#RIP OUT HOLLYWOOD'S JUGULAR | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

nightcoremoon · 3 years

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why am I a jerkass who rains on everyone else's parade when I say I don't like gory horror films because I find movies whose plot consists of some dude stabbing a bunch of people to be fucking stupid pointless boring schlock that only exists to stroke the boners of people who enjoy watching other people die vicariously from a good safe distance, especially when their sequels just cheaply kill off all of the survivors from the earlier films thus rendering the plot of the earlier ones L I T E R A L L Y COMPLETELY FUCKING POINTLESS

but when someone says they don't like seeing sexual assault portrayed in movies (valid) and that people who put them in are evil and bad and dumb and bad tasteless artists, everyone is like yes yes good perfect okay you have the correct opinion here have a good star

hey newsflash assholes, if you're watching a fictional movie about a clinical sociopath who butchers animals, beats the absolute shit out of people they don't like until they're crying and shitting their pants and bleeding out the eyes and pleading for mercy, tying a dude to a chair and then slicing his jugular and glaring in his eyes until he bleeds out, bludgeons some guy for no fucking reason until his blood and brain spatters the kitchen floor, stabs his (naked) sister 17 times (after slowly tracing his fingers on her leg no less, ew), stabs a nurse in the neck with a fork and killing her for literally no reason, then a decade and a half later going back to his hometown just to stab a dozen people with ice skates and pitchforks and good old fashioned kitchen knives, and having the film depict this all in graphic bloody detail

and your ONLY problem is that somewhere along the way two disgusting scum workers at an asylum took a brand new catatonic female patient into his room and fucked her until they messed with his masks so he just breaks their fucking skulls open (which define his character as someone who clearly has no compassion for others but will shatter your bones and strangle you just for touching his stuff), and it's that a girl was raped and not that you watched a guy pulverize two men into bloody giblets...

idk man something about that feels wrong. you're okay with watching fictional murder but not fictional rape even though neither are glorified or justified and it exists purely to cause discomfort and distress in the viewer because it's a fucking horror film and horror is supposed to expose you to depravity and as art it serves to comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable.

don't get me wrong rape is bad but like

so is fucking murder.

why can't I express my discomfort in society's gratuitous endorsement and desensitization to killing in fictional media without people taking it as a personal attack and then turn around and do the exact same thing to rape

it's a double standard and it's so stupid

you can eat popcorn and watch jason voorhees rip teenagers in half and then berate me for not having a good time bathing in someone else's blood and then in the same breath #cancel rob zombie's director's cut of his halloween reboot because there's a rape scene in it. the violence is okay; you like the violence, no, you love the violence. that's perfectly fine? violence is good. freddy can force a recovering addict to OD on heroin, that's fine. john doe can force a fat guy to eat spaghetti at gunpoint until his fucking intestines burst, that's okay. mark hoffman can lock an innocent woman in a brazen bull and cook her alive just to fridge her and punish her husband for a lie that he made, that's awesome and wonderful and /super cool/. it's bullshit.

I'm not here to say YOU CAN'T like nightmare in elm street. you can like the texas chainsaw massacre. you can like my bloody valentine. you can like the thing. you can like wrong turn. you can like saw. you can DISlike rob zombie's movies. you can fast forward through the rape scenes in halloween, house of 1000 corpses, and the devil's rejects if the scenes make you uncomfortable (as they are intended to do so because it's a fucking grimdark edgy music video inspired horror movie). I'm not here to tell you that YOU CAN'T have an opinion on things.

but it's a special kind of entitled to insinuate that not only is your opinion the divine right of kings and anyone who disagrees with you is wrong and dumb and evil, but that a squicky scene you don't like actively makes the entire film Objectively Bad™.

maybe I don't like the fact that tatum gets crushed in a garage door. maybe it squicks me. maybe it unsettles me. maybe I think that it detracts from the film when all billy had to do was just stab her one and done without making a huge ordeal out of it. maybe I think it only exists to make a spectacle out of death and gorify- sorry, I mean glorify, murder, because it's exciting and intriguing to some who take solace in the macabre. "the effects are cool". maybe I don't like it. but you can like it.

I can dislike it. you can like it. we're both valid. that's how opinions work.

"but people get triggered by rape"

people get triggered by drugs. people get triggered by food. people get triggered by religion. people get triggered by a lot of things. people get triggered by slit throats, strangling, and hanging. you're valid for your triggers and you can avoid whatever fucking content you wish but if you think only your very particular specific trigger is the one that's valid, screw everyone else? go fuck yourself. you selfish piece of shit. you're not the only person in the world. it isn't hard to respect that you're not the only worldview in the world.

but then again, maybe it is hard, considering nobody fucking does it. everyone's trapped in their own little world where they're the only one who matters. they don't give a single shit about anyone else but themselves and others they can project onto because they're similar. they don't care if you can't match them in any way. you're a freak if you're different and you don't matter.

never mind the fact that 90% of slasher horror is misogynist, ephebophilic, racist, exploitative of the mentally ill and physically deformed, in some cases appropriations of the non-christian religions, and in the other 10% it's actually a horror comedy.

but if a white girl is sexually assaulted that's the only time anyone bothers being compassionate

now a disclaimer because I know for a fact that people are gonna put words in my mouth and take shit out of context and point out things I didn't explicitly state outright and try to make me out to be some fucking evil boogeyman

not saying you SHOULDN'T be compassionate to rape victims and I'm not saying I personally enjoy rape scenes in movies and I'm not saying that I particularly like the inclusion of those scenes in those movies and there is certainly a conversation to be had on the very misogynist nature of hollywood cinema as a whole in the horror genre especially and we should keep in mind the thermian argument and it's a complex issue, I know I know I know so shut the fuck up I don't owe you a passing grade on clout or the semantics of discourse or virtue signaling.

it's just stupid that people only get upset if a fictional white girl gets raped in a gore porn movie when it ~doesn't suit the narrative~. ok, this is the narrative: scary man stabs, the end.

scary men stab all the time. scary men shoot. scary men suicide bomb. scary men patent insulin and sell it at an upcharge poor diabetics can't afford. scary men drop bombs on kids in syria. scary men put mexicans in concentration camps. scary men slaughter thousands of men and women for their religion or their sexuality or their skin color. scary men do a lot of bad shit. your silence on these issues does much more harm to society than *checks notes* a scary movie about bad people doing bad things and facing karmic retribution for it.

TL;DR rape is bad, and murder is also bad, and american horror films have 100s of problems, and people need to start voicing their opinions as opinions and not pretending they're facts because it's super fucking annoying

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wolfloke · 3 years

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Rp Ideas

(Barista Aus)

[Character A] is a barista at a coffee shop. [Character B] comes in every day and orders the same thing, at the same time, always. One day, [B] doesn't show up.

[Character A] is all ready to pay for their coffee, when they realize they've lost their wallet. [Character B], the customer in back of them, offers to pay for them.

[Character A] and [Character B] are baristas who work the morning shift. Something more than friendship blossoms between them (Can already be pre-established or can happen over time), however, things change when [A] is moved to the night shift, and [B] stays in the morning shift.

[Character A] is tired of customers' shit. When one especially rude consumer decides to mouth them off, [A] does the logical thing, and spits right in their mocha whipped caramel latte. It isn't until they're handing the coffees out that they realize the rude customer hadn't ordered the latte. [Character B] did.

[Character A] is the new barista at a local coffee shop. [Character B] doesn't quite like them. When the two get into a fight and the hot milk machine explodes, the manager threatens to fire the both of them unless they can work it out. How do they go about becoming friends?

[Character A] is a barista working the late shift alone. It's a slow night, and the store is entirely empty, so they decide to close up shop and lock the doors. However, as they're in the back of the shop counting stock, they hear glass shatter in the front, and they know it's not just a coffee crazed customer. [Character B] can be anyone; The burglar, an employee who forgot their things and decided to head back but witnessed the burglary, or a concerned passerby who spotted the break in happening.

