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rokutouxei · 3 years

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together through the fog

ikemen vampire: temptation through the dark theo van gogh / mc | T | 2518

Born frailer than your average pureblood vampire, she's doomed to need fresh human blood—not just rouge—to survive. Drinking from them will cost more than just blood: and she doesn't want to make them pay that price, especially not the one she loves the most. What decisions are you free to make when you don't really have a choice—and how is Theo going to convince her that staying a little longer isn't so bad if he's with her?

chapter 2 of 3

“A gallery?”

“Yes, a gallery,” she says, once more, not blinking. “Are you even listening to me, Theo?”

It’s been two weeks since his last visit to her at the mansion. He would have preferred to come a little more often, but he is not the boss of his work most days. He blinks and shakes his head side-to-side as if shaking himself awake.

“No, I am listening. Setting up a gallery to host artists is one thing, but making a permanent exhibition?” he asks again. He doesn’t dare to finish with the rest of the unsaid sentence of it’s as if you’re dying and giving your collection away. He knows that’s what it means.

Especially with what Sebastian told him last week.

“Sir Theodorus, I don’t think I have the right—”

“That makes it even more suspicious, do you realize that?”

He had just asked the butler whether or not the lady of the house was entirely alright—if she was harboring any sort of secret ills, or a lament that Theo ought to know about. The butler cringed at having been caught, carefully wringing his hands behind his back.

“The miss... is rather ill, but she refuses to seek treatment.”

“…Refuse? Why would she?”

“Sir, that’s entirely out of my bounds to say now,” Sebastian insists, shaking his head. “But if I may—please do what you can to convince her. You might be the only one who has the ability to do so.”

The Comtesse, however, was unnerved by his statement, simply going back to her usual cup of tea, which seemed a little… more red than usual. “A permanent exhibition makes a statement. That is what we want, isn’t it?”

“We want the artists to get the credit they deserve, not the Academie to come after your neck,” Theo emphasizes. “Aristocrat or not, there’s a high chance that you will still be targeted for setting up an exhibit like that.”

“Then let them do it,” she insists. “If they have nothing better to do, I can entertain them for a little bit.”

Even if it is not aligned to his wishes—and he knows that beneath it, there is a hidden thing going on—Theo does not argue about her setting up the gallery as she desired. After all, she had already purchased the building by the time she contacted him, and regardless of his help, she would be setting up the exhibit as she pleased. He wasn’t the only art dealer she knew, after all.

It was a lonely day, the day they hauled the paintings out of the mansion and into the carriages that would bring them to the gallery. He requested to be there even if he didn’t have to, and he watched as the workers they hired hauled armfuls of Monets and Rembrandts and—of course—even van Goghs. He joined her in walking along the hallways of the mansion looking for any missed pieces. She had decided to strip the mansion’s walls empty of any paintings, save for those that were family heirloom.

They find an imitation of Friedrich’s Wanderer above the Sea of Fog still hanging in her bedroom, which she kindly asks him to take down without much emotion.

It was as if she was going away somewhere else, somewhere far away, and she did not have the heart to bring the paintings with her, so they would have to part right here.

Theo does not like the sinking feeling of it in his gut.

“This isn’t an original, isn’t it?” he remarks, even if he already knew. She nods as he comes down the chair to set the painting down on the floor, lightly dusting the frame. “It seemed to be of your liking.”

“I grew up around romantic paintings, Theo,” she answers. “The style might not be a direct copy of Friedrich’s, but the essence is still there. And that’s the point—it’s the essence that always counts.”

“Perhaps an original Friedrich would be to your tastes as well,” he offers, as he hauls the painting up into his arms to carry it downstairs. “There’s an exhibition to be held downtown in a few days. Maybe you would like to accompany me.”

She nods. “Mm, an authentic Friedrich would enrich this collection, wouldn’t it?” When she brushes past him on her way out of the door, Theo can see how pale she’s become, much paler than she regularly is. He remembers Sebastian’s words. Feels a sense of dread rise up. “Consider it done then. Won’t you fetch me up here on the day?”

“In three days,” he says. “Of course. It would be my pleasure.”

