#i am my own jailor | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sarahowritesostucky · 1 month

Text

📖"Alpha, Beta (& Omega)"

Rated: Explicit

Chapter Rating: Teen

Word Count: 3627

Pairing: Steve x Bucky

Tags: a/b/o, arranged marriage, enemies to lovers, nobility/royalty au, alternate history, dom/sub elements, beta bucky, anal sex, oral sex, hurt/comfort, first time, age gap (18/29), domestic discipline, spanking, head of household, wedding night, Edwardian time period, m/f/m poly marriage

Summary: To save House Barnes from scandalous ruin, James must agree to a contracted marriage, accepting Lord Senator Steven Rogers as his Alpha, Husband, and Headship.

To read previous parts of this series first, got to the story's masterlist

12. A Headship's Rebuke

This Chapter: If Bucky ever wants to get out of this marriage and get his independence back, he’s going to have to really buckle down and remember his mission.

Bucky has a hangover the size of Long Island the next day.

Steve isn’t too sympathetic about it, which irks Bucky. He’s already feeling like shit, he doesn’t appreciate Steve’s continued scolding.

Only … he doesn’t exactly scold him. He’s crisp and curt, which in itself is very un-Steve-like. He barely says a word to Bucky when they wake, making himself scarce after they dress for the day. Sharon is the one who gives Bucky what he needs. He’s provided with a tonic to help relieve his headache, a mild breakfast and absolutely no words of comfort. It’s not Sharon’s job to do that. She’s just household help, and while she may have a relationship with Steve, to her Bucky’s nothing but a mandatory duty. He’s the man her employer married whom she now also has to wait on, so she does, but she extends him no courtesies or gestures of kindness. Bucky wonders if she’s always this cold, or if Steve told her what happened last night and she’s decided to stand in solidarity against Bucky.

Either way, Bucky’s left on his own to figure out what to do all day. “Where did Steve go?” he asks Sharon, when he notices that the apartment is empty save for the two of them.

“Pietro took him to a meeting, I believe,” Sharon says. She’s carrying laundry in a basket, and she continues on down the hallway, leaving him alone.

“Oh,” Bucky says to no one. He twists his lips and looks around the room with a sigh. “Okay.”

Steve returns around eleven o’clock, just before lunch. Bucky forces himself not to ask where he’s been. He doesn’t want Steve to think he cares. Steve appears in the living room and looks down at him where he’s sitting on the couch. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“I received a telegram,” Steve says. “A motion was called and I had to send instructions on how I wanted my vote to go.”

Bucky wants to ask what the motion was, but he forces himself not to. “Kay,” he says.

Steve stares at him. “What’ve you been doing this morning?”

“Nothing. I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to go out.” He says it with a modicum of sarcasm.

Steve frowns. “What? Of course you could’ve.”

“Well how would I know that?” Bucky snaps. “I don’t know what these new ‘boundaries’ are, Husband.” He uses the title in an obnoxious show of formality. If Steve wants to be all Headshippy on him, then Bucky will treat him like one. He gets a small measure of satisfaction as he watches Steve realize this.

“Oh. Well okay.” Steve seats himself in the room’s armchair. “I suppose you’re right. Would you like to discuss that now?”

“Not particularly, but I guess it’s whatever you want, right Husband?”

Steve huffs. “Is that how you’re addressing me now?”

“Unless you’d prefer ‘Alpha’.”

Steve’s jaw works in frustration. “I’d prefer my name, in private company.”

“Fine.”

“Oh stop it,” Steve snaps. “Just because I scolded you last night doesn’t mean I’m suddenly your jailor. Grow up.”

Bucky feels anger flood through him, though it’s followed quickly by embarrassment. “I’m eighteen, Steve!”

“I know that,” Steve growls. “Am I supposed to feel bad about that? I don’t. You think it's tough being married so young? Try being shoved into a Senate Seat at twenty-four. You’re eighteen, not eight. Act like it.”

Bucky huffs and crosses his arms, refusing to say anymore. Steve watches him for a moment before speaking. “Boundaries. Okay. Let’s talk about it. I won’t expect you to tell me your every move, but I will expect to know what your general plans are during the day.”

“Even on this trip?”

“Especially on this trip, our honeymoon.”

Bucky snorts. “For as splendidly as it’s going.”

“And you were raised as a gentleman and Senatorial heir, just like I was,” Steve says. “So I expect you to conduct yourself as such in public. No drunken escapades, rudeness or disrespecting our union.”

Bucky can’t manage any snide comments toward that. Steve’s right—he was raised as a gentleman. He feels a small bit of shame creep in at the reminder of his ridiculous behavior last night. That’s what it’s going to take though, he reminds himself. If he wants to make Steve want a divorce, then he’s got to continue doing things like that, and worse. “Okay,” he says. “Fine. Those are the rules. Now I know them.” Now he knows exactly which ones to break.

“Good.”

Steve seems to relax a bit. “Well … What would you like to do today?”

“With you?”

He sighs. “Yes, with me. We’ve got another two days in London before we head to the continent. Is there anything you’d like to do, see?”

Bucky shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess.”

Steve nods curtly. “Well come on then. I’ll get Pietro to hail us a hackie.”

Despite his efforts to remain despondent, Bucky winds up having a good time while he and Steve visit some of the more popular tourist sites around the city. His hangover ebbs, and after Steve buys them lunch at a café, he feels back to normal. He finds himself slipping back into friendly territory with Steve, and he scolds himself each time he laughs at something the alpha has said, returns a smile, or gets drawn into enthusiastic conversation without realizing. Steve is a reasonably easy guy to get along with, so If Bucky ever wants to get out of this marriage and get his independence back, he’s going to have to really buckle down and remember his mission.

They see most of the places that Bucky had on his list of things to see. London bridge, Big Ben, Parliament and Buckingham palace take up most of the day, and Bucky finds himself growing antsy as he realizes that he’s been friendly with Steve the whole time and not managed to create any incidents that might add to their fighting.

This marital discord stuff is hard.

They get to Westminster Abbey and step out of the hackie together. “We’ll head home after this, yeah?” Steve suggests.

Bucky nods. “Yeah, I’m hungry.”

Steve smiles and takes his hand. “Sharon told me she’s making a roast for supper. It should be good.” Bucky doesn’t comment. Instead he’s quiet as he looks at their joined hands. Steve guides him into the abbey. “Wow,” he says once they’re inside. “It’s huge.”

Bucky nods, looking up at the ceilings. “It doesn’t seem any bigger than the national cathedral though.”

“You’ve seen it?” There’s a modicum of surprise in Steve’s voice.

Bucky scoffs, yanking his hand back to himself. “My family did keep a residence in D.C., you know. I’ve been to the capitol tons of times.”

“Of course. … I wasn’t making a jab at your circumstances.” Steve looks away sadly, visibly putting on a cheerful face after that. “There are over three thousand people buried here,” he tells Bucky. “Tennyson, Dickens, Queen Elizabeth, Chaucer, Darwin …”

Bucky keeps examining all the fancy architecture, not looking at Steve. “I suppose we would’ve gotten married there, if it hadn’t been such a rushed affair.”

Steve pauses in his listing of famous names. “At the national cathedral? Yes. I suppose so …” Bucky can feel Steve peering at him, probably trying to figure out why he’d bring that up. “... Either there, or at St. Patrick’s in New York,” he says quietly. “It’s customary.”

Bucky nods. Privately, he’s grateful that they hadn’t had to have a grand State wedding. Even if he’d chosen the marriage, he wouldn’t have enjoyed saying his vows in front of a thousand people. He continues looking around the cathedral, eventually wandering away from Steve, who lingers in the section where the poets are buried.

A man in church robes approaches Bucky near the nave of the church and greets him with a smile, asking if Bucky has any questions about the history of Westminster. Bucky shrugs, stepping away from the plaque he’d been reading. “No, not really,” he says. “I was just looking around.”

“I see,” the man says.

“Are you a priest?”

The man smiles. “No. I’m a deacon here.” He holds out his hand. “Deacon Aemes.”

“James Bar— erm, Rogers, that is.”

“You’re American?”

“Yes. I’m here with my husband, Senator Steven Rogers.”

The man’s eyes seem to light up with recognition. His posture straightens. “I see! Is this your first visit to London?”

“Second. We’re honeymooning here.”

“Wonderful!” the man beams, which is annoying. Bucky has had more than his fair share of experience with being treated differently once people figure out who he is, and he can tell that’s what’s happening now. He tries to think of a way to get out of having to talk further with this man. “I think I’d better go find him, actually,” he starts to say. “We were just about to—”

“Are you interested in worship services during your visit?” the deacon asks. “We have seven services each Sunday. I’m sure with your husband’s Societal standing I could arrange for reserved seating.”

Bucky frowns. “No. Thank you. I—” His eyes catch on movement out of the corner of his eye, and when he glances over he sees Steve heading their way. He pauses, reconsidering his words. This is an opportunity, he thinks, nerves quickening his pulse. “I … actually don’t go to church.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. I’m an atheist,” he says, forcing back a sly grin and inserting disdain into his tone. “It’s silly to believe in God.”

Deacon Aemes’ face is turning pink. He looks mortified. “Well … that’s—”

Steve has come up to Bucky’s side, and Bucky continues his spiel, “Religion is the root of all evil, if you ask me.” It’s a wild exaggeration and just about the rudest, most-awkward thing Bucky can think up on the spot to say. Not to mention it’s a lie: He’s always held a general belief in God. But he continues his rude speech now that Steve is there to listen. “When was that last kiddie fiddler scandal, after all? Half a year ago?”