(Zombie AUs)

[Character A] is holed up in a locked down, abandoned mall. Somehow, [Character B] gets in. How do the two react once they realize they're not alone?

[Character A] is stuck on a rooftop. [Character B], who's stuck on the rooftop across from them, has been trying to make contact with the other survivor, to no avail.

[Character A to Character B] "Gimme all your shit. The food, the water, the weapons. Everything. Now!"

[Character A] is all out of ammo. There's a horde on their tail, they're injured, and it's not likely they're going to make it out alive. And that's when they see [Character B] beckoning them to a hiding spot just a few steps away.

[Character A] and [Character B] are traveling together. Then, one of them gets bit. How does the other react?

[Character A] is dying. [Character B] is keeping them company. How do they interact with eachother?

(Highschool AU)

[Character A] is new to a prestigious boarding school. They're lost in the hallways. Then they happen to bump into [Character B].

[Character A] manages to piss off [Character B], aka, the scariest kid in school.

(Three People RP) [Character A] is happily dating [Character B]. However, [Character C] is secretly in love with [A/B], and desperately wants them to break up.

[Character A], a high school student, is dating [Character B], a college student.

[Character A] and [Character B] are by no means friends. Then they get grouped together for a project that forces them to spend time at each others' houses. Do they become friends, something more?

[Character A] is hiding a secret. [Character B] just happens to find out.

[Character A] is the new kid in school. If the rumors are any indication, they're a bit of a weirdo. [Character B] refuses to believe them, and decides to get to know [A] for themself.

[Character A to Character B] "Yikes, I saw that fall a mile away. Looks like you dropped a lot of stuff. Want some help?"

[Character A to Character B] "Are you...Are you drawing me?"

[Character A to Character B] "Lunch in the classroom again? Mind if join you?"

(Celebrity AUs)

[Character A to Character B] "Holy shit! I've seen you before! You're...!"

[Character A] is the top model at a fashion agency. That all changes when [Character B] is scouted, and practically rips the spotlight from [A]. How does [A] respond to this? How does [B] feel about it?

It's not everyday you bump into a celebrity...Except it is for [Character A], who suspiciously keeps bumping into the famous [Character B] everyday. Coincidence, or something more?

[Character A] is a movie star visiting their hometown. However, they realize that time in Hollywood has made them forget the town. So, they appoint [Character B] as their tour guide.

[Character A to Character B] "Don't you know who I am?"

[Character A] is a famous movie actor playing the lead in a romance film. [Character B] is the clumsy rookie that somehow got the second lead. How will the two get along, especially when [Character B] can't seem to remember their lines?

[Character A] is a photographer in a park struggling to find their muse. When [Character B] happens to stroll by, they realize they've just found it.

[Character A] scores backstage tickets to a rock concert, which just so happens to be their favorite band, like...Ever. [Character B] is the lead vocalist/guitarist/whatever of the band.

[Character A], a lovestruck rookie actor. [Character B], an experienced, well known actor who's been starred as the main lead in multiple romance movies. Somehow, [A] ends up being the second lead to [B]! How does [B] react to [A]'s inexperience? Will they get along? And how will they go about about the kiss scene that occurs later on in the movie?

[Character A] is walking home one night, when they see [Character B] attempting to jump from a bridge! Dashing into action, they talk them out of it, only to find that [B] is a famous celebrity, who, for some reason or another, feels indebted to [A] forever now.

(Supernatural AUs)

[Character A] is a werewolf struggling to control their transformations. [Character B], a lycan nerd, offers to help them, but only if they can document the process.

The city is plagued by a number of mysterious killings that leave their victims drained of any and all blood. While believed to be animal attacks at first, [Character A], a detective, thinks differently. And when [Character B] is caught on CCTV grabbing a helpless woman and tearing out her jugular, well, that just confirms [A]'s suspicions.

(Multiple people rp) Ever since the dark ages, witches have been forced into hiding, lest they be revealed and punished with a fiery death. For centuries, they've breeded amongst covens, creating generation after generation of children with extraordinary abilities. Each child only has one ability when they begin the harnessing of their internal power. But, of each generation, there is one child, and only one, that shows signs of having multiple abilities. Over time, these special children became known as The Supreme Witch, and had to complete grueling and painful challenges in order to prove their powers. Now in the modern age of technology, there is a special school for the last remaining witch millennials to come to terms with their abilities, learn to control them, and strengthen them. All witches are able to participate in the test to determine who is supreme, at their own risk. However, one question remains; Just who will survive the test and be crowned Supreme Witch?

[Character A]'s family moves into a new house. It doesn't take [A] very long to figure out they're being haunted by [B].

[Character A] thinks that their boyfriend/girlfriend, [Character B] is acting a little odd. They're always cold, pale, and they seem to be uncontrollably thirsty all the time.

[Character A] is a clumsy witch struggling to harness their internal energy. [Character B] is an older witch, who offers to teach them, on one condition.

[Character A], a sailor on the S.S Jolly Fellow, awakens from a nap below deck to find the boat anchored in the middle of the ocean and the crew gone. The only other person they can hear is [Character B], a mermaid/merman sitting on a nearby rock, singing a soft harmony.

[Character A] finds a fairy out in the woods and traps it in a jar. This fairy, [Character B], demands they be let go. And [A] agrees, but on one condition; [B] must grant them any wish they want.

[Character A] is bitten by a wild wolf one night in the woods. They hide it from their friends and family in fear of being scolded for being out when they weren't supposed to. But soon, weird things start happening. For instance, their hearing seems to be super good. Their eyesight is enhanced greatly. And they can smell every hamburger in a five mile radius. But along with the hamburgers, they can also smell certain people with "different" powers (Vampires, witches, other werewolves, etc). And their nose seems to be leading them right to [Character B].

[Character A], a fledgling vampire, attacks [Character B] and turns them. Now apart of their pack, [Character B] must now be mentored by the very person that turned them into a bloodthirsty monster, [A].

[Character A] is a professional hunter hot on the trail of [Character B], a monster.

[Character A], a mermaid held in captivity. [Character B], a worker assigned to their tank. How do the two come to trust each other? What happens then?

(Darker AUs)

[Character A] wakes up in a dark room with a chain around their ankle. They can't remember anything from last night, except maybe.. A blurry image of [Character B]'s face.

[Character A] knows not to talk to strangers, but there's something so endearing about [Character B] that they can't help but to chit chat. Little does [A] know, they'll be regretting it very soon.

[Character A] has had [Character B] chained up in their basement for a while now. At first, they'd just meant to kill [B] and be done with it. But for some reason, [A] can't bring themselves to do it. Why? What will they do in the end?

[Character A] wakes up covered in blood, next to a sleeping [Character B]. What happened? How did [A] end up there?

[Character A] is a twin to a royal family, their sibling being a princess/prince destined to marry into a richer kingdom. For years, [A] had dreaded their parting. It finally came in the form of [B], a sadistic tyrant who insists he marry the beauty that is [A]'s twin. Refusing to let their sibling fall into [B]'s hands, [A] dresses up as them, and takes their place instead, becoming [B]'s hand in marriage.

(War AUs)

[Character A] is a freshly drafted soldier. [Character B] is the bitter, apprehensive sergeant, tasked to whip [A] into shape.

[Character A] and [Character B] are soldiers on opposing fronts, who so happen to be severely injured, and who so happen to be hiding in the same house. Unfortunately,

Disclaimer. I don't own any part of the art nor do I own nor do I own the context of this of this post. I am reposting this so all who love to role play has access to it.

#rp #erp #role play #role play ideas #creative writing #writers block #writing ideas #short story #one shot plots #plots #rp plots

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dirthavarens · 4 years

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Burning (Dragatha)

Fandom: Dracula (2020) Characters: Count Dracula, Agatha Van Helsing Relationship: Dracula/Agatha Rating: Explicit Warnings: None Word Count: 7,022 Summary: Agatha felt infinite, truly capable of all things, indestructible, as he returned her grin. She felt something in her jolt and rush, buzzing and ringing a clear melody that she could not yet understand. As if it were a foreign language neither of them had learned.