The exhibit is a quiet place to be. Friedrich’s paintings have always held that sense of solitude and sadness that was out of favor—in comparison to the beautiful sunlit fields and landscapes—and even now, fifty and so years after his death, no matter how strong his work is in terms of composition, he remains largely not that well-known.

The exhibit gallery is a good place to be alone.

She’s wearing a somber, dark blue dress whose subtle golden accents match with her earrings. She has always worn around her that subdued kind of beauty, but today, she looks even more toned-down than usual. Every minute of the trip to the city he had expected her to cough up a lung, or maybe faint, or something that will assure him: yes, something is wrong. Yes, you must do something. No, you can’t just keep watching.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she holds her posture up like any respectable Victorian woman would do and looks at the paintings with wide-open eyes. Some of these she’s seen before, for sure, but she always looks at them with a wonder Theo cannot put into words. She looks 16 again, he muses, at that gallery where they first met, wondering about art, looking for someone to talk to.

Except they aren’t that young anymore.

“Theo, what do you feel about death?”

They are standing in front of the original version of Wanderer above a Sea of Fog, out of earshot from the rest of the visitors to the exhibit, when the question is asked. Theo instantly turns to her with a kind of fear, but her face is placid; calm; like she had instead asked what the weather was, or what was the color of her dress.

“Inevitable,” is what he decides to answer, looking back up at the painting when she just patiently waits for him to speak. “Its inevitability is comforting.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re always striving to be better than the next person, but death—death will strike us all equally in the end,” he explains. “At the end of the day, it is all insignificant. The world is vast. All that matters is we do what we can, for the things we hold important.”

She nods quietly.

Theo feels like he ought to say something. Pull something out of his pocket about Friedrich, twist it on his tongue until it sounds about him but is, in truth, about her. Something about understanding the depth of loneliness in the vast abandoned spaces of his paintings and yet seeing it in a beautiful light. Something about reframing the solitude into one that is beautiful instead of frightening. Something about the acceptance of it.

But every train of thought brings him back to the very human fear of death. That while it is comforting, one does not necessarily want to look it in the eye so soon. He does not want to talk to her about death. He wants to talk to her about staying.

“Theo, I know you know, so you don’t need to hide it.”

When he snaps back to reality she is no longer looking at the painting, but at him, a gentle smile on her face.

“Then we can skip the questions and I can ask you why you’re not getting treatment.”

“That’s… not your question to ask,” she tries to say, but—

“I’m your friend,” he answers back. “Let me be concerned.”

The truth is that she does want to tell him—always had—but it’s always been a matter of knowing where to begin. There is too much to say, too much to parse, too much to nuance… and if doing those meant hurting him, why ever would she tell him?

But what now that not doing it would also hurt him?

“I’ve always wanted to be human,” she begins. “To live even if life is one tragedy after another. To accept that the world might… really never go in or favor. But I wasn’t born into that.” she looks down at her feet. “This death, this frailness… this is the closest I can get to that. I want to understand what it’s like.”

“What more do you have to know?” he asks. “I heard. You’ve been ill for years. No human in their right mind would accept being ill for so long without some attempt at recovery.”

“I am not human,” she insists. “Besides, I made a choice.”

“What choice?”

“About—” She catches herself and then softly laughs, turning to him with a smile. “How much did Sebastian tell you?”

“Enough—is what I thought, but it seems like not quite,” he answers.

Quiet. There’s a guilt that gnaws in her belly for not having been honest with him all this time. For not telling him outright. About this. About her. About everything. But she knows she only did that for his own sake. She just didn’t want to hurt him.

“Friedrich comforts me because his paintings understand what my life has been like,” she says, instead. “He knows what it’s like to know this loneliness.”

And I don’t want you to know what that’s like, her mind finishes. She wishes, deep in her heart, that Theo can hear the unfinished bits of her sentences.

“I see Friedrich a little differently.”

“Oh?” she looks up at him curiously. “Tell me about it then.”

“I don’t know how much you know about the artist himself,” he begins, “but Friedrich was alone at a young age. He was seven when his mother died. Several of his siblings died soon after. One was said to have died after an attempt of rescuing him from death.”

