Some issues in the existence of fictional characters

PLAYER: Well, I can do you blood and love without rhetoric, and I can do you blood and rhetoric without love, and I can do you all three concurrent or consecutive, but I can't do you love and rhetoric without blood. Blood is compulsory. 

— Tom Stoppard, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead

  "Scary stories, right," Makishima repeated dully. Aside from a trigonometry textbook, perhaps nothing frightened him more than the prospect of ending up in a book without a plot, drowning in a murky "stream of consciousness" — a literary bog stretching from Swann’s Way right To the Lighthouse and onward into The Waste Land. But that was unlikely to be what L had in mind. "Stories about old castles, curses, ghosts, witches, werewolves, and vampires," L clarified. "Oh, just that," Makishima said with great relief. Every time they thought the next book couldn't possibly be worse, they somehow managed to sink even lower. But Gothic literature, at least, didn’t seem to hold any particularly nasty surprises... So Makishima didn’t spend long deliberating — he grabbed the first book he saw with a pair of sultry bloodsuckers on the cover and asked: "Will this do?" L nodded enthusiastically. There is no chimera more revolting than the false virtue imposed upon us by society. From infancy, we are taught to feign righteousness — not to possess it, but merely to wear its mask. It seems obvious that virtue is dogged by misfortune, while vice is invariably rewarded with prosperity. Many, therefore, conclude that it is wiser to surrender to vice than to resist it — to don the mask of counterfeit virtue and take their place among the villains who thrive, rather than among the truly virtuous, who are doomed to failure. Those of a philosophical disposition often see through this illusion of virtue. They choose rebellion, abandon pretense, and begin committing evil openly, whenever it pleases them — only to end their days in prison or on the scaffold. So that, too, is no solution. But the world would crumble in an instant if vice alone reigned supreme. We dare to assert that true virtue exists — a virtue that is not imposed by society, but chosen freely. Alas, in an age as corrupt as our own, its manifestations are exceedingly rare. Our tale recounts the remarkable transformation of a certain count who, one day, glimpsed a seed of true virtue deep within his own soul. He had been a man utterly depraved in every sense of the word — unspeakably cruel, if not monstrous. His deeds were base and vile; he found beauty only in the fury of a storm, never in the serenity of peaceful life. He had laughed at the chains of religion and society all his days, guided only by his passions — which, as we shall soon see, were of the most corrupt nature. But then, his path crossed with that of a young man of extraordinary purity, who led him toward the light… There was something strangely familiar about this style, but Makishima couldn’t quite place it. And more importantly — when, exactly, were the vampires supposed to show up? Elias Lowliet, heir to a wealthy and illustrious English lineage, had — by reasons unknown to both himself and those around him — been raised from infancy not in the grandeur of his ancestral estate, but in a monastery in London. At last, his parents, deciding he had come of age, removed him from his cloistered existence and revealed to him his true destiny. If the boy suffered any deficiency, it was in companionship, and Elias felt immense joy at finally leaving his prison behind. His soul had been shaped by the strictest moral and religious teachings of the monastery. A young man of deep and contemplative intellect, he also possessed a certain guilelessness that was bound to lead him into many snares upon entering the wider world. Endowed with such lofty spiritual qualities, our hero was also graced with the beauty of those famous Adonises painted by Caravaggio. Enormous black eyes, languid and sorrowful; skin of porcelain whiteness; a slender, supple figure; raven curls — thus is our exquisite youth described in brief. As for other — oh, truly delightful! — parts of his body, we shall dwell on them in due course. For now, let us simply say that no matter what our readers might imagine, no matter how enticing their visions, reality shall prove even sweeter… At last, Makishima realized what the writing reminded him of, and his eyes glazed over. Unfortunately, it was already too late to do anything about it.   