[READ ON AO3] {pt1} {pt2}

or read below::::

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He swept her from where she stood and hoisted her into the air. His lips ascended to hers and she caught the kiss, unsure of what else to do. She had been trapped, forced into the closest thing to a confession since she had last stepped into the small dark confessional box so very long ago. And somehow, through pressuring her, making her face the truth she never wanted to admit, crumbling her resolve and pride to dust…

He freed her.

Something in her ruptured as he parted her lips and drank her in, a groan ringing clear against his mouth as her legs wrapped tightly around his waist. His claws pressed into the fabric of her slacks, piercing and ripping the fabric easily as he squeezed the supple flesh beneath his hands. Agatha secured herself to him as his mouth parted from hers, trailing down to her chin, her jaw, and came to rest at her neck.

He’d never been so tender as he traced her jugular with a whisper of his lips, breath hot from the blood she gave him at the beach. Her flesh prickled with excitement as he planted a kiss on the expanse of her throat.

“I never promised a bed,” he entreated as he nipped slowly at the nape of her neck, pulling the flesh between his teeth careful enough to not break the skin. “I said there was always next time.”

“Is this not the next time?” she breathed the question into the air above him. It could hardly be anything else, she was sure of it.

“As observant as ever,” chimed the Count proudly as he drew his head back to look at her. “Where?”

Agatha’s head clouded when she met his gaze, unsure of what he meant, nearly forgetting the English language altogether. There it was. That admiration and respect for an equal yet a devout prayer on the surface of those dark…

His eyes were amber in the light….

Her jaw slacked as she stared down at him, awestruck by the way her new discovery had shook her. They had been black the night of the convent. Black in the dim firelight aboard the ship. Black as he took her the night on the beach…But in the light of her home, his eyes burned and shone as amber.

“Agatha.” Her name drew her out of his gaze and she hastened to remember what he had asked.

Where?

“Naar boven.” She reached for the first language she could and found it her native tongue, her accent heavy in which she spoke. Then, more clearly, “Up the stairs. The first door on the left.”

Dracula navigated with ease from her kitchen, back through the hall, up the stairs, and stopped at the door, pressing her back against it. All the while she reclaimed his lips, knowing she did not have to speak of him or what burned between them for just a moment longer.

You’ll be a part of me.

She had not considered the true depths of his statement, had not known what it would mean. In the years she had to sort through his memories, his worst crimes, his darkest and most intimate moments spent as a vampire… Agatha had never considered.

She was the first to open her vein, even under the circumstances, to him. Surely that was enough to render her special. However, he had known the darkest parts of her, her longings, the moment she turned her back on the structure of the Holy Order, and the moment she had her first brush of desire since taking her oath.

Their first night, their only night, together had not only been that. Never had he offered his blood to another. It was his most coveted possession, the very life which flowed through his veins. Four hundred years and he surrendered his existence to her in the matter of a month.

“My dear...” he interrupted, drawing his head back and smiling up at her all teeth and eyes glinting in the darkness. She knew hers did the same but could not stop marveling at him. Had he always been so beautiful? Had half a century sweetened his countenance, made her soft? “...perfect soţie.”

Yes, it had. Or perhaps, it had given her time to think.

She heard the door click beneath her before he released his grip and set her down. Her feet touched the ground but she felt weightless, entirely surrendered to sensation as he traced her cheek with the pad of his thumb.

“Now you know,” she confessed in less than a breath, her words falling on him in near silence. His hold of her face shifted then, his index finger resting under her chin and drawing it up to meet his eyes.

“I’ve always known,” he returned, voice just as damnably quiet. “Four centuries of biding my time, waiting for you to come to me. How could I not?”

His words sent chills down her spine. The legends were wrong again. Dracula had not taken a virgin, he did not need to. A perfectly corrupt nun and vampire hunter seemed to suffice. She grabbed his hand and watched as his digits took residence between the spaces of her own. He was her beast, more capable of anything she ever anticipated and no amount of Hollywood dramatization or novelization could give him just credit.

She wondered for a moment, her insatiable curiosity peeking through vulnerability, if he was aware of the ever growing superstitions that enshrouded him. Did he know of the legends that had formed around him since Mina, Piotr, and Olgaren escaped and told their tale? Was he aware? Did he even need to be?

No. It was not the time for such thoughts.

“What is it?” His tone changed, taking up the same curiosity that undoubtedly reflected in her eyes.

“Nothing important, I assure you,” she returned as she became privy to her surroundings once again. “Much has happened since you slept. I was...reflecting.”

“I expect to know every last detail,” he hummed and pecked her lips. “Please, lead on.”

She led him into the bedroom, stepping backwards as she adjusted her hold of his hand. The bed, unimpressive but sizable enough, was in the center of the room. She dropped his hand then, as the backs of her legs touched the mattress, and looked up at him, the only light coming from the streets below.

That look in his eye had not left, even in the darkness, and a sigh fell from her. To think she looked at him with contempt and vindication the last time she drew breath was absurd to her now, though it had been appropriate given the circumstances.

She was not without her share of crimes. Not now, not as he took her in his arms, a wanton kiss of teeth and tongue pressing into her. She hadn’t been for years. He would know of the lives she’s taken, the mourning, the months spent in meditation and penitence.

“We’re all sinners, Agatha,” declared the Count as he shrugged out of his jacket. “Don’t blame the beast for hunting the rabbit.”

“Stay out of my h--” Her words were lost to another kiss as he skated his fingers under her tucked blouse and pulled the fabric from its confinement.

‘No. I want to hear everything and you keep a great deal trapped in that beautiful mind of yours.’ He lifted the shirt over her head in an easy motion and discarded it somewhere behind him. Dracula licked at his lips as he placed his hand to her collarbone, his thumb pressing into the divot below her throat. “Let me hear you.”

“Count Dracula, second in name and first to the throne of Wallachia,” she started as she made quick work of his waistcoat. She drew his attention, his eyes alight with the flame that burned entirely for her. “Never again shall you compare me to a beast, am I understood?”

His answer came in the form of his claws gripping around her throat. He brought her mouth to his, a growl sounding in his chest, and kissed her deep. She opened for him as his free hand tore the last bit of fabric from her torso and her breasts bounced at the sudden freedom. Agatha knew she was no better, but the way he obeyed as his mind quieted, crackling only with the heat and desire that churned within him, made her head spin.

‘Do I have more clothes available to me?’ The question struck her as odd, but she nodded against his lips, not daring to break the kiss as her fingers twisted into the thick onyx atop his head. ‘Good.’

He released his hold of her throat, their lips haphazardly connecting, and tore at his shirt, the buttons clattering to the hardwood beneath them as he shifted out of it. She moved a hand to his chest and carded it through the fur upon his chest, the skin below it just as scarred, just as immovable under her, as she remembered.

A gasp sounded through her bedroom as he broke from her and lowered his neck. He planted a single kiss at the column of her throat before he began his journey. Her fingers returned to his hair, tightening in it as he descended to his knees. The flesh of her torso felt like velvet under his touch. He had touched the finest silks in the East, through all of Europe and beyond, but none had evoked the same fascination as the expanse of her body.

Dracula had expected royalty, expected a scholar, a debutante even, but never a nun. No, he had not planned on finding an impertinent, pestering nun at the convent the night he came to bring upon a reckoning and reclaim Jonathan Harker. He had not planned on her.

Her head tilted, her hair falling as a curtain behind her, as nipped at the edge of her ribs, sucking and pulling at the skin, marking her. Blood that was not hers to have rose and reddened the flesh under the deliciously punishing ministrations of his mouth.