A kind of somber smile fills her face. “That explains a lot, doesn’t it?”

“He preferred painting landscapes, as you can tell. He forayed with portraiture and even watercolor as well, but—he eventually turned to oil and landscapes. And he unearthed something in them.” Theo pulls his gaze away from her, onto the rest of the paintings hanging on the walls of the gallery. “His contemporaries painted landscapes as well, not just him. Hackert, von Dillis. But his is different.”

“They are,” she agrees, looking up at the View of the Baltic from the other side of the room. “His landscapes are lonelier.”

Theo nods. “Indeed. But that’s only because he did not fear the loneliness that would come out of the images that were drawn. He did not shy away from that solitude, the harshness of nature. The deep sky in Winter Landscape. The shadows of the forest in The Chasseur in the Forest.”

“Why would he fear loneliness when he’s known it for so long?”

“This one,” Theo says, pointing up at the painting in front of them, “is it lonely?”

She blinks. “A single human looking down at the jagged cliffs below? It is.”

And Theo smiles. Smiles so openly she feels herself stutter inwardly because of it. “To me, it isn’t.” He focuses his sea-blue eyes onto the painting in front of them, in all its oil and canvas glory. “To me, it’s… reflective. Empowering. One man, standing over the rest of eternity, symbolized in the jagged cliffs in front of him. There is so much out there—so much to fear, but he stands there, walking stick in hand, facing the fog as if saying: come at me. I am not afraid of you.”

She is quiet. How does one respond to something like that anyway? An opening of his heart she didn’t expect him to do, and in a way that has left her breathless.

He finally turns to her after what seems like an infinite length of silence. “I don’t know what you think being human means. But to me—the human—this is what it means. The recklessness. The hardheadedness. And even if the dark knocks all of the fight out of a person—they will punch right back, even if it is all they can do to acknowledge the darkness.” Then, quietly, a wordless bid of support, he offers his arm for her to take. “I think you ought to consider that option too.”

She laughs quietly, sliding her arm around his. “You want me to punch it away? Let’s see what that will do.”

“There’s no knowing until you try, mademoiselle,” he says, half-sarcastically, as the both of them make their way out of the gallery.

She tells him they should part at the gallery’s doorstep but he insists to send her back home, and he is in the carriage before she can even say no. They spend the next half hour quiet on the way back to the mansion. Theo feels like he ought to say something more. He does not have anything more to say.

There’s no convincing a dead man out of their grave.

When they get to the door, she asks Sebastian to escort Theo out of the mansion. When the butler doesn’t, she makes a soft comment about disliking disobedient men—but then lets Theo stay anyway, following her all the way to right at the doorway of her room, where she shuts the door behind her.

For a long, quiet moment, they stay there. Theo, with his forehead against the door from the outside, and her, back against the door as she sits on the floor, exhausted, body heaving with pain, head spinning. She doesn’t have much longer. She never did. The opening of her gallery is in one more week. What if she doesn’t make it till then? Will she be able to leave it in Theo’s hands? Perhaps she ought to give him money, or perhaps—

“The artists would want to see you,” he says, from outside the door. Her heart falls flat to the ground. Theo knows where it hits.

She takes a deep breath and answers back—as clearly as she can when her voice is already shaking. “Please give them my greetings.”

And then, he bangs his fist one time against the door; but on her side it feels hollow, empty. Will she even make it through the night at this rate? “You have to get the treatment you need.”

But to her, the “truth” is what she believes in, what she promised herself she would get, and so—“Theo, it’s not worth it. Please leave me.”

He calls out her name in the weakest of voices and she says—

“Please.”

#ikevamp #ikemen vampire #ikevam #ikevamp theo #ikemen vampire theo #ikevam theo #together through the fog #fic

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that-writing-kangaroo-fish · 5 years

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More DBD/JTHM

((Featuring: Johnny being a regretful son of a bitch.)) ((And a quick @devnny since you gave the okay for being @’d when the next bit went up.)) ((Previous part: here.))

Johnny wasn’t sure how many trials he’d been through now.