Upon arriving in Austria, our charming hero took care to equip himself with all the necessities for the difficult task entrusted to him. And so, after a grueling journey through Transylvania, Elias finally laid eyes on the towering walls of Blutstein Castle — a menacing yet breathtakingly beautiful Gothic edifice, its many turrets and spires casting dark, jagged shadows against the sky. The coachman deposited his luggage in the grand entrance hall before leading the horses away to be unhitched. The castle was a strange contradiction of luxury and decay, and for a moment, Elias had the unsettling impression that not a single living soul resided within its walls. But then, from somewhere above, the echo of a door slamming reverberated through the halls, followed by the measured sound of approaching footsteps. Descending the grand staircase was an extraordinarily handsome man. He was clad in a black cloak lined with deep crimson, his long white hair cascading over his shoulders. His eyes — an uncanny shade of gold — fixed upon Elias, and the young man was struck by their inhuman beauty. And yet, beneath the stranger’s outward charm, there lurked something unspeakably dangerous and corrupt, his lips curved into the sly, knowing smirk of a libertine. "Welcome. I am Count Blut Makishima von Weisshaar. I am pleased to receive you in my domain. A room has been prepared for you upstairs. Once you have settled in, I invite you to join me for dinner." The dining table was set for a single guest. The count explained that he rarely dined himself — though it was painfully obvious that the master of the house was starving. During dinner, Elias was introduced to the castle’s three other residents. They were women of striking beauty, yet their allure was entirely consumed by wanton debauchery. Each, in her own way, was lost to the insatiable grip of vice: one was fair-haired, another had a mane of black like the midnight sky, and the third bore wild, auburn curls. "My sisters: Mina, Erzsébet, and Carmilla," the count introduced them. With not the slightest concern for Elias’s modesty, the three viscountesses — and von Weisshaar himself — immediately began casting upon their guest the kind of ravenous glances and murmured remarks that set the poor youth’s ears ablaze. It was painfully clear that the castle’s inhabitants were eager not only to taste his blood but to drag him into the depths of every imaginable sinful pleasure… It was unbearable. Makishima’s gaze kept dropping, as if drawn by some magnetic force, from the guest’s face to his throat. The castle was as cold as a crypt, and yet the guest, as if suffering from some stifling heat, had unfastened his collar. If Makishima had known L any less, he would have sworn he had done it on purpose. The delicate hollow between sharp collarbones. The blue vein, pulsing so sweetly against his pale skin… Makishima blinked, forcing himself to shake off the spell. Seven percent of seven is 0.49. Phosgene is neutralized by ammonia. “In spring it is the dawn that is most beautiful… In summer the nights.” The thoughts of throat and vein lost some of their grip on his mind. "I have always been drawn to vampire folklore," L was saying, entirely unaware, it seemed, of the battle raging in Maksima’s soul. "So naturally, the legend-shrouded, Gothic Castle Blutstein could not fail to intrigue me…" "Surely you don’t believe in vampires? How terribly old-fashioned," Erzsébet giggled. "And naïve," Carmilla added. "But what else could one expect from such a young guest, with such soft, dreamy eyes?" "Perhaps. And yet, I think there is a certain irresistible charm in such legends." "Well then, I invite you to extend your stay at Blutstein," Makishima said cordially. "The library holds several rare collections, and in the eastern wing’s gallery, you will find a couple of authentic Giottos. But of course, if you would rather search for vampires, you are free to do so." "Oh, I most certainly intend to." And on top of everything else, the guest smelled so good… Makishima somehow knew — knew — that other people did not smell like this. The three vampiresses watched Elias intently, their nostrils flaring in pleasure and anticipation, as if a human-sized line of cocaine had just strolled into their dining hall. Makishima had the unpleasant suspicion that he looked no less pathetic. Dark-haired Erzsébet nudged him with an elbow and murmured: "You sense it too, don’t you, brother? His blood is different. It smells like a glass of sweet framboise. I can hardly wait to taste it…" "It… and everything else," Carmilla added with a giggle. "Oh yes. Those lips were made for kissing." "I’ve already gotten quite the look at the lovely figure hiding beneath that simple travel suit," the youngest, fair-haired Mina, drawled, her angelic features starkly at odds with the wicked curve of her smile. This was sheer lunacy. Of all the books Makishima could have imagined L starring in, a