Something twinged tightly inside of her as she thought of what she must look like, bruised and almost bloody, under him, sighing with pleasure. A sight that would have once disgusted her, repulsed her to her very soul, sang so sweetly to her there was little else she could want. He moved to the other side of her torso, just under her breast and bit down, once again sure not to puncture her skin.

His fingers snapped open the button of her pants and he gave a delighted purr against her skin as they slacked around her waist.

“No,” she breathed unexpectedly, even to herself. He broke from her then, his gaze turning up to her, perplexed. “I want…”

Dracula’s eyes widened as a smile stretched across his face. He said nothing as he pushed himself from the ground, meeting her gaze, breath coming hard from his lungs. They stood in near silence then, each observing the other, waiting. He wanted to, no, he needed to hear her say it and she damned herself for having ever spoken.

“Say it,” he entreated, voice low as he all but begged her. The smile was gone from his lips, replaced with muted amusement. “Tell me what you want.”

She closed her eyes for a moment as she felt the same brand of shame she had experienced only moments ago wash away from her. Why was it so hard for her? Was her pride so strong and was she so damnably stubborn that she could not simply instruct the man to whom she was so attracted to…

To feed from her?

“You didn’t need my permission last time,” she said as she tried to hint to him, without outwardly saying so.

“Are the English so unwilling to be brash? Have they caused you to lose your edge, Agatha? You seemed to have no issue downstairs.” Had she not been a vampire, his closeness would have toppled her, dropped her to the mattress behind her.

She remembered what he had done at the beach, how his blood had dripped from his wrist and how it beckoned her. With a breath, she bit into her lip hard enough to draw blood and moved so her mouth was nearly against his. His tongue snaked to her mouth and traced the inside of her lip, sweeping away what little blood there was. She had been feeding regularly and should have known the wound would close as quickly as it formed.

“Tell me.”

“Taste me,” she muttered against his lips, damning the smile that they pulled into. “I’m no longer the human you’ve had in your veins for half a century. People change.”

“You don’t,” he returned, amused by the recount of their time on the Demeter. “Are you sure? I’ll know everything. Every moment, every thought, every piece of you for the last fifty years.”

“What was it you said earlier? Oh, yes. Every last detail.”

“How were you ever a nun?” he mused as he shifted away from her, pushing her slacks down her body, and watched as she stepped from them, her shoes going with them. The Count took a step back and peered at her through the darkness. “Not even God cannot take credit for you, dragă mea.”

“You let me drink from you. Are you to tell me that you hid information in your blood?”

He paused as her finger hooked into his waistband. She noticed his chest stop as he was poised with the question. For all that she saw in his memories, Agatha had known he had spared no details. She saw slaughter, villages, men, women, and children alike torn apart as he brought chaos upon the Earth.

“No.”

“Then why would I?” She unhooked the button and shrugged the slacks down his hips. She reminded herself that he was not wearing undergarments but could not help herself as she glanced between them at what awaited her. Agatha returned to his eyes and watched his coy smirk return. “Has anyone told you that you have no shame?”

“I do believe you just told me I have quite a bit,” he returned and glowered, albeit playfully. He stepped out of his pants, then his shoes, and kicked them to the side. Her breath hitched as he closed the space between them, his hand gently caressing her hip. “Though, I suppose only time can tell. Now, where were we?”

He lowered them to the mattress, Agatha moving back as he climbed over her, and kissed her once, twice, a third time before he withdrew from her. He reached behind him, removed the socks from his feet, and let them fall.

“We can wait,” he started again as he returned to her.

Wait? For what?

She scowled up at him, unsure of what exactly he was referencing. Whether it be driving into her or drinking her blood, Agatha did not want to wait. She had spent fifty years waiting.

“Speak plainly.” As if she was one to talk.

“Until I’m inside of you.” But he delivered. “Blood is lives, Agatha, but I’m not going to be drinking your blood to merely gain insight or feed. I’ve never had another vampire’s blood. And seeing how you responded...”

Wantonly, devoutly, unabashedly, animal.

“You think it will heighten the experience,” she stated without wanting to tell him that it had. When she had drunk his blood that night, it had sent her to a place upon high that she had not been able to attain since.

“You know it will,” he smirked as he took her lips, a hand sliding between them to her core. His finger dipped between her folds and traced idly over her clit, applying no pressure but it excited her all the same. “I could take you right now, you’re certainly ready enough.”

“Then why don’t you?” Somewhere caught between a question and a demand. She closed her eyes as he slipped the digit inside of her, not needing to see the smile caught on his lips to know it was there.

“We have all night,” he lulled tenderly as his lips moved from hers. He shifted them up the bed with his free hand, careful not to scratch the inside of her as he began to twist his finger deeper into her. He laid at her side, supporting himself with his forearm, and watched her face as he slowly worked her. “I only had an hour to work with before. I have an entire night and every intention of giving you what was so unfortunately absent last time.”

‘I’m going to take my precious time with you, Agatha Van Helsing. And I will make you last until sunrise.’

Agatha’s legs wavered as she felt him move inside of her. He had only his middle finger plunging into her warm depths, but she revered the leisurely rhythm he set. She peered up to see him studying her as if she were a novel and found herself smiling at the sight. His focus on her was, appropriately, otherworldly as he sank deeper into her, shifting himself minutely to ensure he went to the knuckle.

She whimpered as he stroked at her walls, holding the sound in her throat in the hopes he gave her more.

“That wasn’t the agreement,” he gnarled mutely as he shifted down. His leg caught hers and bound it to the mattress below, opening her wider for him. Her hips jutted towards him as he inserted another digit, pumping it into her with the same tedious pace at the first. “You agreed to let me hear everything.”

‘I granted you permission to hear my thoughts,’ she corrected, her closed lips grinning as her indignance granted her a harder thrust of his fingers. Agatha was right and he knew it. She wondered…

Could he last until sunrise?

‘Then tell me.’ Another hard thrust. She clutched to his wrist and savored how his muscles and tendons flexed under her grip as he moved inside of her. Like waves, they eased and tensed against her thumb in a perfect, unbroken rhythm. ‘How does it feel?’

Her back lifted when he brushed her sweet spot and a groan crept into her throat. She moved his wrist so the palm of his hand was at her clit and another soft sound broke through her as he obliged her. Even if it was for the shortest moment as he easily shifted back into his previous position.

“How do you feel when I have you like this, Agatha?” He found her lips, kissing her deep and she grounded herself by it, drinking in every bit of sensation he could give to her.

‘Depraved.’ She wasn’t lying, but she wasn’t speaking the entire truth either. He was going to open her vein soon enough and she would be found out. ‘Incredible.’

He removed his fingers from her and broke from the kiss. Agatha gave a breath of protest that grew into an audible sigh as she watched him draw them up for inspection. She could see the glint in his eye that gave way to what came next.

“No. You had your fill at the beach. I forbid you.”

“I most certainly have not had my fill,” he retorted absently, paying her no mind as he watched how his fingers glistened, her juices stringing as he separated his fingers. “I don’t even think that’s remotely possible now.”

“We’ll add it to the list of your addictions later,” she huffed, not understanding how this was even a subject for debate. Anything to draw a response from her…or maybe he meant it.

“You certainly are climbing that roster fast,” he murmured as he returned to her, pressing to her lips in a quick kiss. “What would you have me do with them?”

He grazed the inside of her thigh with the back of his hand trailing from her knee to her core. All the while, he took the utmost care not to let her own wetness touch the smooth of her skin until he slipped the fingers idly down the outskirts of her folds.

“Return them,” came her command, tired of his dawdling. She had him in her bed for no longer than ten minutes and he was already teasing her. He paused at her entrance and sank, with no pressing urgency, his index finger into her.

“Here?” The grin of a panther. He curled his finger against her spot and laughed when she contemplated smacking him. She agonized when he stilled his finger and withdrew it at her thought. “No?”

“Yes,” she corrected hotly and grabbed his hand.