“Bucky!” Steve says in shock.

Bucky forces a scornful laugh. “What? It’s true. Religion is just the opiate of the masses: people too scared to use their own brains, so desperate for comfort that they'll believe anything, giving corrupt men power that they don’t deserve. Christianity spreads intolerance and hate, and it generally fucks up other people’s lives. It’s fucking awful.”

It’s a trifecta of obscene behavior for which Bucky is somewhat proud of himself. If the insults to religion and the shameless mention of lewd acts weren’t enough, he’s also made sure to top it off with a nice smattering of curse words. Bucky sneers at the deacon. “As far as I see it, ‘God’ is nothing but a rapist, murderer, thief and pedophile, himself.”

Unsurprisingly, deacon Aemes is starting to look enraged. “Sir! You are in a house of worship. Have some respect.”

“‘Respect’?” Bucky scoffs. “For what? The Church of England? It’s been responsible for more abuses than—” Steve’s hand closes around the back of his neck and scruffs him so fast that Bucky’s speech cuts off in a gasp.

“Sir,” Steve practically growls at the deacon. “I am so sorry for this rudeness. Please, excuse us.”

“Well I never,” the deacon sputters. He looks utterly outraged, though Steve’s taking control of the situation seems to have kept him from outright yelling at Bucky himself. “I’d suggest you leave,” he says tightly. “Don’t come back, and take your disrespectful Spouse with you.”

Steve nods tightly. “We’re going.” On Bucky’s neck, his fingers tighten cruelly and he steers him away. “Come on.” He marches him down the length of the cathedral and shoves him into a narrow side hall near the front doors. He crowds Bucky in against the wall. “What the hell is wrong with you?!” he hisses.

Bucky fights back the victorious smirk that wants to come. “What?”

“How could you say those things to that man?!”

“Well it was all true,” he says. “You want me to lie?”

Steve’s face darkens. “Don’t play coy, it doesn’t suit you. You went out of your way to provoke him.”

“Sorry,” Bucky says, putting no apology into the word.

Steve seethes at him. He steps back. “Come on. We’re going home.”

“What if I don’t feel like—”

“Follow me, now,” he Voices, already walking away.

Bucky’s eyes widen at being commanded, though he knows he honestly shouldn’t be surprised at this point. Steve seems to have no problem coercing him with his Voice whenever he gets truly mad. Bucky’s feet start following, and even though it’s not pleasant seeing Steve so pissed off, he does thrill a little at having accomplished his goal.

This was just one small step, though, he thinks. He’s still got to do far worse to make Steve want a divorce.

Steve is silent and terse on the ride back to the apartment, but once they’re inside and the door is shut, he gets right to work in ordering Bucky about. “Sit,” he says, pointing at the writing desk in the living room. “There. Grab a pen and paper.” He stalks out of the room, leaving Bucky to do as told and worry what’s next. He returns after only a moment, a stack of envelopes and papers in hand.

“What’s that?” Bucky asks.

“The post. Our mail was forwarded. These are the nuptial congratulations and well-wishes we’ve received.” He sets a large part of the stack in front of Bucky, then a single open sheaf of paper. “This is a list of the guests who were at our wedding, and their titles.” He sets down one last envelope. “And this is a letter from your mother.”

“My mother?” Bucky starts to reach for it.

“No,” Steve says, making Bucky’s eyes snap back to him. “You’re going to answer the other letters first. Then you’ll write thank you responses to each and every person who attended the wedding.”

Bucky winces. “You can stop Voicing,” he says.

“No, Bucky. I can’t.” Steve is looking down at him with icy eyes. “You obviously don’t know how to listen without it.”

“You should’ve told me I wasn’t allowed to speak my mind to strangers,” Bucky throws out. “How was I to know that was one of your ‘boundaries’?”

“Shut up,” Steve says. “You’re not going to say anything smart for the rest of the evening. Sit here and answer the letters. Do a good job. I’ll be reviewing them before they’re mailed.”

Bucky huffs. “Fine.”

Steve raises an eyebrow at his tone, but doesn’t command him any further. He makes to leave the room. “I’ll be in my office,” he says. “I’ll come get you when dinner is ready.” He stalks from the room.

Well.

Bucky twists his lips to keep himself from saying anything as Steve leaves. He supposes that as far as consequences go, this isn’t so bad. He sets in to opening the envelopes.

Most of them are from high Society: other Senatorial families or congressmen and women. A few letters from prominent common folk have made it into the mix, though. Bucky recognizes the name of a famous singer on one. Everybody writes nauseatingly cheerful messages, all in the general theme of: Congratulations! Blessings for your union and best wishes! Here’s hoping you find your Third and have butt-loads of children as soon as possible!

Bucky crafts three versions of the same reply, which he cycles through depending on the type of person he’s responding to.

The aforementioned list of names and titles also makes mention of all the wedding gifts that’ve been given, and it becomes clear that Bucky and Steve will have a front hall full of packages when they arrive back to Steve’s Brooklyn residence back in the States. The promise of a state-of-the-art gramophone, in particular, holds Bucky’s interest (he writes that individual a genuinely customized response).

Over an hour later, he’s still writing, having answered all of the well wishes and moved on to the list of wedding attendees that he needs to thank for simply showing up to his and Steve’s farce of a wedding. His hand is cramping and he’s just set the pen down to wince and rub at his palm, when Steve appears.

He clears his throat at the door. His eyes are fixed on Bucky’s hand. “You’re hurt?”

“No.”

He stares at him for a few seconds, as if he’ll say something else, but he doesn’t. “Sharon says dinner’s ready.”

“I haven’t gotten to read the letter from my mother,” Bucky says. “Can I—”

“No. Come on. Dinner.”

Bucky tucks his lips in and follows meekly after Steve. At least he’s not using his Voice anymore.

Dinner is indeed a roast, and it’s just as delicious as Steve said it would be. Bucky moans a time or two during the meal, and though he isn’t trying to entice Steve, he does catch his husband pausing to consider him each time he moans. Bucky finishes chewing another bite and says, “Sharon’s a much better cook than Agatha”

“That’s your family’s cook?”

“Yes.” He frowns. “Though I’m not sure they’ve been able to keep her on staff since … you know.”

“I’m sure they have,” Steve says. “The marriage contract stipulated that they be well-provided for.”

“How much?” Bucky asks. It’s quite a gauche thing, for men of their breeding to talk about money, so Bucky masks his embarrassment by reaching for his wine glass and taking a sip. “How much per annum?”

“That’s between your mother and I,” Steve says, though there is a degree of amusement in his tone. “Honestly, Bucky.”

“Come on Steve. Please tell me? I’d like to know. I’d like to not have to wonder what my mom and sisters are able to afford.” He looks down, abashed. “I’d like to not have to worry.”

Steve softens at that, and he begrudgingly admits, “Twenty thousand per annum, Buck.”

Bucky inhales harder than he intends to, choking on his mouthful of table wine. He coughs and carefully sets the glass down before he’s able to choke out, “Seriously?”

“I told you not to worry.”

He’s shocked, he can’t hide it. Steve’s paying Bucky’s family just as much as they ever earned on their own from taxpayer dollars. “You can … you can afford that?”

Steve shrugs. “I wouldn’t pay it if I couldn’t afford it. House Rogers is wealthier than most. Surely you must’ve realized that.”

“Uh, yeah,” Bucky says. “I guess I just didn’t know how much you’d be willing to pay for my family.” Suddenly, he feels very, very embarrassed; very small, and very grateful to Steve for what he’s just admitted. “Um, thank you,” he murmurs.

Steve nods. “You’re welcome.”

That’s all the more they talk about it, both of them finishing their meal in silence. When his plate is cleared and his belly is full, Bucky sighs and stands. “Well I guess I’ll get back to it. I’ve still got a bunch of letters to do.”

“You can take a break, Buck,” Steve says. “You’ve done a lot. Finish tomorrow.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Why don’t you go read the letter your mother wrote you, okay? I’m going to finish up a few things in my office, then I’ll get ready for bed.” He doesn’t say anything about Bucky doing the same, but it’s clear that he expects it.

Bucky nods. “Okay. I’ll uh, I’ll see you in a bit.”

“See you in a bit.”

Bucky goes back to the living room and reads the letter from his mother. It’s a kind and heartfelt note, but nothing that Bucky hadn’t expected from her. He takes the time to write her back, then seals that envelope and sets it aside to be sent out with the next day’s post. Briefly, he wonders what she’ll think of it when he and Steve divorce.

When he goes to bed, Steve is already washing up in the en-suite, so Bucky has privacy as he changes into pajama pants and a shirt. He trades places with Steve in the bathroom and then they both tuck in. “I’m tired,” Bucky manages to say—half because he is, and half because he isn’t at all certain what Steve wants to be doing right now. Will Steve always be obvious when he wants sex? Or is Bucky supposed to ask for it?

“Okay, Buck. Me too.” Steve leans over and cups the back of his head, pulls him in and pecks a kiss to his forehead. “Goodnight.” He lies down and adjusts his pillow, closing his eyes. Unlike the night previous, he’s lain down facing Bucky, this time.

Bucky bites his lip, staring at Steve’s face for a moment. God, is the man ever good looking. And what did that kiss just now mean? “… Steve?” he says after a moment.

