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I walked with you (once upon a dream)

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It seems like the more he pushes himself, the more difficult it is to move.

Jonathan is paralysed. Completely alone in the dark until the very moment when he no longer is.

From ten feet or so away, Geoffrey McCullum walks towards him, handsome face frozen into a thoughtful expression, his dark eyes just as uncomprehending of Jonathan as Jonathan is of him.

The gleam in his eyes… It is not the suspicious look he gave him the first time they met at Swansea’s office. It is not the betrayed, sorrowful glare from when they fought nor the distant, hopeless gaze from when they met at the cemetery.

That gleam is not one Jonathan has seen before, but it feels familiar.

What is more: it feels right.

It makes Jonathan feel at once worried and expectant, similarly to the first time they met: the cold at the back of his neck, his heart ready to jump out at any second. But it’s different. Now, Geoffrey could do anything he wanted and Jonathan would not even be able to offer resistance, which is thrilling in a way Jonathan is not ready to examine too closely.

Geoffrey does not say anything as he approaches, slowly as if he is not sure he should be going near Jonathan at all. There is nothing else around them, though.

And the truth is: there are two reasons why Jonathan does not move. Firstly: he can’t.

But he also does not want to. In this moment, there is not a single place in the entire world he would rather be, lovesick butterfly caught under the scrutiny of an entomologist.

When he is close enough for Jonathan to feel the tickle of his breath, Geoffrey’s lips part, his eyes an almost physical sensation as they roam all over Jonathan’s face before zeroing in on his lips. And the kiss… Jonathan can see it coming, but he is not ready.

The Ekon wants to lift his hands to touch the other man’s face, wants to wrap his arms around him and pull them flush together. Wants to feel the solidity of the man’s presence. Wants to devour him, but the only thing he can do for a while is receive the kiss, mouth wet and pliant.

It is very slowly that Jonathan becomes able to kiss Geoffrey back, curious tongue searching, touching, teeth biting over soft lips.

It makes Jonathan want to scream, how good it is, electricity buzzing under his skin, his heartbeat rumbling like thunder behind his ribs. Geoffrey kisses him in a tortuously slow fashion, at once dirty and careful as though they have all the time in the world. His big strong hands lay almost soothingly on Jonathan’s waist, thumbs rubbing slow circles, not pushing or pulling. It is unhurried, unmooring, almost too much.

Jonathan, on the other hand, is hanging on by a thread, undead heart singing in his cold chest. When his hands are finally released from their invisible shackles, he grabs the hunter with one hand at the back of his head and another on the small of his back, kissing him with intent and bringing their hips tight together, searching for friction, heat, release.

Geoffrey smiles into the kiss, finding Jonathan’s desperation amusing, but he returns every kiss, every sharp thrust and grind of their bodies as they part and reconnect in a dance never rehearsed. But then Jonathan makes the mistake of opening his eyes.


Jonathan blinks at the ceiling of his room inside Pembroke hospital as if it has the answers for the frustration eating at his loins. His throat closes with annoyance, but his body is still on fire with a desire that allows no space for refusals.

Jonathan kicks his covers off the bed and pushes his clothes away just enough to expose himself to the cold night air. When he wraps long fingers around himself, he promptly chokes on a moan. He is so sensitive, wet and sticky against the palm of his hand.

He tries to drag the sensations out, tries to make it last. But it is too good to last. Biting his lip to muffle the keening sounds that threaten to escape his throat, Jonathan thrusts erratically into his fist and comes long and hard, splattering thick semen against his abdomen and nightshirt.

As he lays there, feeling like an absolute creep for thinking about an unconscious patient while masturbating, he cannot help but wonder how long it has been since he had any type of release. He can’t remember having indulged in such practices since his turning, but even before, he has never been this frantic, this raw.


Driven half of his mind by his general sense of incompetence and helplessness in addition to how depraved he has proven himself to be, on Thursday night Jonathan tells Dr. Strickland that the director should probably check on McCullum himself.

“Maybe you will see something I haven’t been able to.” Jonathan explains as he faces the director’s unhappy glare. Strickland huffs an annoyed breath, but relents:

“All right. I’ll stop by the headquarters tomorrow.”

With a relieved sigh, Jonathan nods.

He goes through his rounds as usual, if a tad gloomier than usual. He has never been particularly cheerful, though, so no one seems to notice anything off about him. The following night, however, as Strickland leaves the hospital to check on the sleeping hunter, Jonathan positively sulks.

He still has to do his job, though. He checks on patients, fills out prescriptions, administers treatment here and there, but Geoffrey does not leave his mind for even a second and when a mysterious visitor has Nurse Branagan taking him out of a consultation, he immediately thinks the worse.

His heart is just about to break when he smells it.


At the front desk, looking just as out of place as she would anywhere else in the world, is the white-haired lady Jonathan met at the bridge. As Jonathan approaches her, he has the clear impression that she is not old at all, just very small, very unthreatening. But he can still see the wrinkles on her face, the eerie milky tone of her hair and eyes.

“Ah, my dear Ekon, you have not retrieved your present, have you?” She singsongs as the vampire approaches. Jonathan looks around in alarm, but no one is paying them any attention.

Jonathan narrows his eyes.

“A present?” He parrots as a sense of dread looms over him. “What are you doing here, ma’am?”

“My, oh, my…” She breathes with a soft smile. Pearly white teeth peek from between her thin lips, but they are very small and so numerous. “Even when they’re smart, men are so stupid.”

Jonathan takes a step back as he realises:

“You’re not human.”

The woman laughs at the shock in his voice, the same melodious high-pitched laughter from the other day, but lower in volume.

“See, I knew you were smart!” She mocks him as he tries to make sense of her. With a frown, Jonathan states:

“You’re not a vampire, though.”

The humour on her voice dies a little as she asks:

“You really thought your kind was all the supernatural there was on this beautiful world of ours?”

Jonathan’s frown deepens. He feels utterly stupid. Through the whole ordeal he lived with the Morrigan, the thought had not even once occurred to him.

“Who are you?” Jonathan demands in an effort not to look as caught off-guard as he was by the woman’s words. “What are you?”

She seems positively joyous to be asked, smile widening into inhuman proportions as she says:

“Oh, they call me many things, but, if you want, you can call me Aradia.”

Aradia. The names sounds familiar, but he does not know where he knows it from.

“Dear Ekon.” She calls and Jonathan raises his eyebrows. “If you want to save your human, you have to act fast. I am afraid you’re almost running out of time as it is.”

Jonathan takes a steading breath and stares at her at a complete loss. She knows what to do, he realises.

“But… How?” He asks while despair eats at his insides. Aradia again smiles her dark knowing grin, too many teeth, way too many teeth, and calmly says:

“You already know how.” Jonathan blinks, understanding next to nothing of what is expected of him. “Go, Ekon! Now! You don’t have much time...”

He nods gravely. He thinks he knows what to do.

He only hopes McCullum doesn’t hate him for it.