Enough to the point where he’d grown used to the routine. He’d be sitting around in his home, then feel a sudden pull towards the fog surrounding it. One way or another, the fog drawing closer or him walking into it, he’d end up somewhere else. The dull ache of his injuries would escalate back to near agony, urging him to chase down and kill a handful of survivors. If the trial’s outcome displeased the Entity, he’d return to his little corner of the realm with continued pain. Clear punishment, meant to push him into giving in.

He hated to admit that it was starting to work.

Conversely, success killed the pain. It also seemed to bring gifts from the Entity; things to make trials a little easier (or harder, depending on perspective), and oddly enough, the occasional notepad and pencil. The opportunity to draw was welcome, at least.

Sometimes, he could hear other people just beyond the fog. If nothing else, it was its own form of entertainment, and it taught him a little more about this place. An example being that while his fellow killers did have names, they were mostly referred to with titles: Trapper, Huntress, Cannibal, that kind of thing.

He wasn’t terribly enthused upon discovering he was referred to as the Maniac by them, but could begrudgingly admit that it was fitting. He’d seen the crazed, wide-eyed look he had during trials, though it was less from actual insanity (which he admittedly did have in spades) and more from a desire to get the goddamn pain to stop. Not as if they’d know. All they knew was that he was a new variation on their usual obstacle.

Something worried him about their discussion of him, though. Sometimes, it seemed like someone would make them stop and change the topic. Their voice was... distorted in some way. If he had to chalk that up to anything, it’d be the Entity meddling.

It was still concerning. He could count on one hand the amount of people who wouldn’t want to hear about him.

The idea of any of them being here--

That train of thought was interrupted by the feeling of the fog calling for him again. He took his time in approaching the fog, an ultimately insignificant way to be petty, but it was something. He brought an offering with him on his way, one that’d let him kill the last survivor left by his own hand. It granted some level of stress relief to do so.

The time spent waiting for the trial location to be formed gave him a few moments to brace himself for the inevitable unpleasantness.

A blink, and he was in trial grounds. Without even waiting for the pain to kick in first, he took in his surroundings before stalking off to look for any of the four survivors.

He got out a small sigh of relief when he noticed there was no particular “obsession” this time; didn’t have to worry about any of them stabbing into his shoulder on the way to a hook.

It didn’t take long for him to find someone working on a generator, lunging forward to slash at their back as they fled. Another attack and they fell to the ground, quickly picked up by Johnny and carried to a hook, unceremoniously tossed onto it with a scream of pain. The hooks were littered around the place, the Entity’s preferred method for receiving ‘sacrifices.’

Johnny never made any particular note of who he was against; there wasn’t much of a point in doing so. Those overheard campfire discussions eventually let him connect names to voices, then the trials connected voices to pained grunts and cries. He’d know who he was against, but it didn’t matter, seeing as this was the only interaction he had with them.

A few minutes later, it suddenly did matter.

Because the next survivor he found was Devi.

She was crouched next to a generator, working on repairing it before pausing and looking around. He quickly backed away and ducked behind a corner, quietly grateful that the trial space was the Memorial Institute, rooms and hallways instead of mostly wide open space.

That small feeling of gratefulness paled in comparison to the multitude of negatives he felt.

Another generator, further away, roared to life and brought along an uptick in his pain. His response was a wordless snarl at the ceiling and stalking off to look for the others. Those feelings could be picked apart after the trial.

The first survivor he’d thrown on a hook had actually tried to unhook themselves, only hastening the Entity’s progress in claiming them. They weren’t rescued by the others in time.

The second sacrifice got claimed on their third time being hooked, having been saved a couple times. Hadn’t done them any good, obviously.

That left two more, one of whom he was much more willing to hurt than the other. He wasn’t entirely sure if Devi had even seen him at any point (and hoped she hadn’t), but knew the odds of that happening were slowly ticking up.

One of the exit gates opened, triggering the beginning of the collapse. It was meant to spur the survivors into leaving, rather than sticking around and prolonging the trial. If they didn’t leave in time, the Entity stepped in. Quite violently, too.

The dread of displeasing the Entity rushed him on, leading him to a survivor he’d feel absolutely no guilt from killing. A cry of pain rang out as he got them with his knife, rushing them on to the exit gates.