“Mm?” Steve doesn’t open his eyes.

“Are you still mad at me?” Bucky isn’t sure if he wants the answer to be yes or no. Steve getting mad was the point, but it instinctively doesn’t feel good to know his husband is angry with him. It feels rotten. He angsts about it until Steve responds with his eyes closed, sounding tired.

“Just … go to sleep Buck. It’s over. We can start fresh in the morning.”

Well.

Bucky huffs and lies down—also facing the center of the bed. He watches Steve’s face for a long time, deep in thought. Steve doesn’t open his eyes again, and Bucky eventually sighs and closes his eyes as well. Being married to Steve is … confusing. He needs to get this divorce thing going before he does something stupid, like develop feelings.

Series Masterlist

Masterlist

Extra funds? Consider🍵 tipping your local starving artist smut author!

✍🏻Commissions: reach out via Tumblr DM or contact here

11 notes · View notes

zooophagous · 7 months

Text

Strauss marched stiffly behind his companion. No, companion was far too friendly a word. She needed a different descriptor. He mentally combed through what English his racing mind could cling to. She was something more of a jailor, or perhaps a carnivorous bird of prey, more of a captor.

If there was an English word for someone who captured another and forced them to commit violence, he couldn’t find it in his lexicon. He had an idea, however, that he may fit the definition of “hostage.”

He had tried to imagine himself more of a shepherd, or a “sheep dog,” a chaperone or someone who could perhaps persuade Frau Pietra not to behave badly- at least while he was with her. How foolish to imagine this was a sheep, and not a wolf.

Sylvain’s psychic prowess did not, as far as he knew, extend to the wholesale reading of minds. She didn’t really need to. Her confident posture and the sense of direction with which she was leading him gave the sense that she already knew very well what he was thinking.

“I hope this walking is working up your appetite.” She called glibly back at her shadow. “I know it’s working for me.”

“I am not hungry.” He replied glumly.

“Yes you are. I can hear your gut growling at you. We are going to find something, and you WILL eat.”

“Where are we going?”

“To find a worthwhile target.” She muttered. “Don’t you worry, Herr Strauss. I know you. I know you’re picky. Too picky to take just anyone. I’ll have you know I hand picked a vile, nasty little son of a bitch who’s evaded justice for quite some time. Just for you. I know that’s your MO.”

“What is MO?”

“Modus Operandi. The mode in which you operate.”

“Is that how you think I operate? Picking off alleged villains to slake my thirst and spare my conscience?”

“Am I wrong?” She looked over her shoulder at him. “We both already know your history. You really gonna try and deny it?”

“If you truly knew anything about me, you’d know I subsist on charity.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Not murder.”

“Don’t sell yourself too short. You also subsisted on medical malpractice and on soldiers and prostitutes. A crook isn’t much different.”

“I do what I have to, Frau Pietra. I am not always proud of it. I do not need to do this.”

“Oh no, you do. Just not for your usual reason. I went through the trouble and you’re going to follow through.”

“Where are you even taking me? You still haven’t told me.”

“You can see it from here.” She pointed at the skyline of the city. It wasn’t an impressive skyline, but part of it stood proud against the dingy orangish clouds of the light polluted sky. A black, barbed spire, the pointed shape of which was nearly reminiscent of the stakes found hanging in the halls of the Van Helsing Institute.

“The cathedral?”

“Got it in one, chief.” She smirked. “What’s the matter, scared of a little crucifix and holy water? I don’t know how much you’ve bothered testing it, but that doesn’t work.” Her face grew dark. “Ask me how I know.”

“God would have to care for that to be real, and he does not.” Strauss replied softly.

“There is no God.” She snapped. “For at least one poor asshole, we’re going to prove it.”

“And if I refuse?”

“You won’t.”

Strauss crossed his arms protectively over his torso. His mind raced while his footsteps deliberately dragged, trying to buy precious moments to think. The looming silhouette of the cathedral only grew larger with every step.

Maybe he could make a break for it. No, she could find him. Unless he ditched the watch, but then Artemis wouldn’t be able to find him either. Maybe he could tackle her. And be publicly rent limb from limb. Also less than ideal. But, to save a human life perhaps? He wasn’t sure his altruism stretched so far as to sacrifice his own life for a stranger who meant nothing to him. As bleak as it sounded, perhaps it was better the stranger than himself. What an awful way to think, though, and one he was sure would disappoint Artemis if she could hear it.

His internal monologue had failed to illuminate the correct way to proceed. What was worse- it also had failed to buy any time. The pair of vampires walked abreast down the sidewalk to the tall form of the church that stood lit up in warm light against a starless sky.

Sylvain stepped into the lawn of the holy place, undeterred by the watchful gaze of a marble statue of Mary that glowered down at them. She stalked around the side of the building, away from the main doors, with a purpose that indicated she knew exactly where to go.

“This way.”

Strauss obediently trailed behind, stooping low to try and hide in whatever shadows he could afford with his height. Sylvain found her spot by the wall, and, placing her hands against the bricks, began to climb.

Her claws deftly found whatever thin holds the bricks could offer her, and she scaled it fearlessly to the second floor. A little window glowed from within- some poor soul working late in the office wing. She peeked into the lit room and tapped ever so gently at the window pane, catching the attention of the occupant. Even from his position on the ground, Strauss could see her face twist into a cruel smile. She curled her finger in a beckoning motion. She was a difficult request to resist.

A man appeared at the window. He had no sooner opened it when Sylvain shot her claw into the opening and seized him by his shirt and yanked him off his feet. She clung to the wall with one claw, and turned outward to hold the terrified, whimpering target with the other.

She dropped him.

Strauss ducked forward and caught the dead weight of the half-hypnotized prey item roughly. He stumbled onto his knee, and spilled the stranger onto the yard. The man scurried backwards away from his savior. Sylvain dropped down in front of him and landed squarely on her feet. She reached for him once again and dragged her prey to a standing position.

“Keep your Goddamn mouth shut or I’ll rip your scalp off.” She growled to the terrified man. She could have spared threats, her psychic sway was more than enough to keep him quiet, and he was too scared to challenge her.

“This is your worthy target?” Strauss snarked at her. “An elderly priest? I have no love for Catholicism, but I thought you had a bit more… suitable fare.” He almost sounded disappointed as he quietly mocked her. “The only thing going for him is that I suppose he’s technically supposed to be a virgin.”

“Not just a priest, Lu. What you have here is one Father Gregor White. He’s a bit new at this parish, aren’t you Greg?”

“What does that have to do with it?”

“Nothing. It’s just that before he was moved here a year and a half ago, he was in South Carolina for four years. And then in New Jersey before that for two. Seems to have a hard time staying put, doesn’t he?”

“And?”

“You can’t be this dense, Lu. What big important high profile reason might the church have for sending a priest away to a new parish? Do you think perhaps they had a few complaints?”

She stressed the last word sharply. Gregor feebly muttered a stuttered response of “it’s not true!” before receiving a kick in the ribs for his protests.

Strauss winced with empathy and stepped forward to separate the two. Sylvain pointedly stuck herself between them.

“What, this one not good enough for you? After all the trouble I went through to really pick out a good one?”

Strauss glanced down at the glassy eyed and lost looking priest.

“I recognize him. The day I escaped, I had no shirt. I fell from a roof, and he gave me his jacket.”

“Oh, so that little act of kindness covers a multitude of sins?”

“No. But I still have little interest in killing him.”

“Why not. Did you go soft? Did Ursula defang you? Or maybe she just neutered you.”

“I simply refuse to bite when there isn’t a need to.”

“You’ve killed pedophiles before.”

“Yes, and that killing is what got me hunted down and captured in the first place. I lost my home and my freedom and my entire life was permanently upended. I would be an idiot not to think of consequences now.”

“Should have known better. Practically gift wrapped a hot meal for you and you turn your nose up at it like a spoiled lap dog. I was told you were a tiger. Now I can’t tell if I see stripes on you or just the outlines of your ribs. Do you think you can survive on altruism? Would you starve to death to let this scum live?”

“I have survived on altruism for over two hundred years. You have barely survived five, and have done so by living on the periphery of humanity like a kicked dog. Abandoning my harmlessness and hunting humanity is what nearly got me killed.”

He stepped towards her with his teeth bared. “Go ahead then, if it’s that important to you that he dies, you do it. That seems to be your “modus operandi,” as you so aptly put it. Why bother making it mine? Clearly you’re the superior hunter here. Show me! Show me how it’s done!”

“This isn’t about me, Lu.”

“Then tell me straight up. Why does it matter so much that I be the one to spill blood here?”

“Because I’m fucking TIRED of you denying your nature.”

She shoved him hard in the chest. Strauss stood firm and didn’t move. Sylvain stumbled backwards a step from her own force.

“You and I both know you’ve got a hungry mean streak deep as the sea beneath that meek little facade, Strauss. You won’t control it if you don’t fucking acknowledge it, don’t you get that? Maybe you could get away with that in that stupid fucking hole in the ground but that’s long gone. Now you’re HERE. Here and pretending you aren’t one bad day from ending everyone around you.”

“I believe you’re projecting, Frau Pietra. I may have bitten, yes, under duress. But I am not the one leaving spent corpses in the park like a drunk leaving a trail of broken bottles.”

“What the Hell are you talking about?” She tilted her head to one side. “You think I kill people? You think I’m stupid enough to pick off people in the town Ursula Harker comes to get coffee every day? Do you honestly think that little of me?”

