Agatha goes on to practice a little of her improved powers. (: Dracula is trying to have a good time. And Agatha is ruining(?) it for him.

[ It's a little intense so…Enjoy? Btw, this chapter was the first Dragatha I wrote (now revised), which inspired me to write out this story. Old readers know what's coming ;]

Agatha and the Detective were difficult to find, and truly, it should not matter. Dracula had been successful in nearly everything else. Agatha was a conflict, a flaw in his plan in coming here to England.

She had tried to kill him too many times. Dracula could picture the scene as she stabbed him, her intent to kill regardless of whatever bond they shared. And he had gotten close enough to give her the chance.

She had denied him of her presence long enough, weeks now, run off with the Detective after their last encounter. And his wondering where she was, what she was doing, was constant and debilitating. He was sick of thinking about her, and needed to stop this, seep her out of his mind.

It was highly alarming—the recognition of how deeply she woven herself not only in his veins but under his skin. It was a mistake to have even had her blood at all. Even now, with his current company, she seemed to twist at him. Whatever it was that tied their souls together, he wanted no part of it anymore.

"Slow down, Count."

Agatha's voice made him stop his movements momentarily. Hearing her again after a long deprivation of her shook him to his core and he swallowed hard. Dracula wasn't sure if it was Agatha, or if his mind (lately not his sharpest) was so far gone he was hallucinating. That was not too far-fetched a theory at this point.

"At that pace, she won't finish before you."

It had been decades since he'd last done this, and this was definitely a new experience, hearing voices in his head as he fucked his neighbor, who happened to be a bored housewife who lived nearby. Her name was something simple, pretty…Natalie? Nora?

"I'm doing just fine," he said as he continued pushing inside her with the same eager pace he had before. He noted he could very well be arguing with himself.

"What?" asked the woman, between quick pants as she moved beneath him.

"Nothing," he reassured.

"I forgot, this is just for your pleasure isn't it, not hers," corrected Agatha, her voice clearer now. He knew she was there, could almost breathe in her perfume.

"Or maybe you don't know how to satisfy anybody except yourself?"

But that couldn't be true. At least she had to be enjoying this, taunting him while he tried to get off.

"I can," he huffed.

Natalie opened her eyes in confusion.

"What?"

"Now you're scaring her off." He heard her laugh. It was deliberate humiliation, and he couldn't even see her. He hated her for it. "She isn't going to last like that. If you're so quick with her."

"Agatha, please," let me be, he finished the sentence in his mind.

"No, my name is N-"

Dracula placed a hand over the woman's mouth, in some sad attempt to stop both her voice and Agatha's voice from flowing through his head-and that seemed to do the trick for a moment. Of course, a nun would be in his head to ruin this for him. If there was a God, He had a sense of humor.

He muffled Natalie (Nora's) soft moans and did as Agatha said—he slowed down his pace, pushing deliciously slow as he ran his hands over his neighbor's body…whatever her name was-taking time to lick her collarbone up to her neck. She moaned loudly, moving around more restlessly, running her nails along his chest.

"See? That's better," Agatha said.

"I told you I can satisfy," he said, and he didn't register anything else—Natalie (Nora?) didn't even seem to hear his words as she enjoyed his touches and movements more and more.

Dracula inhaled sharply, let thoughts of Agatha flood his senses, feeling a relieving release on his mind as he did so. The ecstasy of not denying his thoughts made him feel better—made this feel better.

"Did you miss me?" he heard her say, mocking him again.

"Yes."

He thought of walking over to her during their decent enough conversations in his dining room in their dreams, laying her out like a meal and filling her there, in the worst and dirtiest of ways—He thought of sliding his hands up the back of her thighs after she fed him her blood in front of the fireplace, and tasting her somewhere new as he pierced her skin with his nails. The thought of taking what he wanted. Having her underneath him, hearing her moan for him. He thought of her taunting him as she did even now. And of making her feel as desperate as she made him. Weaving his way so deeply inside her that he would touch her soul, and she would never be able to escape him again. The thoughts he didn't even realize he had repressed.

He didn't notice the actual woman underneath him was already writhing in her own release.

"Come, boy," he heard Agatha say, and with a quick lick of his lips he came immediately, chest heaving and his forehead sweating. He felt particularly mortal.