Where Devi was waiting.

If he’d been allowed to speak during trials, he’d likely be swearing up a storm, but all he could do was avert his gaze from her (don’t think about the look on her face, don’t dwell, get this over with) and focus on the real target.

He managed to get one last knife swing at the fleeing survivor, downing them before they could escape. A quick glance at the exit and a gut feeling verified that Devi had run beyond the trial walls. “Probably for the best,” he thought before kicking the straggler onto their back, kneeling over them as he pulled a second knife from his jacket.

Their attempts at fighting him off and escaping were quickly thwarted as he began gouging the twin blades into their gut. He kept the stabbing up for a good few seconds, but the Entity never did allow these personal kills to drag on, so he concluded it with a quick dual stab to the throat.

Another look at the exit granted him the unwelcome knowledge that Devi hadn’t gone back to the campfire. She just watched him nearly disembowel someone. Johnny grimaced as the fog rolled in around him, feeling a little fortunate that he couldn’t quite see the look on her face (though fully aware it wasn’t a happy one, that’s for fucking sure)..

He blinked, now kneeling in his living room. Standing back up, he shuddered at the feeling of blood soaking into his clothes.

One quick wash-up in the bathroom and change of outfit later, he glared into the mirror, soon dropping the look with a sigh and running a hand through his hair.

This... Changed things.

Fuck.

The next time he sat by the fog and listened to the idle chatter of the survivors, their discussion inevitably turned to Devi, wondering why “the Maniac” had let her escape. The stream of questions was ended with an explanation, delivered with a tone which he could only describe as venomous. He could admit that it was justified, though.

Still stung enough to make him shoot a glare up at the sky as some part of him noted that the Entity hadn’t distorted her voice this time. Fucking thing must’ve looked forward to their mutual reactions. And, to a lesser degree, whatever reaction the others at the campfire would have to knowing those sordid details about him.

He didn’t look forward to whatever the future held, he was sure of that much.

#jthm #dbd #dead by daylight #johnny the homicidal maniac #johnny c #devi d #((kkkkkkind of))#my writing #dbd au

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sol-korolevas · 6 years

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subjugation;

life was stitched from your hand..

so certainly it was unsurprising to know that there could be somebody out there who was your opposite. yet you realized, with all of the deaths occurring, that somebody could be many.

you never thought about what would happen should you end. will life itself end with you?

the answer came one day, dressed in black.

you tended to a newborn fawn, its mother watching from a distance. soon, you and its mother will see her make her first steps.

suddenly, the mother’s body stood stiff, body language on edge. in a second afterward, she darted back into the forest. you couldn’t call out to her fast enough to see her body disappearing entirely into the darkness.

the fawn uttered a cry out for her. gently, you placed a finger between her ears, shushing it. if a predator appeared then you will let it come. you brought life but you cannot control life after it found its instinctive duties.

rather than a jungle cat or wolf, however, you notice a man. he was tall and imposing but clad in such noble dressing that made you feel small and useless.

there was something about him too, something heavy and intense.

you felt encouraged to ignore him. you scooped the fawn up into your arms, as its delicate body began trembling with fear.

“here you are, you petulant thing, i’ve been looking all over for you.” his voice sounded casual. at first, you thought he was speaking to the fawn. when he extended out a gloved hand, you realized he was talking to you.

“what do you want?” you asked in a stutter. you didn’t miss the smirk on his face or the way his appearance betrayed the darkness that surrounded him. he looked too soft, too kindly.

“come with me,” was his demand.

something was undone in you, finally setting you free from whatever hold that trapped you here. you turned and started running, bare feet hitting the soft grass.

just as you thought you could outrun him, you saw him standing right in front of you again. before you could run into him, the man grabbed you by your arm, holding you close.

“please, let us go,” you said, looking down onto the speckled body of the fawn. already you felt weak in voice and body. this effect wasn’t just felt by you, but by the babe in your arms. you were life and you knew when life was slowly draining away. “if not, let the little one go. her mother is waiting.”