“If you don’t even hunt, why the Hell should I?!”

“I already told you this isn’t about me. Honestly Lu, you want the truth? It’s not about you either.”

“Then what is it about?”

“It’s about HER!”

Sylvain yelled in his face. “It’s about Artie, ok? You happy?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Of fucking course you don’t. You don’t understand fucking anything. Or at least you’re real good at playing dumb. I told Artie, I fucking warned her not to keep messing around with vampires. I BEGGED her to quit. I didn’t want what happened to me to happen to her.”

Gregor tried to crawl away, only to be snatched by his shirt collar and flung against the wall.

“I was the best hunter they ever had. Maybe even more so than Ursula. If I could fuck up and get turned into… THIS then it could happen to anyone. It wasn’t worth it to keep the Institute open. But no. She was just like you. Weak. Too weak to make a hard choice. Too weak to finish me off when she had the chance. And even losing her eye wasn’t enough to teach her a lesson. After losing me, she goes and gets you. You! A half feral grave dweller, who had just skinned a man alive.”

She laughed bitterly as she ranted.

“Getting you out of there and letting you loose is what you deserve, I’ll give you that. But it wasn’t about you. I had to get you away from her. I had to get vampires, including myself, away from my girlfriend before she got herself fucking killed. Now here I am handing you freedom, and you’re too stupid to take it and run.”

“Ex girlfriend.”

“Excuse me?”

“Artemis is your ex girlfriend. Not your girlfriend. I don’t think you can rightfully call her yours after you took out her eye.”

“What’s it to you if she’s my girlfriend or not? Are you jealous or something?”

“Artemis is my friend. Is it not natural to want to protect your friend from a former lover who injured them?”

“Please. She isn’t your friend. She’s your OWNER if anything. She doesn’t care about you beyond her project.”

“I know for a fact that isn’t true.” He replied a bit more slyly than he should have.

“What do you mean by that?” Sylvain asked suspiciously.

Strauss was silent.

She abandoned her assault on the priest and turned now to Strauss. She grabbed him by the throat with sudden ferocity.

“I SAID what do you mean by that?”

Strauss stared wide eyed in shock at her. He was instantly aware that she was exerting her will on him. Quite a bold move, to try that on another vampire. He had only a split second to decide whether or not to fight it. Such a distraction would probably get her mind off of ‘hunting,’ but only at his own expense. While his mind grappled for a foothold, his mouth was already bending to her will.

“I know because I love her.”

Sylvain laughed cruelly in his face. “You love her! That’s rich! I knew you had Stockholm syndrome but woooow Lu. This is pathetic even for you. You really think she reciprocates?”

“Yes. Considering how many times we’ve slept together.”

Oops.

Strauss clamped his claw over his mouth. Too little too late. Sylvain stared him down with a hard incredulous stare. She was in apparent shock, and for a moment was silent, though the heat of her anger rising out out a noise at a frequency only vampires could hear.

“You… and Artie.”

Strauss shot a look to the priest, who was now slowly rising to his feet and trying to slip away. He hoped the look conveyed “you’re welcome and get out quickly,” but that was a lot for such a stoic face to say. He made hard eye contact with Sylvain.

“Yes.”

She struck him. She struck him again. One two in rapid succession across the face. Hot pain seared his cheek from the rip of skin under her claws. She made to swing again. He caught her arm and swung her bodily into the wall. She stopped stunned for a moment.

Her eyes were wide and her breathing heavy and ragged. A deep growling voice choked out of her between desperate angry breaths.

“I’ll kill you. I’m going to wait for her to show up and I’ll kill you right the fuck in front of her.”

“She isn’t showing up.”

Strauss pulled the smart watch from his pocket and crushed it in his fist.

Sylvain descended on him with a shriek. She jumped and caught him in her claws and sank her teeth into his neck.

Strauss felt her many rows of sharp teeth pop through the skin like a man biting an apple. He returned the favor sinking his own teeth into her neck and shoulder. Vampire blood was some rare delicacy. Metallic and viscous but cold. Difficult to consume.

He didn’t have long to play sommelier. Her hand was on his face, trying to find an eye with her claws. He grabbed her by the hair and yanked her off of himself. She clung to him and left long blood trails down his body with her claws.

He held her aloft by the scalp, she dangled and hissed and spit like a feral cat. He slammed her head first into the brick. She fell into a crumpled heap, but shot out a leg and caught him squarely in the groin. He doubled over and she jumped him once again, raining blows on his back and head.

He flung himself to the ground, using his superior size to pin her. She kicked and fought beneath him and threatened to split his hide and spill his guts. He got up and backed away from her. Strips of skin and pulled hair hung from him in bloody tatters.

Sylvain did not get up. She groaned and grunted, and writhed on the ground as if in terrible pain. Dark hair began to appear around her face and her arms.

Time to go.

Strauss turned and broke into a run away from the church and down a dark alley. Sylvain’s cries of pain echoed behind him, soon replaced by a mighty rush of wind that bore down faster than he could run.

An immense bat, larger than any eagle, swooped low and swiped him with its sharp clawed feet. He fell to the ground on his stomach. Before he could think, it was there again, piercing his body with claws like meat hooks.

She ascended into the sky with her captive. Straight up and out, over the city, and gaining altitude quickly.

The faint tears in Strauss’ eyes began to congeal into frost as she bore him higher and higher into the dingy clouds. Thick mist surrounded him, blinding and confusing. He didn’t need to breathe but the air still felt cold and thin and hurt his chest.

She brought him to her zenith, outside of the city, alone in the dark ove a desolate barren field.

She dropped him.

Strauss fell like a stone. The rush of cold wind cut through his clothes and froze his hands and feet into stiff useless shapes. He fought with his shirt, desperate to maintain composure to escape it and focus. The cold dampened the pain of transformation. Newly sprouted black fur flew in the wind and offered no protection from it.

He fell out the bottom of the cloud and saw the earth growing larger beneath him. He bit his lip and forced his frozen fingertips to spread. The earth was closer. He willed his torn skin to right itself enough to form a wing membrane. Closer still. He beat his arms in a frail attempt to catch the wind. Closer. He righted himself and positioned his keel even with the earth. Now below the height of the tall cathedral spire. Impact imminent.

Twenty feet before becoming a bat-shaped crater, his wings took, and he flew. Up and up and away quickly, but not quickly enough. Sylvain shrieked at him once again and slashed at his back from above. He went straight up back into the clouds to lose her.

She was on him still. He turned to face her. The two great bats flew at each other hard and fast and clipped into each other like jousting knights, each trying to break the other’s wing. Sylvain turned in a wide loop and flew at him with her jaws wide. Strauss ducked and swiped at her with his clawed feet, catching a stray piece of her leftover clothing.

The two spiraled downward, the centripetal force swung them wide in a useless circle as their altitude plummeted. It was a game of chicken now, who would let go first. It wasn’t a game he could win. Sylvain hung on and became a dead weight, content to crash and take her opponent down with her.

The earth was approaching rapidly again, but this time Strauss had no time to change trajectory. He let go of Sylvain and she was flung afield. He braced his wings out like a parachute to slow his fall. Too late. He made contact with the earth and bounced, and bounced again, and skidded roughly through the dry hard sticks of a former corn field.

His skin had given up the ghost. Holes decorated his wings like bloody stars. He shrank painfully back into his now naked human form. He was spent. He began to crawl away on his hands and knees, only to have the nude form of Sylvain appear before him, glowering down at him with fire in her eyes.

“I should kill you. I should rip your dick off. I should give your head to Artie as a Christmas present.”

“Then do it.” He grunted in defiance.

“No.” She grinned, and let out a choked laugh. “Don’t need to. Sun will be up soon, and you don’t have so much as a shirt.” She looked around, pleased with herself.

“You know what, Lu? I’m not even mad you broke the watch anymore. Artie can have you. If she can fucking find you.”

She turned and walked off, her proportions growing weirder with every step until finally she was fully winged and flying off once again, leaving Strauss mercifully alone in the dirt.

Or perhaps unmercifully. Strauss shakily found his feet and took a few wincing steps before falling to his knees in exhaustion once more. He repeated this process, though unsure of where he was actually going.

This field was a wide gape of treeless expanse. Beyond it, a gravel road, and more field beyond that. The faint rosy fingers of dawn began to claw at the horizon. Strauss forced himself to stand. The ache of fear produced a low whine in his chest. He needed rest, rest he couldn’t afford.

Shaky step gave way to shaky step. The air was growing warmer now. Larks, singing beautifully, heralded the break of morning. At last the bloody red sun crested on the horizon and bathed the field in awful color.

Strauss tried to run, to even jog, but his battered body was at its limit. The light became warm, and soon after, became uncomfortable. Itching gave way to burning. Strauss hunched over, covering his face with one hand and his genitals with the other and turned his back to the sun and began walking as quickly as he could in a blind straight line. Whatever he ran into would have to be shelter.

A wetness began to trickle down his back. Sweat? No. Blisters had begun to form on his burned skin, and the largest of them had already burst. New blisters formed swiftly beneath the old, and in minutes had burst anew, rapidly spilling the water in his already dehydrated form.

The pain had nearly stopped now, his skin ruined to the point of numbness. Dead strips of it clung to him like snakeskin. He hazarded a glance up, un-shielding his eyes for a moment to get his bearings. The light painfully blinded him, and as he blinked through the dancing green after image he saw nothing. Nowhere to run to, and nowhere to hide.