“Yes?” He asked innocently as he teased her entrance, dipping his finger in and out of her.

“Stop wasting time,” she barked.

“Ah, already so impatient. What a long night it’s going to be for you, Agatha.” He returned his fingers to her with a laugh, sinking into her slowly, as if he hadn’t just been inside of her. Then, he went deeper, giving her just a taste of what she wanted. “Fortunately for me, I have all the time in the world and I don’t think you’ll be going anywhere any time soon.”

Before she could come up with another retort, Dracula shifted on the mattress entirely, looming over her as he worked slowly inside of her. Agatha gazed up at him, cursed how obscenely handsome he looked, and gave a sigh when he pressed his lips to her forehead.

“If it were possible, I think it very likely that I would hate you,” she breathed.

“If it were possible,” he echoed glibly and began to trail kisses along her hairline, nipping once at her earlobe and then once more at her jaw. Dracula curled his fingers as he thrust into her. “How lucky for me that you don’t.”

Her head dug into the pillow as he ensured to hit her with each stroke into her. She wanted to damn him, curse him to the very depths of Hell itself for how he so easily set her on edge. She would damn herself in the process for she was a puppet in his hands, responding to every motion of his lips as he played at her neck. A soft moan for each suckle, her fingers carding through his head. He had fed on her half a century ago and never left a mark.

Another curl of his fingers and Agatha groaned into the air of her bedroom, letting the sound spill from her without reservation. They were no longer on the beach, no longer in the public’s eye and within the confines of her own home, she was at last free.

“Ooo. Now there’s an interesting thought. Do I set you free? Do I liberate you?” He asked breathily as his kiss danced at her collarbone, driving even harder into her. Another cry fell from her lips as her legs constricted around his arm. She could feel her walls tightening around his fingers, the pressure behind her impending orgasm so painful she could hardly stand it. “Do I?”

She lost herself as he eased another finger inside and came around him. He dug his teeth into the flesh above her breast, breaking skin not drinking, as he forced her down on the mattress, leaving her to squirm and writhe against him. “Christ, yes!”

“Wrong name, but I’m certain you’ll get it right before the night’s over.” His laughter rang clearly into the room. She relished in the sting of his bite mark as he removed his fingers from her, leaving her orgasm to spill from her and onto the sheets below. Her chest heaved as he kissed the mark and she could feel his tongue sweep away whatever blood had resided there.

Dracula took a breast into his mouth, his now free hand grabbing at the other and teasing her nipple with the slick wetness that soaked his fingers. The mix of sensation, fire and ice, felt like magic, a rush of pleasure heightening the afterglow of her release. He ran his tongue over her, flicking and suckling as he coaxed soft breaths from her. A maestro with a one woman orchestra.

He took special care as his tongue left her breast, kissing it supple flesh beneath him before glancing up. Agatha met him, looking down, and groaned at the mere sight of him. His hair disheveled, eyes dark, a smile fixed on his face as though he'd been stuck that way for centuries. She tugged at his scalp, unsure if she wanted him to continue his descent or steal every last possible molecule of air that resided in his lungs. It's not like he needed them.

Her short moment spent in unclear speculation was forgotten as he made the decision for her. Dracula moved up her body and took her lips with an unnerving slowness. She captured his bottom lip in her teeth and tugged as the skin, pulling it away from the jagged points that lie below.

‘Beast,’ she thought with a smirk that forced her to surrender his kiss. Agatha felt infinite, truly capable of all things, indestructible, as he returned her grin. She felt something in her jolt and rush, buzzing and ringing a clear melody that she could not yet understand. As if it were a foreign language neither of them had learned.

“You’re one to talk,” he crooned softly as he brought the pad of his thumb deftly over her lips, gently hooking the bottom just enough to reveal her teeth to him. He let out a small breath, his admiration clear. “Sharp as knives. Agatha, they’re beautiful.”

He kissed her. “Absolutely, infuriatingly, beautiful.”

Her fangs? A simple byproduct of her arousal. A simple byproduct of being a vampire.

He deepened the kiss, his thumb playing gently at her cheek. ‘Don’t play the fool, darling. You’re much too smart for that.’

He broke the kiss. “You, Agatha Van Helsing, are captivating and I will never have enough of you.”

“The one toy you will never put down?” Her question came by instinct. The reality was that his sentiment had caused too much stirring in her lifeless body. She was warmed, comforted, by his words, as though she had gone far too long without knowing she needed to hear them.

“Something like that,” he huffed and pecked her again. Dracula returned to her side, his hand guiding her to face him. “Call it fate, if you have to categorize it. Do you even believe in such a thing?”

“Is now the appropriate time for such talks?” Her brow raised at him.

“Now is exactly the time for such talks. Tell me,” he hummed as his claws trailed down the silhouette of her frame. She had long since had the body of a young woman, she knew, but he seemed entranced all the same.

“I do believe in fate. How else can I explain our meeting? I was the one person in a thousand miles who knew how to kill you and Jonathan Harker was directed to my convent on the off chance it happened to be something other than a miracle.”

“You don’t believe in miracles,” he interjected, his voice sober, but his fingers still a whisper at her skin, raising it wherever they roamed.

She relaxed into his touch. “No, I don’t.”

Over the swell of her breast, tender upon her ribs, a feather at her hips.

Agatha let out a soft sigh.

“You were a nun for most of your mortal life. Why the lack of faith?”

A light pressure at her skin drew her attention as he smoothed his hand over her supple cheek, lulled her as his familiar touch trailed up her spine. So light, so conflictingly tender against his low voice.

“I had lived a very long life in a few short years. You remember them, surely. I’m almost positive you’ve drank enough from me to know the exact second of my birth. Miracles didn’t exist.” She blinked at him, his touch feeling cold for only a moment. His expression dropped, his hand stopping at her shoulder blade.

A fortunate life? No.

A life full of personal successes and freedoms? Yes.

“Didn’t?”

“Why are you asking me this? You know the answer. As I said, the second of my birth,” she returned. His hand was still at her shoulder, gently coaxing her nearer.

He shifted closer to her and his arms came around her. Count Dracula, slayer of thousands, was…

Embracing her.

Her arms reflexively tightened. It was one of the habits from the nunnery she had tried so break. Then relaxed and held him to her, breathing him in. It was his natural scent. The one he carried at the beach, the one on him as he clutched to her face before the explosion, the one that fed on her in the depths of the convent.

How did he no longer smell of the sea? The blood perhaps?

No, he hadn’t drank nearly enough for that.

No, the sensation held a vague familiarity in it. Strange and juxtaposed to reality. But she was aware of her surroundings, in control of herself. No, it was him entirely.

‘Relax, Agatha. Respiri, dragă mea.’ He instructed soundlessly. ‘You’re allowed to like the way I smell.’

She grabbed at his leg with her own and yanked. Did his ego never rest?

“Ah, so I was right?”

“Quiet.”

“As my Queen commands.”

He pressed to her forehead, his hips swaying towards the warmth of her abdomen. She felt his erection press against her and instinctively shifted her hips. Agatha tucked each leg on either side of his waist and pulled him closer to her.

“Now?” His breath was thick as his hand wound gently into her thick brunette locks.

She backed away just enough to fit her hand between them and trace her fingertips around his length before guiding him to her entrance. Agatha sank onto his cockhead with a shaking groan, unaccustomed to the feeling of him not already being slick before entering her. It was a different kind of pain that her own body accounted for as she rolled her hips down, slowly taking him deeper into her heat.

“I want to show you something,” he sighed and rocked into her as she descended. “Let me kiss you.”

She would have torn her heart from her chest if it meant he would meet her hips like that. Agatha knew the risks of what he was implying. She knew that he could take off in an instant, raze the block before sunrise.

But… She trusted him. An incomprehensible thought to her human self.

“Yes.”