“why should i?” his words were quick and sharp. they were mirror fragments cutting into your flesh. “this is only an insignificant life form. in no time its mother will make more. why do you care for this thing?”

however, you detected curiosity and intrigue in his question. of course, a man like him will never know how precious life was.

“no matter, i came for you (name), not this thing,” slowly, perhaps even hesitantly, he let you go. “however, i cannot deny the allure of taking this creature’s life just to see you suffer. so, let me satiate myself just once.”

you screamed as shadow wisps shot out from beneath, crawling up your legs and pouring over your arms. the fawn started crying, legs kicking and body squirming in pain.

then, it was over. the limp body of the newborn fawn was now dead in your arms.

you collapsed onto the ground, arms still cradling the body of the fawn. in front of you, the blond-haired man laughed, dark and heavy.

“this is fun, i think i will enjoy tormenting you a little more.”

you were suddenly brought up to your legs again, but you had no will to look him in the eyes. that displeased him, for the next moment he had your chin in his grip, face angled towards him.

the first thing you saw was his eyes, sharp and stormy, with shards of blue that looked near-gray to you. you knew death, but not like this. death was supposed to be a part of life, but it wasn’t always peaceful. still, this man here wasn’t just a bringer of death – he was death itself.

“how sweet of you to finally acknowledge your brother,” he said, sneering. you felt his grip on your upper arm tighten as he brought you even closer, the fawn’s body disappearing into smoke. “as my welcome gift, give me a little taste of life.”

you felt dazed, unaware of yourself all of a sudden. you couldn’t stop him from caressing your lips with his, or the way his tongue flicked over them, demanding entrance. despite the weak voice in your head, you parted your lips.

pain and panic suddenly seized you as a sense of doom and despair flooded into your system. death was never meant to touch life like this. you were never meant to be kissed like this.

faintly, you recalled the squeals of dying animals. their heart beating so wildly that they died from that before the blood loss.

the man was still pressed against you, body heat too suffocating to be comforting. soon, you began to feel something wet dribbling down your chin from your mouth. the coppery scent was all the hint you needed to know what it was.

finally, the man pulled away, satisfied with his work. his eyes roamed your mouth to your chin with admiration painting his pale features. then, he brought up a finger and flicked over the flesh underneath your mouth.

you stood trembling and weak, mind too bogged down by fear and confusion. somehow, his actions garnered a new realization into you. that you craved for the same feeling of lips on your own and of being held tight by someone.

but of course, it cannot be him. he was ruination and damnation, the very essence of destruction.

yet, all previous feelings came to an end when the same shadows gripped your kneecaps, forcing you to kneel on the ground. from this height, death looked even more intimidating. his shroud of gold hair paled in comparison to the darkness of his visage.

this move was deliberate in its purpose. so as to force you to submit to him, and for him to watch you in your subjugated position. there was no facade on his face now–he was smirking in mirth.

“it’s always nice to see life as it should be. beneath death, bowing to death with fear and anticipation.” he then extended his hand out to you, barely skimming your lips with the knuckles. “you should try kissing my hand, prove your worthless being.”

vehemently, you shook your head. this didn’t deter him, instead, it made his smirk wider.

“fine then,” he said, coldly. “i’ll see to it that everything perishes.”

“i’ll perish too, you monster.” you attempted to match his coldness. still, you couldn’t hold back the shaky breathing and your own trembling face.

his hands were suddenly caressing your cheeks. this gesture would have been touching and affectionate were it not for the frightening look in his eyes. it was something you couldn’t describe, but nonetheless, it terrified you.

“you forget one thing, dear sister. that i am death and you are fucking mine. if death wants you to live above everyone else, then you will. if death wants your life, then you will give.”

death leaned his face down close to your own. “so you better listen or else i will make certain you would rather die than live.”

in a matter of seconds, you felt your breath gone and your world turn into darkness.

amidst the slowly losing conscious, you heard his words drifting into your mind.

“don’t worry, i will take care of you from now on. all you need to do is listen.”

#michael langdon x reader #ahs michael x reader #michael langdon #ahs michael langdon #ahs michael #american horror story #american horror story apocalypse #ahs8 #michael langdon imagine #ahs imagine #ugh this came out so bad im so sorry guys

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