His knees gave out again. This time, for good. He would not be standing back up. He gripped the dirt with his now stinging, red hands and braced for the end. Insects and birds assaulted the field in a cacophony of annoying noises. He would not even die in peace.

Another animal was in the field, at the periphery of his blurred vision he saw a small brown shape. It was a mouse.

A wild field mouse stopped just short of his hand. It looked at him with blank black eyes, then turned back to the dry dirt of the field. It began to dig in the loose dry soil, and was gone.

Strauss watched it go, and shifted the loose earth beneath his claws a moment. He gathered his failing strength and furiously began to dig.

#wayward souls #writing #writeblr

41 notes · View notes

wildestdreamsblog · 2 years

Text

All things be damned

Pairing: Soft!dark Ari Levinson x Reader

Summary: You were just trying to escape your past, and Ari was trying to chase his future.

Warnings: Soft!Dark Ari, Swearing, Possessiveness, Manipulative behavior, Sexual themes, If you’re not 18+ please, PLEASE, do not interact. Be mindful of the warnings. Let me know if I miss anything.

A/N: I had been away this weekend. I hope you’ll like this update! And omg almost 6k chapter?? While likes are well appreciated, kindly also support your content creators by reblogging and/or leaving comments.

Masterlist

Chapter Five

She was smiling widely, waiting patiently for her father to come home. In her hand was the acceptance letter to the Medical school she applied to. This was her dream. And she couldn’t believe it was almost within her grasp. She heard her father’s footsteps. She stood up just as he opened the door. He glanced at her before dismissing his secretary. “Why are you still up, princess?”

She handed her the letter, smiling from ear to ear as she waited for him to finish reading. But then, he frowned. Her father frowned before looking up at her as if in disappointment.

“Why did you apply?”

“I-I want to become a doctor, father-“

“My princess,” he sighed before rubbing his hand in between his brows, “You’re going to get married next year. You don’t expect your husband to tolerate you studying for years and still be able to perform your duties, do you? Your dream should be to become a good wife. And you will be. Once you marry him, our business will be stronger than ever.”

She could feel her eyes burn from unshed tears, “B-but father, I want to become a doctor-“

“Enough! You will do as your told. Like always,” his hold on her shoulder tightened. “Understood, princess?”

And only when she nodded did he let her go. It was clearer more than ever, her life was never her own, it never was, it never would be. And if she married him, she will just exchange one jailor to the next. She knew what she needed to do. She knew she needed to own her life. And with that, a plan was formed.

“And he had the audacity to eat the last piece of the pie you gave me! I mean, who does that? Does he even love me and our child? I swear I am going to leave his ass,” she growled angrily as she shoved the cake you had her taste for Molly’s wedding. She was sitting on the stool in front of the counter. The morning rush had died down, and now you could focused on thinking of ways to improve Molly’s wedding cake. Thankfully, Jess was there to happily taste test everything.

Jess looked weirdly at you. She had been talking for the past thirty minutes about the stupid argument Isaac and she had last night. But when she finally stopped to talk, you were staring off at the distance. Jess snapped her fingers in front of your face repeatedly before you snapped out of whatever you were thinking of.

You blinked owlishly, your eyes finally focusing on her. You looked like you had just been caught daydreaming about something, or someone, you shouldn’t be thinking of.

“Hmm?”

She glared playfully at you, “You weren’t even listening!”

“I was!”

“You weren’t!”

“I was-“

“Fine, what did I last say, darling?”

You blinked slowly, before answering her, “Darling.”

Jess stared straight at you for five seconds before the two of your bursted out laughing. In a form of apology, you made her taste another cake your baked.

“Come on, you aren’t going to leave Isaac. For God’s sake, you just celebrated your wedding anniversary last night. And the two of you are annoyingly sweet.”

“Oh yeah, I’ve been meaning to ask, did you enjoy?” She asked innocently as she smiled at you before rubbing her belly gently.

You could feel your face warming up as you thought of last night….and the intense way Ari had owned your lips. Your hand were almost up to your lips when you stopped yourself and looked at Jess with guilt in your eyes. The fork she was holding was suspended on her mouth, her face morphing into a teasing ones.

“No, you didn’t,” she finally said, her eyes wide. She couldn’t stopped her mouth from forming a grin. “You bitch! You kissed Ari!”

“No I didn’t!”

“You did!”

“I really didn’t!” You denied, your voice increasing its tempo, your tell sign when lying. God, why couldn’t you just be a good liar?

“I am 110% sure you did,” she retorted back flatly.

“I didn’t.”

The way Jess looked at you with her eyes blinking owlishly at you as if she was a parent waiting patiently for you to tell the truth.

“Fine. I did,” you finally admitted as you covered your face with your arms. God, you really did kiss him. And it was good. But you knew it was a bad thing.

Jess shrieked, her face reddened as she cheered. “I knew it! You two were gone for awhile. I was so bored that I noticed. How was it? I had always thought he was a good kisser. Am I right? Did it blow your mind? What happened after? Did the two of you talk?”

Slowly, Ari let go of your lips, his breathing was deep as if he was trying his best to breathe again. He looked down at you lips before slowly dragging his eyes with apparent difficulty to your lips. He looked, for the lack of better word, torn. He regarded you for a moment, his brows pinched together. You swallowed as you distanced yourself from his body. But the waves kept pushing you to him, and still, he let go of his hold on your back.

“This was a mistake,” he finally said, his baritone voice hard and firm. The wet strands of his hair were dripping on his broad shoulders, the one you held mere seconds before he declared that what transpired between the two of you was nothing but a mistake. You watched Ari swam to the shore before you could even processed what he was saying. He was walking away from you when you closed the distance between the two of you.

“What do you mean?” You asked. He was the one who kissed you first, for heaven’s sake! And now he couldn’t even looked in your eyes.

He scoffed as he picked up his shirt from the ground before facing you, “You don’t know what ‘mistake’ means? Google it, sweetheart.”

“Bitch, I can’t!” You knelt down on the sand and fished your phone from your purse and showed it to him.

He looked at you phone with disbelief in his face before looking at you, “Who the fuck still has a Nokia 3310 in this year?!” He looked up, the veins in his thick neck protruding. He squeezed his eyes shut before looking at you with conviction in his eyes.

“That can’t happen again,” he ordered like the king that he was, his finger pointing at you.

“You kissed me first! And don’t worry. It wasn’t even a good kiss!”

You crinkled your nose from the memory of last night. Ari gave your heart a whiplash from how fast he changed his mind. And maybe it was a good thing he did, at least that was what you told yourself.

Jess must have noticed the change in your expression. “That bad, huh?”

“The kiss was….breathtaking. I don’t think I have ever been kissed by someone like that.”

“Then what’s wrong? Did he have a bad breath or something?” She tried to lighten the mood as she reached for your hand across the counter. You let out a chuckle, thankful that you at least found someone real in your escape. It was heartbreaking, however, that you would soon leave.

It was for the best.

“He said it was a mistake,” you shared as if it meant nothing to you before shrugging and proceeding on tidying the counter. You looked over your shoulder to see her brows pinched together and a confused look on her face. You softened your face, flashing her your small smile, “It’s okay. I’m over it. He’s right.” More than you could ever admit.

You would think it was almost hilarious how hard Ari tried to avoid you the following days. He changed directions so quickly when he saw you once when he was out running. He ceased from stopping by your store. He did everything to be physically away from you.

Oh, how the tables have turned. You eyed him from across the plaza as he strolled in with Molly. He looked….tired. He still excluded the same power and dominance he always had, but his face looked exhausted. You were sitting in Jess and Isaac’s booth, helping them out. It was Sunday, and that meant your rest day. Molly lightened up when she saw you. For an old lady, she sure power walked to you so fast and dragged Ari along.

“Hi Molly!” You greeted her, not sparing Ari a glance. You could feel his eyes on you, but you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of acknowledging his presence. “Your wedding is approaching! Are you excited?”

She smiled warmly at you, her arm secured on Ari’s muscular one. “I am very much excited to spend the rest of my days with someone who loves me just as much as I love him.”

Jess teared up, “I am so happy for you, Molly!” She wrapped her arms around Molly, slightly pushing Ari away. “This is the kind of happiness I am praying for everyday for Y/N,” Jess began. “I am certain someone out there is looking for you, one that will cherish you and adore you and never let you go. Unlike someone,” she whispered the last part and pointedly looked at Ari. With his jaw clenched, he bid goodbye to Molly before walking away without a word.

Molly watched his retreating form with confusion before turning to you. “Did something happen?”

You shook your head just as Jess said, “Ari just didn’t know what he needed.”

Molly looked at you a little too close, as if reading you with her eyes full of wisdom. “That boy messed up, didn’t he?” She deduced while nodding her head as if she was certain.

“He messed up real baaaad,” Jess said while rolling her eyes.

Molly smiled at you with sympathy, the side of her eyes wrinkling as she did so. “That boy is complexed. He has the purest heart you will ever encounter.”

“But boy has the dumbest of ass,” Jess continued, shrugging her shoulders as she faced you.

The elder woman nodded her head slowly, completely agreeing as she watched the man she considered her own son walked away while it was raining, “Yes. He’s quite the dumb one when it comes to the matters of the heart. He needs all the help he can get.”