Tender though his kiss was, instinct took over when his lips met hers. She took his mouth hungrily as she sank onto him as deep as her body would allow and he pushed the rest of the way. Agatha ground her hips as her world plunged into darkness, her own moan echoing around her. Sensation was all that she had now, heightened as his opiate ran through her.

So it could work on other vampires.

‘What do you feel?’ his inquiry imparted into space around them, something like electricity sparking around her, cascading around her like fizzling fireworks fading in the night sky. Except, they never went out. She felt like summer, like the very sun was touching her skin without a single drop of light around them.

‘What do you?’

A laugh as his hand gripped her thigh, somehow pulling her even closer to him. He angled himself as his hips rocked back and thrust into her. Dracula filled her completely, delicious warmth crashing over them both as they easily found perfect rhythm.

‘That’s what I’m showing you. Indulge me, Agatha. What do you feel?’

Another thrust as she pressed her forehead as she parted his lips, deepening the kiss.

‘Sunlight.’

She groaned into his mouth as he rolled them on the mattress and sank into her until she could feel his pelvis against her, her head hitting the pillows. Agatha clung to him, not wanting to lose the sensation that flooded her body should her lips dare leave his, such infinite heat.

‘Divinity.’

Dracula broke the kiss, Agatha being drawn to reality once more, and pressed his forehead to hers as his rhythm faltered. Her nails dug into his shoulders, her hands surrendering to the tense muscles beneath them as he claimed her. “Centuries I’ve waited for you.”

“Wait until you’re fucking me midday. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it twice as much.” She couldn’t help the quip, her words melting into a sigh as her walls began to clench around him. Her chest pressed to him, eyes clenched, head digging into the pillows as he ground his hips into her, the pain it caused evaporating to pleasure instantly.

‘Such a mouth,’ another hard thrust as his pace became near punishing. Agatha twisted beneath him. Her back arched as she rocked her hips sporadically against his, chasing her own release as she tightened around the throbbing cock within her. ‘So you did wake me to fuck and kill me. And here I thought you were beneath lying.’

‘Can you blame me?’

‘Hardly.’ Dracula shifted, stilled inside of her, and her eyes shot open. “A promise is a promise and I am a man of my word.”

“Do it,” she commanded, her head turning, neck outstretched. How he pulsated within her aching heat, it was all she could do to keep her trembling form steady.

She felt a breath against her skin and moaned in the darkness as he kissed her. She clutched to him with a type of desperation she’d never known as he sank his teeth into her. Something between a scream and a groan tore through her as he rolled back his hips and slammed into her tightness again and again. He claimed her, marked her, with every penetrating thrust, fucking her deeper, her body shaking beneath him.

“I mi-missed you… m-m--” her words came in choked gasps, twisting and crying out as she felt her blood flow from her veins to his. Inside of her in every possible way, surrendering to her. He forfeited every possible ounce of himself to her, the highest form of homage he could pay.

Her orgasm crashed around her endlessly, agonizing and absolute. His arms wrapped around her and as he pulled them back until she was sitting atop his lap, his cock still seated deeply inside of her.

‘How exquisite you are. Fifty years of nightmares and this is the dream to which I wake. Lay claim to what’s yours, Agatha.’

His reverent prayer rang clearly in her head, pushing through the impassioned storm raging within her, and she began to move her unsteady hips against him. She shifted to take him deeper and his teeth tore at her neck, blood and saliva spilling from the artery. The pain alone was enough to make her cry out but his snarl sent her over an edge she didn’t know she was teetering. Her encore was a rush unlike anything she’d experienced, her juices spilling around him to the point he pulled out to let the excess run out before plunging back into her depths. He withdrew from her neck, the wound left open, the column of her throat in his hand, and demanded her mouth as he snapped her attention to him.

Her blood smeared against her face as she kissed him, the remnants of the liquid spilling into her mouth as she opened at his prying teeth. Metallic and unimpressive to her own palette, but blood all the same. Blood was lives and she read her own as her teeth tore into his lip, drinking in their combined flavors.

His hand shifted to the back of her neck as he broke from the kiss, looking between them to watch as she rode him. Her hips ground into his with increasing instability. She took him deeper with each erratic movement until her legs shook, his name spilling from her lips.

“Like that. Keep…” another hard kiss, the words a growl in his throat. “...just like that, just…”

He grunted when she brought a hand to his throat and turned his head in her hold. Agatha understood what he had meant when he said she smelled like him. While she found her own blood of no interest to her in his kiss, she found it to be much more enticing when in his veins.

“You don’t have to ask, Agatha,” he panted and held tightly to her hips, driving into her as she pushed down on him.

Would she ever tire of hearing her name leave his lips?

No. She decided as she descended upon his throat, drinking him in the moment she broke flesh. The inferno within him burned hotter than it had in the kiss and she revered the way it poured down her throat.

The knife. His hunger gnarled angrily to his core as he first tasted her. Unabashed before the entire convent, needing to know her. An interest the second she stepped into the courtyard. A deeper wickedness in her than he could have dreamed as he drank from her vein.

Agatha vowed never to indulge in blood. It was a medication not an addiction, an unfortunate side effect of her existence.

He wanted her during his time aboard the Demeter, considered it heavily through the game, but would not have her in a dream. Never had he thought such things. Humans were prey. But Agatha Van Helsing?

Agatha had made many vows and had broken just as many.

How the name stuck to his lips, reverberated in his mind even as he had slept in his cabin for a week. Not in conquest, in respect, in admiration. He knew their game would play on for eternity if fate allowed. Only one could reign victorious and such an opponent would never surrender. She was a beautiful balance of power and cunning, and he could not stay away. Even if it took four hundred years more, he would find her again.

His blood was old, but hers revived it and she was tasting their memories, their game, their careful dance upon a tightrope.

She returned to him in an instant, immortal. Her soul was not as saved as he had conjectured. He could call her a bride, but that was beneath her. She scorched the earth on which he tread and now he could burn freely. A life without her in it seemed a dull life indeed, and he knew he could not, would not allow her to slip away again. He knew her secrets, knew her more intimately than anyone could, but it wasn’t enough. More than he coveted her, he needed her.

It was hard to focus as he shoved her onto the bed, his neck shifting. Blood fell to the sheets as her teeth detached from him. Dracula gave no time for her to gather her thoughts before he thrust deep into her. With every short stroke, Agatha felt him spill deep into her, reveling in the bestial growl that erupted from his mouth. She had not anticipated the deep, vocal sigh that followed. Her walls ached as he pulled out of her, a mix of their release coming from her entrance behind him.

She noticed his vein still open, the slow trickle flowing into the hollow of his collarbone and onto her chest, calling to her. Asking her to break her vows once again.

As a nun, she had turned her back on nearly every form of temptation, her wicked curiosity the exception. As a vampire, Agatha learned to control temptation. But as his blood began to run into the fur of his chest, she found herself overcome, as though something awakened within her. A deeper and more powerful hunger than she could fathom was beset upon her, and she could not resist.

He needed to feed. He had gorged himself on the Demeter but that was half a century ago. If she drank more from his veins, he would become famished, insatiable. Just a taste of what spilled out would be enough.

“You’re a vampire, this is…”

He had been in her thoughts, a silent audience until she came to an impasse.

“Don’t insult me by saying natural,” she returned in a heavy breath, her eyes flooding a deep red.

“I’m saying what you’re experiencing is my hunger. You drank my blood, you have my thoughts, my needs, coursing through your veins,” he explained quietly, his voice like gravel as he raised a hand to his neck. He wiped at the blood with two fingers and brought them to her lips, a wicked grin upon his own.

She took the digits carefully into her mouth, her tongue wrapping around them. Agatha nursed and licked until they were clean and then some. The feeling of him inside of her, in any form, could not dissuade the hunger building inside of her. She drowned in the radiance of their sin.

“This is not sin,” he interjected as he pulled the digits from her mouth and moved his head to lick her own wound clean. Her fingers nestled into his hair, holding him close as he planted his lips to her neck wherever he went. He ran the hand down her torso, skin like silk beneath his fingers as he descended to her core. “You’ll need something to eat soon. My appetite isn’t easily sated.”

