total stranger. but you’re at your rope’s end, and anything sounds better than the gilded cage that night raven college has become to you. would it be so bad to take a chance elsewhere? to follow a man who solemnly swears that you can put all of your suffering behind you if you only have the faith to look towards him without any regrets or doubts?
as if he can read your mind, skelly stands up and turns back towards you. he crouches down slightly, dipping forward into a subtle bow, and he holds out a gloved hand towards you.
this scene is all too familiar to you. it harkens you back to the first night you landed in this universe, everything warped and unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. the all knowing moon, the darkness threatening to swallow you whole, a dark robed stranger with promises of salvation dripping from their lips, and a chance to take back some semblance of control of your life that’s jumped from your reach. instead of a mirror, your reflection stares back at you with a lifelessness from the wide glass lenses hiding skelly’s eyes.
it’s like you never learn, and a sense of foreboding washes over you as the pumpkin king’s disarming smile widens.
a hand extended to you. a hand taken.
this time around, you hope you’ve chosen correctly.
x
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vampire au harbingers (signora, scaramouche, arlecchino, tartaglia, dottore)
gender neutral reader
content warning(s): blood, gore, pain stuff, death mention, some religious imagery
a/n: happy halloween 🎃 i dont actually genshin so dont expect this regularly -🍝
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LA SIGNORA!
—La Signora feeds from the heart. She demands nothing but pure devotion, nothing but your undying loyalty promised from her. Does the heart not represent love and passion? Where else would a vampire like her feed from you? Her cold fingers would trail against the fabric covering your torso so carefully, her nails pressing with just enough pressure to make you shiver. And when she sinks her fangs into the left side of chest, the chill of her breath that settles on you feels like the only reminder of the fact that she’s an undead monster of the night rather than a human lover whispering sweet nothings to you. The pain subsides to nothing as her fangs tear and sink into your soft flesh, and when your blood stains the crevices of her lips, you can’t help but think that she looks the most beautiful when she ravishes you.
Your vision spins, and you’re only vaguely aware of the pressure bubbling up inside your throat. You know you should be more wary of your surroundings, more wary of the fact that you teeter dangerously on the precipice of life and death, but you know your captor too well. She adores you, equally to the point of which you worship her, and she could never punish someone like you with something as permanent as death.
“Does it hurt, little love?” She cradles you in her lap. Her dress billows like flames around her, pooling in waves of velvet and ember by her legs. Her fingers play with the outline of your face, and despite the coldness that prickles your skin, you feel warm.
You shake your head, unable to answer. Your own clothes are in tatters, ripped into small pieces on the floor and abandoned. Blood stains your chest, and a fresh pair of bite marks decorate the older ones on the left side of your ribcage. Through your hazy vision, you see La Signora looking down at you with a smile that she reserves only for you.
“Good.” Her fangs, dyed crimson, glisten like rubies. “I would hate to hurt you. But you wouldn’t mind. I know you wouldn’t. You love me too much.”
She’s right. Any pain might remind you of who you were before you became enamored with her. But everything outside of her embrace is unfeeling and unwelcome, and you feel happy when she holds you like this. She makes you feel needed, and in turn, you give the part of your body that befits your other half. It’s the only part she’s missing, but you have more than enough to sustain the two of you.
She leans down and presses her mouth against the top of your forehead. Her lips, always perfect and poised, are sticky and warm with your blood. A shiver trickles down your spine, and her thumb strokes the apple of your shuddering cheeks. The red drops of your blood spread across her mouth and your skin in a hauntingly twisted kiss, an oath and a reminder that you could never belong to anyone else.
“I love you,” she whispers.
SCARAMOUCHE!
—Scaramouche feeds from the neck. He hungers. Too monstrous to be human and too empathetic to be human, the vampire desires nothing more than the warmth and comfort of having his cravings satiated for once. There’s nothing that makes him feel more powerful than to hold you down and to take a bite out of your neck, to feel the vulnerable thrashing of your body as you cling to life. Spurts of your blood fills his mouth, and he drinks like he’s gone mad, taking in mouthful and mouthful, swallowing and sucking as if he’s a starved man devouring honey rather than a beast feasting on his kill. It’s only afterwards, when he sees your glassy eyes clinging to whatever strains of your consciousness that you can, does he realize the horror of what he’s done. But he can’t deny his nature, and for every step his human heart takes forward to give you the dignity you deserve, his vampiric instincts drag one back.
“Stay still! Stay fucking still!” A shrill voice invades your ears. You writhe against the hard floor, your limbs splaying out and struggling against whoever is pinning you down. He sits on top of you, his hips pressing down against your navel and his hands digging down on your shoulders.