piece of vampire erotica, styled after good old de Sade, had never crossed his mind. And yet, as L met the count’s gaze, he smiled — a smile that could only be called inviting — and loosened his collar even further. "Well, I believe I shall retire for the night. My thanks for a delightful dinner. Would you be so kind as to show me to my chambers?" Every word the guest uttered somehow managed to sound indecent. "I fear I may lose my way, for the castle is so very vast." "Oh, I’d be delighted to escort you!" Mina sprang up from her seat. "Sit down, Mina," Makishima ordered, his tone like a blade of ice. "What an appalling lack of tact..." Then, turning to L, he continued: "Your room is right by the staircase, first door on the right. Not difficult to remember." "What’s the matter, dear brother? Oh, I see — you want to have him first!" Mina bared her teeth in a grin. She said it quite loudly. Loud enough for L to hear. And instead of looking the least bit alarmed, the young man merely smiled, his expression every bit as enticing as before. "I would be particularly pleased by your company, my lord," he admitted. Makishima was beginning to fear for his own sanity. "I think you should rest alone after your long journey," he said stiffly. "Perhaps I’ll have one last bite of cake first…" the guest mused. And then— "Ah!" A sharp breath. A flicker of movement. "Would you believe it? I just cut myself with the dessert knife. How clumsy of me…" The vampires in the room went still. Their faces changed, their expressions sharpening into something far too hungry. The tension in the air thickened to the point of suffocation. "You should be more careful, young man," Makishima said harshly, forcing himself to look anywhere but at the fine crimson line welling up on L’s fingertip. What a scent. What an intoxicating scent. No. He would not think about it. He could endure this. “In autumn, the evenings, when the glittering sun sinks close to the edge of the hills…” Ordinary people found comfort in sleep when night fell. But Makishima, like any proper vampire, sat awake by the fire, idly prodding at the cooling embers with a pair of tongs. He did not feel warmth. He did not feel cold. What he did feel was a growing uncertainty about this entire bizarre situation. At last, he concluded that he and L needed to have a frank discussion. It would be delicate, no doubt. And he could already foresee that the sight of that throat, that pulse, would be an insufferable distraction. But he had rehearsed enough literary quotations in his mind to avoid thinking — too much — about the delicious crimson trail from that cut finger, the lingering scent of which he could detect even from here. He climbed the stairs, his resolve firm. And then he stopped. L’s door was ajar. "I just came to check if you were sleeping well." Mina’s voice. "Quite the opposite, I’m afraid. I’m suffering from a dreadful bout of insomnia. Care to keep me company?" "So soon?" The vampire girl sounded surprised. But she did not wait for a second invitation. Makishima heard the sound of lips meeting lips. And then — of lips trailing downward, latching onto a throat. (Makishima sighed softly, running his tongue over his own sharpening fangs.) It took only a few seconds. Then pleasure and lust melted from Mina’s face, replaced by wide-eyed, incomprehensible horror. And pain. Indescribable pain. L wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and shoved her away. Mina collapsed to the floor, writhing in agony. Foam frothed from her lips. Her skin blistered, swelling into grotesque, festering boils that ruptured almost as soon as they formed, spilling pus and blood in sickening bursts. And then— Then her body simply burst. Makishima stared. L, for his part, looked entirely unperturbed. When all that remained of his nocturnal visitor was a heap of shredded flesh and bloodied slime, he gave a small, satisfied nod. Then, with the calm efficiency of an English butler, he produced a rag and began scrubbing the floor and walls with methodical precision. Well. That was… somewhat unexpected. Makishima took a slow step back toward the staircase.   By morning, after conducting some additional research, Makishima had reached a conclusion: on the contrary, this was exactly the kind of thing L would do. The stifling, erotically charged atmosphere of the castle hadn’t affected him in the slightest — he had come to Count von Weisshaar’s domain with a sincere and unwavering intention: to exterminate vampires. The following evening, when L descended for dinner, the collar of his shirt was once again left invitingly open, revealing several conspicuous love bites and two neat puncture marks on his neck, trailing a nearly visible scent of exquisite temptation in the air. "My castle is not the kind of place where one should walk around looking like that, Mr. Lawliet," Makishima said, pouring the full chill of the Arctic into his tone.  "Is something the matter?" L asked with feigned innocence. Makishima glanced around to ensure Erzsébet and Carmilla were still enjoying their sweet daytime slumber in their coffins. It was just past twilight — still early — and they were alone in the dining hall. "Do you want my sisters to figure out what happened last night?" "So you’re finally done pretending you’re not vampires?" L exclaimed in triumph. Then, with a sly note of hope in his voice, he added, "But aren’t you even a little tempted to... do something to me?" "I took a quick flight to London last night…" Yes, there were certain advantages to vampire existence. "…I did some research, went through the church’s genealogical records. Turns out, your family has been hunting vampires since biblical times. Your blood is highly toxic to us. The luggage you brought is packed with stakes, garlic, crosses, and bottles of holy water. And, well, I did see what happened to poor Mina with my own eyes, so — no, I will not be biting you. Don’t hold your breath." L’s enthusiasm noticeably dimmed. "I’d be willing to spare you the agony of dying from the venom in my blood and grant you a merciful death instead. A swift stake to the heart, a clean beheading. Consider it a kindness." "Unfortunately, I’m not quite ready for that," Makishima replied, his voice dripping with venom. "In fact, I dare say I intend to resist. There are plenty of ways to kill a man without biting him, and I don’t see you bringing any of your stakes or holy water to dinner." It was only now that L seemed to fully register just how precarious his situation was. He tensed, fingers tightening around the dinner knife — his only available weapon. But Makishima made no move to attack, and after a moment, the would-be vampire hunter hesitantly asked: "You’re not going to kill me?" "Not unless you try to ambush me with those stakes." "And if I do try?" "Then we’ll see. For now, though, I strongly suggest covering up those… marks of debauchery." Makishima tossed him a cravat. L scowled but begrudgingly wrapped it around his neck. Throughout dinner, he remained sullen and withdrawn, though eventually, Erzsébet and Carmilla managed to draw him into conversation. Fortunately, they were no longer shamelessly throwing themselves at him as they had the night before — clearly, they had taken their brother’s claim over the guest seriously. At last, L muttered, "Fine. I’ll look at your library. And that… Giotto of yours." "...Giotto’s use of shadows in this painting is rather unusual. In his time, artists hadn’t yet mastered the depiction of volume, which is why art historians were hesitant to attribute this piece to him. But it undeniably bears his style, and there’s substantial evidence that it was painted during his lifetime. His use of color was also well ahead of his contemporaries. Look here — see how the light falls on the angel’s wings?" Makishima spoke with enthusiasm, feeling like Henry Higgins attempting to instill some semblance of culture into Eliza Doolittle. And besides, an art lecture was an effective distraction from... otherthoughts. L, however, still looked brooding. Clearly, his mind was elsewhere. And then, out of nowhere, he said: "I’m going back to London." "What?" "I like the castle and all, but the plot... isn’t really working for me." Oh, trust me, I know exactly what you mean,Makishima thought. "...I’ve been thinking. I don’t actually want to kill you. Not with stakes, not with holy water, not even waiting for you to bite me. And yes, yes, I know — you’re being civil. But I can see the way you look at me. Like a birthday cake. And I’m afraid that one day, you won’t be able to resist." "That’s what you came here for in the first place, wasn’t it?" "It was." L exhaled, as if exasperated with himself. "But when I imagined it… I realized I wouldn’t be happy if you died. Even as a vampire, you…" His words trailed off, and then he said it, with a simplicity so unguarded it was almost disarming: "I like you." Makishima had never been able to say something so plainly. "…I enjoy spending time with you. Hell, I even tolerate your rambling about paintings. But since I don’t want to kill you, there’s no point in staying here." "Fine. The servants will help you pack. Make sure you don’t forget anything from your impressive collection of anti-vampire weaponry." "This isn’t some kind of trap, is it?" L asked warily. "You’re really just going to let me leave?" "Yep. Let’s just say I’ve developed a genuine fondness for you as well." Makishima was thoroughly relieved