You were running on your usual path, enjoying the peace and quite. God you would missed this place. You sighed as you took it all in. You were about to cross the path when a loud sound of horn resounded over the silence of the town that the birds flew from the trees. With your hand clutching your heart, you turned your head to glare at the rude driver. Who the hell drove that fast around here? No one! You watched a woman stepped out of the shiny car. Her heels making her walked tall, with her head held high as if you were beneath her. Her manicured nails in contrast with her skin. Her eyes regarded you from head to toe, with her eyebrow lifted. As if she could intimidate you.

“Next time, watch where you’re going,” she said in her haughty voice.

You chuckled humorlessly before facing her completely, your face now devoid of any emotion. “Next time, don’t drive like a lunatic.”

“I know your type. You people are just out there trying to get ‘hit’ by a car so you can milk money from people!” She shouted at you. Her high-pitched voice making you almost faint from annoyance.

“Huh,” you nodded your head before you took her in. From her shoes, to her clothes, to her jewelries, and her purse that she was clutching in her hand. Now it was your turn. “Honey, if I was going to scam anyone, I would do it to someone who’s not wearing a second-grade Chanel and a Christian Louboutin shoes that’s one size larger than her actual size.” You delivered it so coldly, like how your mother taught you. Once you were satisfied that you hit her where it hurt, you smirked at her before walking away from her with your head held high like the true elite that you were.

“And oh,” you stopped once you were near her, “those earrings don’t go well with that necklace…and well, that face as well.”

“Ugh,” Jess gagged when she spotted who entered the local restaurant you were currently in. “I thought I was past my morning sickness. She makes me want to vomit.”

Isaac reprimanded his wife gently as he rubbed her back, telling her quietly to behave.

To be honest, you weren’t paying attention to what they were talking about as your mind was wrapped around the things you needed to do before you leave for good. This was a routine for you, it had been like this for almost two years now. You had memorized what to do. Despite that, it didn’t make it any less difficult. You sighed as you remembered you needed to go out of town the next day to meet him.

“I don’t understand why she thinks she’s someone to Ari,” Jess continued as she rolled her eyes. “She’s been pining for him for years. Girl, take a hint.” She muttered under her breath. You looked up to see Ari confidently walked in with the girl who almost ran you over. You scoffed under your breath when you saw with your own eyes how her eyes sparkled whenever she looked at him. You now understood Jess’ aversion to her.

Ari almost stopped from walking when he met your eyes. He had not seen you for almost a week. He observed you deeply, noting the dark bags under your eyes. You were exhausted as he was. He wanted nothing more than to ask you why, but he made it clear that you were a mistake. Despite that, he couldn’t find it in himself to regret the kiss. He found himself always thinking about it, always reminiscing the way you innocently placed your little hands on his shoulders, the way you smiled as he kissed you…the way you were.

He snapped out of it when his secretary tugged at his sleeves to get his attention. He didn’t know why, but he immediately glanced at you to see how you would react. Your lack of reaction didn’t sit well with him.

“Ari!” Isaac politely greeted him despite Jess’ kicking him from under the table. “Wanna sit with us?”

You were certain he was going to decline, but the way he confidently slid himself next to you, effectively trapping you against the wall surprised you and Jess.

‘What?’ Jess mouthed at you when Ari was not looking. You only shrugged before trying to move away from him. You found out, however, that you could not.

“Won’t you rather sit somewhere else so we can efficiently go over the documents, Mr. Levinson?” His secretary asked. She was trying so hard to smile that it turned out to be a grimace. She was throwing daggers at you with the way Ari was sitting so close to you. If she wanted Ari so much, then she should do something about it. Not antagonize you.

Ari replied nonchalantly, “It’s okay. We’ll go over it quickly after we ate.”

You couldn’t help but noticed Ari’s muscular body taking most of the space, invading your senses, his manly scent, his warm skin, his muscular thigh beside yours. You were so aware of him, and yet you wouldn’t looked him in the eye. You started eating once it was served, listening politely to their conversations but keeping to yourself. If you were surprised that you found a slice of Ari’s food on the side of your plate, you gave no indication. Nor did you eat it. There were more things to focus on than his messed up mind. Once you were through, you turned to your friends to bid them goodbye before turning to Ari, expecting him to move out of the booth to give way to you. Only that he didn’t. Only that it forced you to look him in the eye.

You forced yourself to smile politely at him, “Do you mind?”

He leaned down at you, before whispering, “I do, actually.”

By now Jess, Isaac, and his secretary all stopped eating to look at the two of you.

You raised your brows at him, “What do you want me to do then?”

“I want you to stay out of my way.”

“Then move so I can leave,”

He shook his head slowly, as if he came into a realization that even he could not understand. “That’s the dilemma, sweetheart. I realized I don’t want you far,” he admitted with a hard voice.

Your brows furrowed at his admission. You didn’t have time for his confusion. “It seems like it’s your problem, not mine-“

“So until I know what I must do-“

You placed your index finger on his plump lips, effectively stopping him from saying something that would annoyed you….or confused you more than you already were. “Shhh. You have the right to remain silent because whatever you say will probably be stupid, anyway.”

Ari’s breath hitched when you touched his lips, his eyes following your finger on his lips. You thought you knew what he was thinking of by the way his eyes darkened that you pinched his side to make him move out of the booth.

His secretary was glaring at you as you got out of the booth, her lean leg extended to trip you. You rolled your eyes at her, oldest trick of the book, and proceeded on stepping on her little toe. You smiled as you heard her pained shrieked as you walked away.

You caught the early bus. It was barely five am when you left. The scenery out of town was quiet and peaceful, the trees blurring after the other until they all melted away and the city became apparent. A three-hour ride was not that bad, you’ve had worse.

You scanned the bus station filled with people walking left to right. You looked down at your watch, and you were just in time. You walked slowly, blending in with the people as you looked around the place. You probably circled the station for ten minutes before you caught sight of the tall, brunette man. His eyes hidden by the sunshades he was wearing. With great ease, he located your position and then he smiled so bright as his long legs carried him to you. You squinted your eyes at his handsome face.

“You’re late,” you berated him before pushing your index finger playfully against his chest. “Again, Bucky.”

He chuckled before enveloping you in his muscular arms.

You sat in front of him, watching him wolf down the food he ordered. You ate slowly, a first time since forever.

“So princess,” he began as he wiped his mouth with napkin, “everything is in order. I have arranged the place. You’ll be staying there for short period of time since you insisted on staying longer in your current town. We cannot be sloppy, princess.” He stated with all seriousness and professionalism.

You only nodded. Bucky was the one who helped you escaped. He had been working for your family as security ever since you were young that you practically grew up with him. You came to him one night, your face devoid as you told him your plan. He didn’t ask you why, didn’t try to change your mind. He only asked how he could helped. And with that, your windy plan became more solid. The money you had in your account was slowly withdrawn, the jewelries you had was slowly pawned to faraway towns. Bucky arranged for your new identity, your escape, the places you would be living in. He was the only link you had to your past.

The only thing he asked of you was that you kept contact with him. And well, that you put him as your younger sister’s main security. You thought you saw something with the way Bucky looked at her, and your gut told you she would be the safest when she was with him.

Bucky insisted on walking you to the bus station, but you refused. Three hours away from town was still near enough for you.

Bucky looked at you intently, his hands resting on your shoulders as he leaned down to look closer in your eyes. “Everything’s going to be okay soon, princess. He will change his mind once he gets tired of looking for you. Hell, he’ll probably marry somebody else soon. And then, you can finally go home.”

You smiled sadly at him, all he said were false promises in your ears. There was no way you could go home. There was no way your father would accept you again. There was no way he would forget the promise your grandfather made to his. Without anything left to say, you closed the distance between the two of you and buried your face in his chest. You needed the comfort. Your heart hurt. You had been alone for too long. You missed your sister. You missed you. You missed not running. Sometimes you thought it would be easier if you just conformed to what they wanted. But you knew, that was not living. Yet somehow, this wasn’t living as well.

Bucky’s strong arms surrounded you, offering you comfort. But your thoughts kept on flying to someone else’s arms, the one you so clearly craved but could never have. Not in this lifetime.

Unbeknownst to you, Ari’s car was parked on the other side of the road, his eyes trained on you…and the man you were hugging.

He was out for business, a meeting he needed to personally go to. He thought this was the last place he’d see you, but lo and behold, there you were- in someone else’s arms. And he didn’t like the dark feeling he was having. It was like the fate was playing a cruel trick on him just when he decided that he wasn’t the one for you. Because if he wasn’t the one for you, why then did he feel murderous over seeing someone touching you? Why then did it feel wrong seeing you with someone?

You were looking down at your ticket as you neared your designated bus. The dress you were wearing was swaying dreamily as you walked. You had bid Bucky goodbye an hour ago. His reluctance to not see you get on the bus was tampered over the security report that you sister, ever the mischievous one, went out with her college friends..and a guy who had been courting her. You were pretty sure that it was the mention of a male in her presence that made him clenched his jaw so hard and agreed on not seeing you off. Bucky walked to his car with a purpose of a man hellbent on making sure that your sister was safe…or more so that she was not with another male.

Just as when you stepped on bus, a strong hand enveloped your arm. And you thought for a second that this was it, that they found you, that your life would be over as you knew it. And then a small part of you thought how you didn’t even get to say goodbye to Molly, to Isaac and Jess…to him.

But when you turned around, there he was.

“Ari?”

He didn’t pay you any attention, and instead dragged you as calm as he could out of the bus. You absentmindedly followed him until you snapped out of your stupor. You tried to wretch your arm away from him, but he didn’t even budge, as if you weren’t trying your best to escape his hold on you.