Your throat burns. He takes bites of your neck like an animal, flesh and blood staining your skin and the air, the noxious scent of iron filling your nose. You scratch and kick at whoever is holding you down, and the boy sneers at you in between desperate mouthfuls of your blood. In between the adrenaline and the pain, you don’t know what your panicked mind can make out: is it fear that keeps you fighting?
His fangs are attached onto your jugular, buried into your flesh. He drinks, and his lips are pursed around your skin, determined to drain you until you’re nothing but a shell. In his eyes, it’s clear that your humanity means nothing. After all, what is morality to a depraved monster like him? The only thing he can feel is the hunger that gnaws and claws at his stomach, demanding that he be fed before any sense of clarity can kick into his body.
Your defenses only still when your mind nearly goes blank. The loss of blood makes you go almost limp, strength escaping your body as the dark-haired vampire steals it out of you. He gasps and wipes at his mouth, the warmth of your blood spreading inside of him before he shoves himself off of you, practically collapsing next to you.
The boy cries. He scratches at his mouth, his voice almost like a scream as he buries his head in his hands. Gone is the bravado of the outcast vampire, journeying alone like a lone ship, and his decorated shell is peeled back to reveal the emptiness that remains underneath.
“I’m sorry-,” he sobs, cowering next to your barely conscious form. “I’m so, so sorry.”
ARLECCHINO!
—Arlecchino feeds from the thighs. She prides herself on her wisdom and her power. A true hunter stays a step ahead of its prey. An apex predator remains on the top of the food chain not purely because of its might or power but because of its wits, and like any vampire worth their reputation, she has cultivated her place in the world through careful planning and preparation. The thing to fear most from her isn’t her outstretched claws or the razor-sharp fangs waiting to dig into your veins; it’s the head atop her shoulders, always waiting and always thinking. What an honor it must be to see a woman like that on her knees, her lips hovering above the bare skin of your thighs and just waiting for the right moment to feed. It’s a faux show of intimacy as her mouth moves up higher and higher. Her tongue swirls around the puncture wounds left by her teeth, making sure she drinks up every last drop of blood that comes from you. Nothing escapes a vampire like her.
You wonder if salvation remains for you. The place that Arlecchino calls home reminds you more of a gilded birdcage than that of a vampire’s rich castle, undoubtedly a Machiavellian reminder of what she’s capable of. You’re nothing more than a figurehead, seated atop a golden throne as she kneels before you, slotting herself in between your legs.
Sharp claws slide up your bare skin, and the cool air makes goosebumps prickle on the top side of your thighs. Your body feels weak, trapped in your own skin. Your strength has been sapped away by her feeding, and she looks up at you with unreadable eyes as the last of your blood disappears down her throat.
“Have you been taking care of yourself?” She asks. It’s not a question she asks out of genuine concern for you. Everything she does is calculating and explicable only to her. But her intentions are clear this time around; you have to stay alive for her sake. Who else could give her the sweet blood she craves if something were to happen to you.
“Yes, Arlecchino.” Her name is like poison against your tongue, and yet you still let it linger anyway. You don’t have the strength to run away from her or to fight back. She’ll know the moment even the thought of rebellion enters your brain, probably faster than you’re aware of it yourself.
She rubs the sore spot on your thigh, right where she had bit you. The flesh is numb and swollen, your body desperately trying to heal itself after the wound she inflicted onto you. This is what a true predator-prey relationship is like, with her keeping you in her grasp, knowing that you exist only to give her the sustenance she requires.
Truly a cunning woman. Not entirely heartless, but in that perfectly measured middle ground of both fear and respect.
“Good. It wouldn’t do either of us any good if you were to grow weak.” She rises from her feet, and you watch with hazy eyes as her snow white hair emerges into your view. She stands with her back straight and her head raised, peering down at you as if she wasn’t the one staring up at you with a mock reverence just seconds before.
A hand reaches forward, and her frozen palm cups your face. This isn’t affection, nor is it a reward.
“Now rest,” Arlecchino commands unfeelingly, “Regain your strength so that you can sustain me.”
TARTAGLIA!
—Tartaglia feeds from the wrists. It’s wrong for a vampire to become fond of anyone, but that’s the predicament Childe finds himself in. You’re a human, vivacious with your own life and hope and dreams. You have likes and dislikes: things that make your eyes sparkle when you talk about them and things that make you scrunch your face up with scorn at the mere thought. How could he not be enraptured? He loves playing the role of a teasing gentleman. He loves the pursuit, winning over your trust bit-by-bit by seducing you with his well-timed charms. He finds it so endearing how easily you present him your hand when he bows before you, his once shiny eyes turning dark and sultry. Did you expect him to kiss your hand? No—that was never his plan. Not when he can sink his teeth into the veins in your wrists and drink to his heart’s content, the thrill of chasing you down just as sweet as the result itself.