to be spared the need to explain the… unique conventions of this particular genre. It seemed the problem was about to resolve itself. "I’d love to kill those insufferable, sharp-toothed hussies before I leave," L added dreamily, "but I suppose you’d be against that. They are your sisters, after all. And, well…" He hesitated, then admitted: "Being friends with you has shown me that some vampires might not be entirely awful." Makishima rifled through the usual clichés and pulled out an appropriate one: "If you swear to never hunt vampires again, I’ll stop killing humans and survive on animal blood instead." L nodded solemnly. For a moment, they almost believed they were telling the truth. Reconciliation. Friendship. A symbolic exchange of vows. Makishima thought it made for a rather elegant conclusion. At least, as elegant as a story could be, given the dubious setting. ...The only problem was, the story wasn’t over yet.   In his magnanimity, Count von Weisshaar chose to spare his beloved’s innocence — oh, reader, do you see how the arrival of Elias in Blutstein had cast a light upon the count’s rotten soul? — but in doing so, he unwittingly placed him in terrible danger. He did not know that, during their evening conversation in the dining hall, his sisters Carmilla and Erzsébet had not been asleep. The cunning she-devils had been watching, listening to their every word. They bore Elias a bitter grudge — not only for the ruthless way he had destroyed their sister Mina, but even more so for resisting their charms, untouched by lust or vice. Yet, fearing their brother’s wrath, they dared not attack the young man within the walls of Blutstein. Instead, they wove a far crueler plan: they would wait for him beyond the castle’s gates and kill him without a bite — now that they knew the secret of his poisonous blood. Grief-stricken at their parting, the count felt more alone in his cold domain than ever before, and so he did not immediately notice that his sisters had disappeared. But when realization struck, his heart clenched with fear. He took to the air, streaking toward the path the carriage had taken. The scent of blood and death reached him from afar. Alas, he was too late. The carriage lay overturned, the horses gasping their last breaths, their bellies slit open. His treacherous sisters, unwilling to face his fury, had already fled the scene, but the coachman — drained dry, his skin as pale as chalk — spoke more clearly than words of who was to blame. Inside the wreckage, he found his beloved. A jagged shard of the carriage’s axle had pierced the boy’s chest straight through. He was still breathing, but life was slipping away, fragile as candlelight in a storm. The count fell to his knees and cried out in desperation: "Will you forgive me if I make you like myself? If I force you to share the burden of immortality?" The dying boy was too weak to speak, but he looked at the count and smiled — so gently that Weisshaar knew, at once, the answer was yes. As everyone knows, a mere bite is not enough to turn a man into a vampire. For the transformation to take hold, the vampire must drink the human’s blood, offer his own in return, and then spend the night with him in a grave…   And so, Makishima did precisely that. He tore into the skin of his wrist, letting thick, dark blood pool before pressing it to L’s lips. Then, without hesitation, he carried him to the nearest cemetery — of which, unsurprisingly, there was no shortage around Blutstein. He found an empty grave, unceremoniously discarding what little had previously occupied it. The only step left — the hardest of all — was to drink L’s blood himself, and to pray that after this "glass of sweet framboise" he did not meet the same gruesome fate as poor Mina. He sank his fangs into L’s neck with the delicacy of a dessert fork in tiramisu. Then promptly shoved his fingers down his own throat and vomited. Twice. Makishima dearly hoped that the ritual itself mattered more than any chemical reaction in the blood, because if even a drop of it had reached his stomach, he was doomed. When he was about to rinse out his mouth, a scorching pain flared in his throat. His breath hitched. Every part of him that had touched the poisonous blood burned and swelled as though from some terrible venom. His limbs trembled, weakening. He barely managed to crawl into the grave before collapsing onto L’s limp body. Well. How romantic. That was his last thought before darkness took him.   