He pressed against her clit before he withdrew his hand and shifted down her body. His head came to rest between her legs and Agatha quivered as his tongue flicked the nub.

“C-clearly.” The smell of their blood around her, Dracula working at her core, his thoughts of her playing in her mind… Control was slipping from her grasp, unwinding like a loose spool of yarn falling over a cliff.

And Agatha Van Helsing never lost control.

#my writing #dragatha #bbc dracula #bbc dracula fanfiction #dracula #dracula fanfic #dracula x agatha #count dracula #agatha van helsing #fanfic #vampire!agatha #lmao only half an hour behind scheddy

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S̴̳͌̋́̕͝Ï̴̪̖̱̰̼̉̿͒̐M̵̧̻͔̙̀̌̏̑̚Ù̵̞͔̮̈͛͝L̴̡̖̋͑͛͆͘Â̶͖̇T̸͓͓̹̘͖͌̎̚͝I̷̻̗͝O̵̦̖̯̳̟̐̊̑͝N̸̛̻̗̓͝:̵̰̠̌͂͗ ̶͈̠̤̺͉̎̌͒͠H̶͉͇̺̽̀Â̵̠̗̯P̶̡̘̒͛̑̐P̸̢͝Ÿ̴͔́͒͂ ̸̨̞̜̥̅̔͛͆N̴̡̢͇͔͗́̎̋̄ͅḚ̸͈̎͆̉V̶͇̾͊̓E̸͓̼̔R̶̬͍̿̏ ̵̼̟̤̱̗̑͛͠A̸̛̩͕͑͆̀F̴̗̠͖̄́T̶͖̜̳̈́́͜E̴̬̩͓͔͋͜R̵̡̹͍̳̞̃̇̓͌ ᴡᴏʀᴅs: 1510 sᴇʀɪᴀʟ ᴄᴏᴅᴇ: 1007-01-SLO-ISFJ-06-42

the end was only another beginning.

the collective were truly a bunch of merciless bastards willing to toss them even in simulation from one chaos to another. maybe this is what you need to be preparing for but your battered body disagrees in its growing gnawing agony. already, even in the dimness of the building your hazel hues form slits to see slow discolouration on your leg where flesh has been exposed in the altercation.

the trophy flowers of your battle will have to bloom in its array for the time being without any weeding. simulation or not, you have no time to deal with the blossoming injuries. death would always be lurking at the doorsteps or around the corner and even if this was a simulation that could teach you the sensation of pain, it would also be a method to collect tactical information for the future. the brief sense of optimism is all that you can grasp onto without sleeping into your sanity.

time has always been the biggest enemy in your life. it flows fast when you need it to slow and becomes an agonizing snail when you want it to go fast. you have no time to sit down and think, the voice in your head is a blaring siren constantly screaming at you. run, run and run. it feels like that is all you have been doing the past few minutes. maybe hours. in irony it is in fatigue that you end up taking more risks as you leap down flights of stairs until the sun is kissing the crown of your head once more.

outside but not safe. with how the simulation warns you, it becomes clear that whether you are in the shadows of the back alley or whether you are out under the sun, you will be hunted. you will be killed because the only target which has been marked in the entire city is you.

you truly detest attention.

but it is now time to head back to running.

the first person who greets you while you sneak around among the crowd looks like a typical office lady moving her way through so she won't be late for work. that is exactly what you make her of her as she dashes across the street with a bunch of other people in office wear.

but unlike them who soon scatter she runs towards you. you quickly place your chakrams together like a shield as she whips out a dagger ready aimed at the soft flesh of your intestine. there is no blood but there is a force that makes your shoes scratch against the concrete for a second while you quickly collide your chakram together to trap her blade.

just a second and then you swing a high kick over at her cheeks. unable to block it with the dagger she is forced to let go to protect herself from your impact. when she grabs your ankle and she begins to twist it you almost want to bless your luck for deciding to learn ballerina.

you have an answer. you use her grip on you as part of your platform to bend your knee and use your other feet to leap and propel yourself closer. the chakram still firmly lodges the dagger in place. if you can't kick her at least the hilt of the dagger may be able to wind her.

she's forced to let you go as the chakrams hiss dangerously close to her body ready to press in for blood. leaping back is a method to regroup and for you to toss her dagger aside far behind you. your left arm swings the chakram and it rips at the woman's arm with a shrill of excitement.

between the screaming, the splatter of blood and ripped sinews soaring into the air you see a clean cut white. the bone.

you did it.

the severed arm clumsily falls down before you and you can see every layer all the way down to the bone in surgical details. if you were a biology teacher, it would have been a dream specimen but now it flops lifeless onto the wet cement. soon it'll begin to smell and decay will hit with puffed anger.

( you are not you, remember? this is a simulation. )

"sorry," the best thing you think you can do now is to run over to where she is crouched, clutching the stump that is left of her arm and slice her jugular vein. it sprays you, another person, another red. they all come to look the same on you anyways. they all smell the same. iron.

bile fills your mouth as you turn away.

you quickly scamper from the scene, pretending it was not you who had brought on the putrid scent that pounce on your nostrils. a bus parks a short distance away and an idea hits you.

bus hopping.

you had a brief idea which bus would take you the way you wanted to go. you just needed to reach one of the stops in one piece and then swing yourself onto the rooftop while it drove away from the passengers. it would be a risk to enter an enclosure when all foes conceal themselves as a normal passenger.

the journey to the stop leads to one more war but you are starting to get the hang of your chakrams. it's unfortunate your right arm is bleeding from a not so pleasant cut, but you are on your way to your destination. from up here, at least you can stop the blood from trickling any further.

you see him before he sees you. you have been cautiously walking for a while after you had crossed the treacherous river, hands close to the ground and legs even closer. it is through the filters of the bushes you see him and you silently mourn the fact that you should have resided among the trees instead of on the ground. it would have been a good toss.

a note to slip away for the future.

for now you inch closer in your silence. after confirming what it appears to still be an advantage on your end, you count to three, toss your chakram and charge forward.

hands reach up to grab the weapon that failed to slice through bone, but managed to still slice into a decent chunk of flesh along the male's lower thigh. he is bleeding, you watch crimson drip and you watch wetness darken the patches of cloth upon his leg. but you can't observe for too long, you're running at him with eyes that speak of killing.

he returns the same expression. it is scary how easily you slip into the folds,the hesitation which should mark your features disappearing. but this is a simulation and humans are always averting pain in their own fear. you are no different in the end.

these are matters created from technology, even if you were to attempt to converse surely they would not heed you.

he has a rifle that buries a bullet into your right shoulder. you think that side of yours might be cursed, maybe everyone believes you to be right-handed and seeks to incapacitate. who knew being left handed would become your advantage as you dash from below to swipe up at his fingers on the rifle. flesh departs from its origin on the body and the rifle unpleasantly dents. a useless scrap of metal now.

it becomes a shield. then it becomes nothing. he is on the ground, he is moving. then he stops. but you don't remember to stop because your mind remembers how he has pummeled your head seconds earlier. blood fills your ears, the roaring of blood is all you hear.

you can't recognize the caverns of his chest anymore when you stand up again. the heart has long cracked into pieces, buried among other organs. looking at it almost feels like staring at hollywood's special effects. these could be special effects too, technology working its charm. but it is also a reminder it could be real. the hole of putrid black and red torn flesh and muscle, the gleam of white that speaks of cracked bones.

( this could be real. this could be your brother. this could be you.

this could be real. )

it's a cycle of sick thoughts that swarm in your head. you attempt to battle nausea, the lingering smell of death so thick and pungent in the air.

you detach yourself as you begin walking again. the climb up the mountain wouldn't be anything soft. your legs will complain, but compared to the deathly stillness of your right arm the complaint feels all the better. it is a reminder that you are alive.

you sigh. this is not a sigh of dread. this is not a sigh of boredom. it is of exhaustion, knowing that it can only be a scale upwards at this point for you.

there was never a place for you to go back to.

not anymore.