The way the man in front of you steals your blood feels downright lewd. You’ve always known that there was more to Childe than he let on, more to him that the flirtatious young man that stuck to your side. You had constantly wondered what exactly he was after, but you could have never expected someone like him to have hid his fangs so expertly.
His tongue lathers and laps at your wrist. He sighs happily against your bloodied and torn flesh, like he’s laughing to himself and enjoying the gruesome sight of you frozen in your tracks, too terrified to yank your hand away from him or to even fend him off in any capacity.
“Don’t be shy,” he breathes. His exhales are like gusts of winter wind on your unassuming body, and it’s another horrifying reminder that the man you once trusted was never human to begin with. His true colors are showing now: a bloodlust-filled smile, an unforgiving grip on your arms, your very life force being shoved down his gullet.
“You’re very pretty when you smile. Don’t you remember all the times you’d smile at me? I’d tell you my dumb jokes, and you’d laugh in a way that made my heart skip.” He licks his lips, and his mouth turns an even messier shade of ruby red. “At least, it would have, had I been alive.”
You’re at a loss for words. Your response weighs like an anchor inside your cheeks. Your lips tremble with fear. Is this man going to kill you? No, he wouldn’t. Not so quickly, not when he seems to be enjoying your suffering this much.
His tongue slides against the two clean puncture wounds in your wrists again, and you wince at the stinging pain that shoots up your muscles. He smiles into the curve of your hands. “But I don’t think this expression is all that bad either. I’ve never seen you make a face like that at me. I forgot how much fun it is to hunt someone down. I bet you never saw this coming.”
Childe smacks his lips exaggeratedly, generous rivulets of your dark blood trickling from the corners of his mouth and down his chin. “I want to see everything you have. Show me all the other parts of you that I haven’t seen yet. Let me be selfish with you.”
DOTTORE!
—Dottore feeds from the mouth. He operates on the tangible, the real, the pain and the catharsis of it. To feed doesn’t simply mean to nourish himself. He wants a reminder of his place in the world, the power he holds over knowledge and his constant pursuit of it, and he wants to see the effects seared in his wake. It isn’t enough to steal your blood, he needs you to feel it just as much as he does: the strength leaving your body and into his, his tongue lapping selfishly at your life force, the stinging pain and the numbing sensation making your knees buckle. Maybe he fits the role of the traditional vampire most closely, making sure you understand your inferiority in every single way as a human, that your existence is to be his experiment and his prey, that he can snuff you out like a candle in the dark if he so much as chooses to do so.
There are bite marks on the bottom of your lips. Some have healed, the flesh scarring over into bumpy lumps, and others are still in the process. But the one tonight is fresh. They’re torn open, left there with a fury from Dottore’s pointed, jagged fangs. A strong hand grips your chin and keeps your face in place.
His mouth is on yours, tangled in a kind of mangled kiss. He sucks and sucks at your lips, your blood staining every inch of your tongue and the inside of your cheeks, as if he’s reminding you of how monstrous he can be. There’s no rhyme or reason to your mind in his way of feeding, but to Dottore, it’s a constant reminder that you have no way of fighting back against him. For someone so cold and so heartless, it’s ironic that he kisses you so passionately to drink your blood.
Tears well in your eyes when he pulls away, and a sticky mix of saliva and blood connects you to him momentarily before it snaps.
“Does it hurt?” His voice is firm, scary. Each syllable is poised like a viper baring its fangs, waiting for a single sign of weakness to finish off its catch. He enjoys your suffering, revels in it, finds different ways to draw it out of you, yet the only constant is his insistence on drinking from your lips.
Your voice trembles, and you nearly choke on your own blood. “‘t hurts- Hurts a lot.”
He smiles behind his mask, and you shudder at the sight of his perfectly lined pointy teeth. Each one sharpened, it’s a mark of a true predator.
And for a split second, you know why he drinks from your mouth. It’s his way of stealing every scrap of humanity from you, to steal something as primitive as the act of kissing from you, so that every part of himself is engraved deep into your own base instincts.
“Good.” Strong fingers grasp at the fat of your cheeks, and he lowers his head so that he’s eye-level with you. You can’t see anything, not with that unfeeling mask in place, but Dottore’s evidently pleased with whatever he sees. Your face hurts where his fingers dig into your flesh, but when he drags his tongue across his blood-stained teeth, you know that this is only the beginning. He’s only gotten a taste of your blood, and a sampling is far from the amount he needs to satisfy himself. It’s only when you’re cowering on the floor, wasted beyond salvation, begging him for mercy, that he might decide that he’s had enough of toying with you.
The cycle is always the same.
Your eyes shake violently at the mental vision, and your chest tightens with cold anticipation. It’s dread, and it’s your body yelling at you in order to preserve your survival. But it’s futile. Not when he’s so much more than you are: stronger, faster, smarter.
“I want it to hurt,” he mocks your horror-stricken form. “And I want it to always hurt.”
x
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