He awoke in the castle. On the very bed where, not long ago, the passionate vampire Mina had tried to seduce L — and paid the price for it. It was daylight. In the bright sun, the room seemed strangely unfamiliar. Dust had gathered in the corners, the once-opulent drapes of Blutstein had faded, and the carpet was stained with wax from too many dripping candles. He sat up, testing his body — still weak, but somehow lighter. At that moment, the door flew open, and L all but burst into the room. "I thought you’d never wake up!" he exclaimed, delighted. "I even had a stake ready." "How considerate." Makishima rubbed his forehead, wincing. The sunlight streaming onto his face was an utterly foreign sensation. "Why am I not burning?" "Probably something to do with my blood," L replied airily. Makishima had already begun to suspect as much. He no longer heard L’s heartbeat, nor smelled his blood, nor felt that same aching hunger at the sight of his throat. He felt, in every way, disturbingly... human. "And I," L continued, frowning, "didn’t turn into a vampire after drinking your blood... And my own blood isn’t poisonous for you anymore." "How do you know?" "Well… I tracked down Carmilla and Erzsébet. Thought they might know how to save you. My blood didn’t work, so I had to resort to, uh, other methods. Good thing your castle has a torture chamber." It took true talent to condense a horror story into two casual sentences. Makishima could only hope he was joking. It was a fragile hope. "You’re a demon," he muttered. "You really did turn this into a horror story." "I thought that’s what it was." L raised an eyebrow. "What was it supposed to be?" "A love story." A silence fell between them. Then L, businesslike, declared, "Well, that explains why we’re still here. The plot should be over — you woke up, everyone except us is dead. But we’re still here. That must mean we have to kiss or something before we can leave." Or something. Straight to the point. L settled onto the bed beside Makishima, staring at him expectantly. Makishima thought that putting this plan into action had been much easier back when L smelled of wine and de Sade, when the sight of that faint bluish vein on his neck made his breath hitch. Now, though, the whole thing felt unbearably awkward. Ridiculous, even. Alright, let’s call this a controlled case of stupidity… He brushed his lips against L’s dry, chapped ones, teasingly licked his upper lip, then pushed his tongue into his mouth — L yielded obediently but didn’t react in the slightest. His compliance wasn’t arousing in the least. Kissing him felt about as passionate as kissing a rubber doll. Or a corpse. Makishima pulled back, glancing around the room as if hoping something had changed. But no, they were still in Blutstein. "I’m no expert in this particular genre," L said in a flat tone, as if delivering a news report about minor fluctuations in car sales, "but it seems highly probable that we’ll have to have sex to conclude this story."   Makishima appreciated objects with a noble patina of age, but even he thought the bedding in Blutstein Castle could stand to be a little less gray with time, and the bed’s canopy a little less devoured by moths. Still, at the moment, the dilapidated state of their so-called love nest was the least of their problems. "Do you have experience with men?" L asked. "Yes," Makishima decided not to elaborate. "I don’t," L admitted. Then, after a pause, he clarified, "I don’t have any experience. At all." Well, not exactly a surprise. "…Does it hurt?" L asked. Makishima hadn’t exactly been aiming for romance, but there was something fundamentally wrong about that being L’s first concern. It made him realize just how alien all of this must be to him. Even leaving emotions aside, L — unlike Makishima, who viewed the physical world with detached amusement — clearly had his own set of issues with embodiment itself. He was probably feeling uncomfortable. And, let’s be honest, scared. Makishima also wasn’t particularly eager to find out how much L actually knew about the mechanics of sex. About preparation, about making sure it wasn’t painful, about making it at least somewhat enjoyable for one of them. With a sigh, he said, "Let’s simplify things. I’ll be on the bottom. You just… do what nature intended." L stared at him like a stuck pig. Makishima swore internally. Right. Nature. As if L had ever concerned himself with anything as pedestrian as biological imperatives. "I mean—" "I understand. I’m supposed to insert my penis into you." "Something like that," Makishima muttered, cursing everything in existence. "And occasionally put your tongue in my mouth. And, you know, touch my body in various places. And maybe make a face like you’re at least somewhat interested. That’s generally how people have sex." "Your sarcasm is unnecessary. I’ve watched porn," L said. "I just don’t know how to… start." "Well, for starters — undress me," Makishima instructed. He knew he was attractive. But