With great gentleness, or as gentle as he could when pushing you inside his car that you didn’t notice was park few feet away from the station, he slammed the door shut. You didn’t even get to open the door and get out when he entered his fancy ass truck and hit the lock.

You sighed, closed your eyes, prayed, before calmly asking him, “What the fuck, Ari?!”

Ari’s truck was spacious, but the way he was built, the way he was so large made him take more space that you could breathe him in, could almost touch him. He expertly maneuvered the truck to the lane without even sparing you a glance.

It was twenty minutes to the drive when you could not take it anymore, that was just how long you could keep your silence.

“Ari,” you began calmly. You had been looking at him from the corner of your eyes and you noticed that he was on edge. If the way he clenched his jaw, the way he gripped the steering wheel were any indication of what he felt. “I am saying this with good intention, what is wrong with you?”

Still, he didn’t answer.

“What are you doing out of town?”

He smiled sardonically before glancing at you with his darkened eyes,”I could ask you the same thing, darling.”

“I met with a friend-“

“Friend? You hugged all your friends like that?”

You frowned at him. He saw that? “I don’t-“

“Oh, so he’s special, is that it?” He snapped back coldly. “You’re not allowed to touch another man, sweetheart, but me.”

You and Ari had been bickering ever since the two of you met. But this was not it. This was confrontation. This was something you had never seen from Ari. You smiled cheekily at him once you pierced it all together.

“Are you-are you jealous?” You asked him with a laugh in your voice. He didn’t answer. When you wouldn’t stopped looking at him, he cleared his throat as if he was finding everything awkward. You leaned down on your seat, your face angled on the road. Still, you could not forget that he called you a mistake.

“You’re jealous,” you stated once again.

“Yes. And what about it?”

“You have no right to be jealous,” you replied, your fist clenching as you remembered how he pushed you away. You were not a toy to be played with. “You told me it was a mistake. You have no right to act like a slighted boyfriend.”

He licked his lips, before looking at you. “I don’t like it when others touch you.”

Your lips parted from his statement. For the first time, Ari rendered you speechless.

“From now on, no one else will touch you but me.”

You didn’t need this. You didn’t need him making you feel things that would make it more difficult to leave. You didn’t need attachments. You sure as hell didn’t need him making you confused. You didn’t need him to make you feel things you didn’t want to feel, only for him to turn around and change his mind.

“Stop the car,” you ordered forcefully. “Stop the car or I swear to God I will open the door even if you don’t stop.”

Ari must have seen the determined look on your face because he did stop. It wasn’t even a second before you were out of the car and stomping your feet away from the car. You couldn’t be in his atmosphere, not when your own world was spinning out of control. You were thanking the heavens that only few were passing this almost deserted area, else they would have witnessed whatever this was. Ari was following you with his car, his driving now leisure as he kept up with your pace.

“Get in the car, sweetheart,” he ordered lightly, his face now losing the darkness you had witnessed. You acted like you didn’t hear him.

“Sweetheart-“

You stopped walking abruptly, facing him with hurt and confusion in your face. “I don’t need this, Ari,” you stated so softly, willing him to understand. “I don’t need this confusion in my life. You don’t get to play with me. You don’t get to change your mind so quickly as if I won’t get hurt. Don’t do this to me. I-I have no one. When you change your mind again, and you will, no one would be there to pick me up but me. Find someone who has someone. Do me kindness, Ari.”

You held his conflicted eyes in yours, willing the sincerity in your words seeped through your eyes, willing him to understand that if the two of you continued down in this path, it would not only break you. But him.

Perhaps, his answer was the silence you got from him. With a nod to yourself and with the belief that whatever you had was now done despite it barely beginning, you turned your back and walked away from him. You had not gotten far when you heard his baritone voice once again.

“Sweetheart, please,” there was now an urgency in his voice, a telltale sign of his distressed. It was a second before you felt the raindrops on your skin, slowly, and then it was pouring. You didn’t know why, but you turned around and ran to him. Ari was breathing rapidly in his car, his knuckles were white as he held the steering wheel tight in his hands- but his eyes, his eyes never left yours as he watched you come back to him. You could see him struggle from the outside, and without any thought, you wretched the door open and reached from across the seat to cradle his trembling for. With whatever strength he had left, he lifted his head to look at yours, his huge hands completely enveloping your small ones as he peppered kisses on them. A particularly strong thunder resounded over the silence, making him gripped your hands tighter in his as if you were his lifeline. The sky was quickly darkening, his eyes steady on yours. You could feel his breath on your face, the warmth emitting from his skin..him.

Later on, you questioned why each time you tried to walk away, the universe brought you back to him as if telling you that the two of you should be together, that you should never separate.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered as he buried his face on your hair. “You’re not a mistake. I’m sorry for making you feel like that.”

With his body still trembling, you placed your hand on his hair, gently combing the long strands as you rode his anxiety with him. You didn’t say anything, because for you nothing changed. At the end of the day, you still couldn’t have him.

“Why do you never ask why?” He looked at your eyes, his huge hand cradling your neck.

“I figured you’d tell me if you’re ready. It’s your story to tell, not anyone else’s.”

He looked down at your lips, his other hand caressing your smooth neck, his fingers dangerously close to your chest. Your breath hitched when moved the strap to the side, making it fall off your shoulder. He gulped before slowly looking at you, his eyes now dark from lust.

“God, I want you. So much,” he confessed before burying his face on your neck, his beard tickling you as he placed open-mouthed kisses on your neck. Without any preamble, he was kissing you passionately, his pent up frustration from running away from what he felt for you was too much. “Say you want me, too.” He ordered darkly, his other hand now gripping your thigh under your dress, inching dangerously close to your clothed core. And when you didn’t answer, Ari confidently ripped your thin underwear. The ripping sound woke you from your lust-filled haven. You opened your eyes just as he brought your thong to his nose, inhaling your scent, all the while holding eye contact to you.

And if you weren’t wet before, you sure as hell dripping now. He was so masculine, he looked like his control was barely hanging on a thread.

“A-Ari,” you whimpered when you felt yourself dampened, his scent like an aphrodisiac.

“Say it.”

Your breath hitched when he pulled your front down, exposing your breasts to his hungry eyes. Ari looked like he was mesmerized. You hadn’t even said whatever it was he wanted you to say when you felt his strong arms lifting you to his side, your thighs on either side of his as he sat you down on his thick thighs and onto his hard member. You moaned lightly, his hard cock directly on your wet pussy.

“Say it.”

He was now sucking your sensitive nipples, his dark eyes on you as he moaned appreciatively. You whimpered when he bit it, before licking them delicately. He played with both of them, elating wanton moans from you. “Say it!”

“I want you!”

You felt him smirked before kissing you, his kisses were dark and deep, his hands carefully lifting your dress up to your waist. He found your clit before you could even moved.

You jumped up from the sudden pleasure, his thumb rolling your clit as he watched your face. “Aw, is my sweetheart wet? We can’t have that, can we?” His deep voice whispered, his eyes never leaving yours before you felt his long and thick fingers sliding down your slit, lathering them with wetness before he inserted his index finger in you, slowly, inch by inch. His lips found your nipples again, as if he found them irresistible.

Just when you were about to reach something, Ari slowed down. His fingers returned with vengeance as he inserted two fingers in you, his hand now dripping wet that you had no choice but to hold his broad shoulders for strength.

You didn’t know how, but you came so fast that you drenched his leather seat and his pants. The outline of his cock was surely visible from his pants. He was so hard from seeing your beautiful face come. And he wanted to see it again. Without giving you any rest, he brought his drenched fingers in his mouth, moaning in pleasure from how good you tasted. He was like a savage when it came to you that he brought back his fingers inside you, wanting to taste you once again.

“From now on, you only wear dresses around me, sweetheart,” he growled in your ear as you reached you third orgasm. And still, he wouldn’t stopped.

He watched your slumbering form beside his, your dress righted once he had his fill..for now. The road was damped and the sky was dark as he drove silently back to the town. He knew in his gut, you were now his, all other things be damned.

Next chapter

#ari levinson fic #ari levinson x female reader #ari levinson x reader #ari levinson au #ari levinson #soft!dark ari levinson x reader #ari levinson x y/n #ari levinson x you #ari levinson smut #possessive ari levinson

322 notes · View notes

anglerflsh · 9 months

Note

On a scale of 1-10 how good of an Archivist, Avatar of the Eye, would you rate yourself?

me and my irrational belief that I am being observed 24/7 like my own little panopticon, in which I am both jailed and jailor, which has been a thing in my head since birth, so much so that it is no longer cause of fear but instead of a sort of comfort? If the fears were real Jonah Magnus would kill to be me. I'm the eye's specialest man now. a solid 9/10 because I'm still mentally normal and sane though

#to say I am eye aligned is so basic yes I study history because I want to Know yes I feel my role in life is to Observe yes I'm autistic #yes I have been told by people I have a very specific stare yes I have also been told I'm good at compelling #and most of all: yes I would LOVE to be able to compel people I would THRIVE feeding on statements. Give me answers forever <3 #[.asks]#and I make a good archivist as the profession itself #ALSO I MIGHT ADD; I have been studying the paranormal since I was five. Skeptically because I don't believe in it but I think that counts #anonymous

22 notes · View notes

ultra-creepy-fucker-things · 3 months

Text

Seeking Peace Chapter 1

Instead of getting crushed by a pillar, Star's attack is powerful enough to blast Toffee clear across the multiverse, landing him in the middle of the Sea of Sand. Meanwhile, Pythor is wandering through the desert after the events of the Tournament of Elements when a mysterious lizard man falls from the sky.

