Chapter Text
It felt good, getting back in the saddle as a psychoanalyst. True, Laszlo had originally - perish the thought - entertained momentary doubts as to his continued competence in the field. He hadn’t practiced for over a century, and a vampire only had so much gray matter to spare, after all. Most of his memory stores were devoted to the noble arts of fucking, sucking, exsanguinating, and composing novelty vampire music.
Luckily, Laszlo Cravensworth was exactly as fantastic at detecting and resolving psychosexual complexes as he’d ever been. It turned out, practicing psychology was just like riding a bike– once you knew how to do it, you knew how to do it. (And, in Laszlo’s case, both pursuits generally involved a large mechanical dildo.)
True, the Guide’s incomprehensible attraction to Nandor’s mousy little bodyguard-cum-familiar had thrown him for a moment. But Laszlo was back in the saddle, damn it. He’d handled weirder, more depraved cases than this. He could handle a patient’s vivid descriptions of a man he personally found sexually repellent.
Repellent; that was it. The only sexual feelings Laszlo held for Gizmo were repulsion.
So, why in the blue blazes was he hard?
True, the boy’s recent sassiness had something appealing to it. Brattiness, almost. As did the deadly strength hidden beneath his plump, unassuming form. And his shapely ass did fill out those unflattering slacks quite pleasingly. But…
…Seven fucking hells. Laszlo was hot for a familiar.
Like the true professional he was, Laszlo had naturally excused himself once he’d become aware of the rather personal way the Guide’s case was affecting him. Slightly less professionally, he’d made a quick pitstop at the Supplemental Orgy Materials supply closet for a large bottle of lube before retiring to the Council anteroom for a brief think.
Not— eugh. Not a brief think about Gizmo, obviously. No; Laszlo was merely having an unrelated, strategic wank to clear his head before returning to the Chamber of Judgement.
Generally speaking, Laszlo loathed productivity in all its forms. But when he really absolutely had to get something done, his main strategy was to work himself up to a really earth-shattering orgasm, and then take advantage of what humans called post-nut clarity for some serious thinking. And he was going to need to do some serious thinking to bring the Guide around to Nadja’s plans for the Council property.
Yes, that was right; Nadja, his bewitching lady love. His capricious, mesmerizing queen of the night. His dark mistress. His booboo bear. His lovely little fuzzy tarantula.
This impromptu therapy session was all for her, to enable her to create the vampiric den of iniquity of her wildest, most depraved dreams upon these unhallowed grounds.
Laszlo had no ulterior motives behind this therapy session. Apart from the pleasure of dipping back into a pastime which had once entertained and fulfilled him, and the excuse to badger Nandor into babysitting the boy. He hadn’t had a quaternary motive going into this session, and he certainly didn’t have one now.
Thus resolved, he squirted a generous helping of lubricant into his palm, and stuck his hand down his half-laced trousers. A brief, utilitarian, wank. That’s what this was. That’s all this was. If Nandor’s sassy, tempting little dumpling-boy was slightly on his mind, it was only because he was already brainstorming angles to try out on the Guide’s twisted, horny little mind.