#blcktmpl ; simulation3.#+550LP #*:･ﾟ✧ // THE LONELY DOLL SHALL SING HER BROKEN ARIA « SOLO »

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swipestream · 6 years

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Describing Fights, a Vital Skill!

It was a simpler time…

One quality I love about pulps and classic science fiction works is how much physical confrontation is in them. Whether it involves mech suits, killer drones, shooting, swords, fisticuffs, or wrestling, there was heaps of full-blooded action. And it’s seemingly simple, right? Just write about one man punching another! How hard that can be?

And yet, as with many writing skills that critics thumb their noses at, it’s a rare author who can do it effectively! What can we learn from the old masters, and what pitfalls should we avoid? Let’s look at a few different approaches;

Detailed Description-

Typically, this means specific listing of everything involved in the action scene, from the movements themselves to the surroundings to the state of the combatants. The author will describe the arc of the punch, how his right foot is positioned, the sweat greasing the fighter’s brow, the fluorescent light shining in his eyes, and many other details. Even a short, single encounter can be described over multiple pages. An example of this style is present in Ian Fleming’s James Bond series. Here is a part, not even the whole passage, of an unimportant fight Bond engages in with an unnamed Mexican gangster at the beginning of Goldfinger;

The gesture of the hand slipping into the coat was so well known to Bond, so full of old dangers, that, when the hand flashed out and the long silver finger went for his throat, Bond was on balance and ready for it.

Almost automatically, Bond went into the ‘Parry Defence against Underhand Thrust’ out of the book. His right arm cut across, his body swivelling with it. The two forearms met mid-way between the two bodies, banging the Mexican’s knife arm off target and opening his guard for a crashing short-arm chin jab with Bond’s left. Bond’s stiff, locked wrist had not travelled far, perhaps two feet, but the heel of his palm, with fingers spread for rigidity, had come up and under the man’s chin with terrific force. The blow almost lifted the man off the sidewalk. Perhaps it had been that blow that had killed the Mexican, broken his neck, but as he staggered back on his way to the ground, Bond had drawn back his right hand and slashed sideways at the taut, offered throat. It was the deadly hand-edge blow to the Adam’s apple, delivered with the fingers locked into a blade, that had been the stand-by of the Commandos. If the Mexican was still alive, he was certainly dead before he hit the ground.

Bond stood for a moment, his chest heaving, and looked at the crumpled pile of cheap clothes flung down in the dust. He glanced up and down the street. There was no one. Some cars passed. Others had perhaps passed during the fight, but it had been in the shadows. Bond knelt down beside the body. There was no pulse. Already the eyes that had been so bright with marihuana were glazing. The house in which the Mexican had lived was empty. The tenant had left.

Again, keep in mind that this isn’t the entirety of the description, and is part of a flashback at the beginning, before the story truly begins! Now, I’ve read all of the Ian Fleming Bond books, and consider them enjoyable enough, but nothing special. That also applies to the fight scenes. The one above is serviceable and has a pleasing, poetic conclusion, but several details actively hinder a reader conjuring up the scene in his head, instead of aiding him. For instance, what the hell is a “crashing short-arm chin jab” and what does it look like? I was an amateur boxer and have never heard of such a strike! Right off the bat, the book’s description collides with my own mental vision of what Bond’s punch looks like after he stopped the knife thrust.

And that’s generally true of this approach. It can work for the right author, and the success of the Bond books is testament to that, but there is always the danger that over-describing will conflict with the reader’s own picture of the events. To use a painting analogy, there are too many brushstrokes, and it’s easy to get one wrong, as with the “crashing short-arm chin jab”.

More Focused Description-

Instead of describing everything, the author chooses to hone in on several particular features of the struggle. Fights can still be long, and there is plenty of detail on the key elements, but not all aspects of the fight are given attention. Consider, for instance, a portion of the combat in Howard’s Queen of the Black Coast;

Then something swept down across the stars and struck the sword near him. Twisting about, he saw it—the winged one!

With fearful speed it was rushing upon him, and in that instant Conan had only a confused impression of a gigantic man-like shape hurtling along on bowed and stunted legs; of huge hairy arms outstretching misshapen black-nailed paws; of a malformed head, in whose broad face the only features recognizable as such were a pair of blood-red eyes. It was a thing neither man, beast, nor devil, imbued with characteristics subhuman as well as characteristics superhuman.

But Conan had no time for conscious consecutive thought. He threw himself toward his fallen sword, and his clawing fingers missed it by inches. Desperately he grasped the shard which pinned his legs, and the veins swelled in his temples as he strove to thrust it off him. It gave slowly, but he knew that before he could free himself the monster would be upon him, and he knew that those black-taloned hands were death.

The headlong rush of the winged one had not wavered. It towered over the prostrate Cimmerian like a black shadow, arms thrown wide—a glimmer of white flashed between it and its victim.

Notice that the way in which Conan grasps for his sword, or the manner in which the winged one rushes towards Conan is described simply, and left up to the reader’s imagination. However, the physical characteristics of the antagonist, as well as the desperate, panicked nature of the situation are made abundantly clear to the reader. This particular battle is picturesque and poetic, and is a good example of why I like the approach. Those important details that the reader might not be able to imagine himself are given plenty of brush strokes, but the rest is done more minimally, as one can handle it without the author’s intercession. Of course, that doesn’t mean that merely adopting this style will yield instant success. One still has to know what is important in painting the scene and what isn’t, and be skilled in describing the former!

Terse Description-

Here, the author will only describe the minimal amount to convey the scene. Nothing more. Here, for instance, are three different action scenes from Philip Jose Farmer’s Rastignac the Devil;

As they left, Rastignac saw a cloaked figure slinking from the back door of the Ministry. Seized with intuition, he tackled the figure. It was an Amphib-changeling. Rastignac struck the Amphib with a venomous arrow before the Water-human could cry out or stab back. Mapfarity grabbed up the limp Amphib and they raced for the safety of the castle.

Within a minute the square had erupted into a fighting mob. Staggering, red-eyed, slur-tongued, their long-repressed hostility against each other, released by the liquor which their bodies were unaccustomed to, Human, Ssassaror and Amphib fell to with the utmost will, slashing, slugging, fighting with everything they had.

They began unloading the chests while Rastignac kept an eye on Lusine. He saw her run up, stop, say a few words to the Amphib King, then kneel and stab him, burying the knife in his jugular vein. Then, before anybody could stop her she had applied her mouth to the cut in his neck. The Human-King kicked her in the ribs and sent her rolling down the steps. Rastignac saw correctly that it was not her murderous deed that caused his reaction. It was because she had dared to commit it without his permission and had also drunk the royal blood first.

This might seem like it’s not nearly enough brush strokes. And yet, the story is thrilling and full of adventure! These short, violent scenes are plentiful, and each does just enough to allow one to picture what is going on. They are not poetic, but they are fun and action-packed, especially within the context of the rest of the tale. While it worked for Farmer and a few others, I consider this a very challenging style. It’s so easy to have one’s description end up drab and lifeless. It takes a great author to build the proper story around these scenes and maximize the minimalist description to create an exciting, vivid vision for the reader.

Description Reminiscent of a Hollywood Movie or Video Game-

This is a common pitfall for many newer works, and one I’ve mentioned before in my columns. Reading the scene, it’s ripped wholesale from a generic Hollywood CGI blockbuster or a popular first-person shooter. There is no imagination, just the same scene millions have seen on a screen. Not only is this dull and uninspiring, it always makes me wonder why I’m bothering reading this instead of playing the game or watching the movie, instead? I read books for something different and unique, not a watered-down version of what other mediums are offering. Avoid this, regardless of one’s style of description!

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