under L’s gaze, as he was being stripped, he felt deeply uncomfortable. There was no hunger in that stare, no admiration — L wasn’t lingering anywhere, but he wasn’t avoiding anything either. It was clinical. "Leave the shirt on. It’s more erotic that way." What am I saying, Makishima thought immediately. That’s like preaching to birds. Still, L obediently froze, then moved on to the buttons of his pants, face unreadable. Makishima hesitated for a moment before asking, "Do you even like me?" L took the question seriously — tilting his head, studying Makishima’s body with the same intense focus he might apply to solving a particularly complex case. For some reason, he pressed his palm against Makishima’s, comparing their sizes (his was slightly larger), as if only now realizing that other people weren’t just copies of himself. Then he traced his fingers over Makishima’s chest, through his hair, along his cheekbone. There was no shyness in his touch. No tenderness, either. Just the curiosity of an investigator. "I don’t find you repulsive," L finally concluded. "You have nice hair. And your shirt… is acceptable." "Wow. We’re really gonna have to work on your compliments." Makishima turned his face into L’s palm, licking his fingers. He wrapped his own hand around L’s cock, but got no reaction — not even a gasp. And yet, he wanted to hear it. Wanted L to moan, to tremble, to whisper his name. The realization surprised him. Come on, there had to be a line somewhere, some threshold past which even a young, healthy guy — no matter how detached from the world — would finally give in to instinct. Luckily, they were still in the kind of story where failure wasn’t an option. Some readers care little for the moral dimensions of our tale, nor for the subtleties of our heroes' inner turmoil. They await only the scandalous scene of their baser indulgences. And so, to satisfy their curiosity, we must, setting decency aside, recount the events that transpired so they too might share in the unearthly rapture that our protagonists experienced. With the fervor of a devoted lover, the former vampire sought to ignite the fire of lust in his innocent companion. Beginning with gentle kisses, the seducer soon descended to Elias’s manhood, lavishing it with expert attentions that betrayed just how long he had been enraptured by this most exquisite part of the human form. With skilled lips and tongue, he worshipped the sacred staff, lapping up the precious pearls of dew that formed at its tip as if they were morning droplets on a flower’s petal. At first, the youth seemed immune to the count’s wicked expertise, but soon, desire overtook him. Drunk on passion, he took control, toppling von Weisshaar onto his back, rendering him a helpless victim of his newfound ardor. Though Elias lacked experience, he made up for it with the raw intensity of his youthful soul. Soon, unable to withstand the sweet torment, the count pleaded, “Oh, please, take me!” Yet, when the moment came to act, Elias hesitated once more, recalling his lack of knowledge. Laughing, von Weisshaar reassured him that, with such a guide, he needn’t worry. He straddled Elias’s lap, aligning their bodies in a manner befitting his depraved tastes. Lost in ecstasy, he guided his lover into him, trembling with sinful pleasure. Elias, quick to learn the art of sodomy, thrust into him with powerful strokes, while simultaneously ensuring his partner’s pleasure with eager hands. The heat of their union melted the vampire’s frozen soul, and he surrendered to the overwhelming tide of sensation. Lips met, tongues entwined, gasps mingled — until, finally, they reached their shared climax in an eruption of carnal bliss. Makishima would later, out of curiosity, open that accursed book and read the passage. It was so tedious, so mock-moralizing, that de Sade himself would have choked with envy. In reality, though? It had been… rather hot. Maybe not the best sex of his life, but certainly not the worst. Neither of them noticed exactly when the dilapidated bedroom of Blutstein Castle faded, replaced by the familiar, almost-homey library. Makishima only realized when a few books toppled noisily to the floor around them. He met L’s equally stunned gaze. "Well. We’re home," he said, in the most casual tone a man could muster while sitting in another man’s lap (and, well, not just his lap). "That was, without a doubt, my mistake." L withdrew his hand from Makishima’s pants and said, "Next time, let’s be more selective about our reading material." Then, with a gesture both obscene and breathtakingly innocent, he licked Makishima’s release from his palm. Makishima swallowed. His lips and tongue still tingled with the lingering taste of L’s mouth.