Pythor slithered through the desert surrounding the Corridor of Elders, relying on the hot sand beneath him to keep him moving in the cold, clear night. Despite his regained hight, despite the kind words of former general Arcturus, bitterness still burned within him.

Chen may have extended the war, but he hadn't had the serpentine imprisoned.

And one of their jailors still walked the earth.

He was shaken from his thoughts when above him, a loud crack rang from the cloudless sky. Pythor looked up to see a dark form falling from the sky. He gasped, hastily slithering out of the way.

Something crashed into the sand, hard enough to leave a crater.

Pythor stayed back for a while, before curiosity won out over fear and he slithered over to investigate.

By the light of the moon he could see it, back ooze pooled beneath a reptilian skeleton, empty eye sockets, by chance, meeting Pythor's living gaze.

He stayed were he was, frozen, as the ooze rose and engulfed the bones, shaping and solidifying into a lizardlike form.

Yellow eyes stared through him as it lay on the sand.

It drew in rapid breaths, as though shocked to be alive, but gradually it's breathing leveled out and it's eyes focused on him.

Pythor yelped, hastily slithering out of sight, shifting his scales so he vanished into the shadows.

A black haired, bluish-gray reptile man pulled himself part way out of the crater, and his yellow eyes scanned the desert.

"I know your out there" he said into the night, "I'm not going to hurt you" he paused, raising his eyes to the stars, "I'd only like to know where I am"

Pythor made a snap decision.

"This" he said with a flourish as his camouflage dropped "is the sea of sand"

The stranger took a moment to reply.

"I haven't heard of it" he finally said.

"Well, you must be quite far from home, then, it takes up most of the continent" Pythor offered a hand.

The stranger regarded it, then looked up at him, "I don't suppose you have any clothes I could change into"

"I don't make it a habit to carry around a spare robe"

The lizard man lingered a moment, but eventually sighed and took his hand, letting Pythor help him up. Fully in the moonlight, Pythor could see him more clearly, he had a muscular build on a slender frame, and his scales shined in the pale light.

Pythor smiled, taking a moment to enjoy the view. "My, you have quite the physique, tell me, what manner of creature are you?"

"Keep your eyes to yourself" he snapped, twisting his tail around himself in an attempt to preserve his modesty.

Pythor looked away, "Fine, fine" he said, not an ounce of shame in his voice, "you can have my robe if its that important to you"

"Absolutely not."

"At least allow me to introduce myself" pointedly looking at his face and only his face, he again extended a hand, giving a smile "Pythor P. Chumsworth, at your service"

The stranger still didn't seem happy, but he accepted the offered handshake, "Toffee" he said, expression not shifting.

Pythor couldn't help but chuckle, "Toffee, hmm? Well, you sure sound sweet" he laughed a bit more at his own little pun.

Toffee snorted, "flattery will get you nowhere" he said, but his eyes widened, just a bit, and Pythor swore he saw the corner of his mouth twitch up.

"It gets cold out here at night" said Pythor, "I have a base not far from here, we can spend the night"

Toffee sighed, "I suppose I don't have many options, do I"

Pythor hummed, "you could brave the desert"

"I'll come to your base"

The two set off. Pythor could make good time over the sand, but Toffee's bare feet sunk, slowing him down. The anacondrai found himself slowing down to accommodate him.

Fortunately he hadn't been lying about the distance. It wasn't long before they got to his 'base', a cabin someone had built here and abandoned, probably before the serpentine had been imprisoned.

Toffee looked around as they entered, pupils glinting green in the low light. Sand crunched beneath his feet.

"Do you stay here often?" He asked, concern creeping into his tone.

Pythor couldn't see anything in the dark. He wondered if this strange creature could.

"Of course not" he answered, "I only go here when I need to disappear for a while"

Pythor needed to lean on the walls to navigate, but Toffee seemed far more confident, he could hear him striding over to the couch and plopping down, sighing like it was made of silk and he'd just run a marathon.

Fumbling in the dark, it took Pythor a moment to locate the lamp and turn it on, casting the cabin in a dim, flickering glow.

When he did, he turned to Toffee with a smile.

"Can I get you anything? Food? I keep a few spare robes in the closet, I can take the couch, if you'd like"

Toffee blinked at him in the dim light, overwhelmed.

"Uh... Yes, thank you"

Pythor slithered into the bedroom and grabbed a spare robe, handing it off to Toffee before going to the cupboard.

Every shelf was full of canned meat. He grabbed a tin of sardines, opened it, and turned to hand it off to Toffee, who had put on the robe while his back was turned.

He stared down at the proffered fish.

"I would prefer one that hasn't been opened"

Pythor gave looked affronted, "what? Why?"

"Oh, please, anyone with a brain could see you have an ulterior motive"

He was right. Of course he was- Pythor has enemies, and he hoped that Toffee shared them. But that had nothing to do with the fish.

"So, what is it?" Toffee continued, "why are you acting so friendly?"

Pythor drew his arm back.

"If you want to know... I feel we have some common goals"

He slithered back to the cupboard. Grabbed more sardines. Gave Toffee the unopened can.

"I assume you are familiar with the First Spinjutzu Master?"

Toffee glanced up from were he was closely inspecting the can, forehead wrinkling. "No, I can't say I have"

"Well" Pythor faltered, his smile falling. Toffee had deemed the sardines acceptable and opened the can, and was now digging in, ravenously devouring the salty fish within, showing no regard for manners.

"You have, perhaps, crossed paths with the one calling himself Master Wu?"

Toffee, who'd just ate the last of his meager meal, set the empty tin on the coffee table. His gaze drifted back to the open cupboard, eyes hungry.

"Sure" he said, slowly.

"Then you surely understand what a goody two shoes he presents himself as, utterly, utterly infuriating" he slithered back to the cupboard, grabbing more canned meats and fish. "I want him destroyed completely, for him to feel half the pain he's caused me" as he spoke, his voice raised, lip curled, grip tightening on a tin of spam. "You in?" He hissed, giving the lizard his meal.

Toffee took the food, eating it as ravenously as he'd eaten the sardines.

He quickly finished eating, then stood, keeping his eye on Pythor.

"Your hospitality is appreciated, but I'm afraid it's too late in the evening for vengeance. I would rather discuss this in the morning"

He walked into the bedroom and shut the door.

The lock clicked behind him.

#toffee svtfoe #pythor ninjago #ninjago pythor #svtfoe toffee #pythor p chumsworth #ninjago #svtfoe

9 notes · View notes

see-arcane · 2 years

Text

A Tale of Two Counts

Summary: Dracula's library is vast, but lacking a particular book Jonathan thought he was sure to have. Curious, the Count insists his good friend describe the volume. Jonathan regales him with the tale of The Count of Monte Cristo.

He will live to regret it.

If not for much longer.

Ao3 link

2 June—

I heard once that animals know what awaits them when they approach the butcher’s killing floor. Pigs and sheep, cattle and hens, even the dimmest creatures scent their execution. Perhaps it is as simple as the smell of death and their elders’ blood spilt before theirs. Sitting as I do now, hackles high as I await my own far less succinct destruction, I have doubts. Mere odor cannot be all that gives it away in them, for I have felt, almost tangibly, a shift in the air. As sure a contortion as a new wind or a switch of velvet to needles.

It is difficult to place the change. Indeed, I know the Count means to make his castle my tomb. Yet I fear there has been alteration in his initial ending for me. The one that will see me delivered as a calf to the altar of those three weird sisters in the building’s lightless bowels. Already a fatality harvested from a nightmare, and that only if I am permitted to die as a man. There are worse shapes of death. Ones without edge or end. But I ramble. Throwing words to the page as one sifts sand for gold.

For comprehension. What do my senses mean by wailing afresh over some phantom change in the Count’s designs? How could they be worse than they are?

The feeling struck me today, in the library. I am still permitted to wander the corridors when my jailor does not see fit to pen me in by whim or punishment. I have been straining myself to consciousness for all the hours I can, by day for the sun, by night for caution. Day I find more relief in, if only because I am less likely to be accosted by the Count’s company and the tightening noose of our charade of bonhomie.

I cannot tell if he is in earnest about gleaning all he can of my Englishman’s mannerisms—a singular victory there, for I am a comparative pauper and will posthumously dent his glamour if he means to mingle with noble classes—or if it is now, and could always have been, a mere relishing of my performance’s fraying shell, revealing the ripe misery beneath. A cat would show more mercy with a rodent. I am a hound’s toy, happily torn and worried at with love and vicious teeth until I am no more than rags. Such are my thoughts now. Such were they then. I hunted out the library for some respite from my own mind. Indeed, my own life, for all that remains of it should I stay caged.

The law books were not my aim. None of the Count’s practical volumes and educational texts drew me, no more than the scattered magazines and pamphlets. Material that had all taken a sinister color in light of his true purposes with England. But more, they would not carry me away from this wretched locale as a mere fictional fancy would. I would have taken Aesop’s Fables as soon as a novel. I wished for, of all things, one of the tomes from my collection of Dumas.

I combed and recombed the shelves, yet found none of the Frenchman’s offerings. Certainly not my favored tale, which I had foolishly left at home to leave more space for professional flotsam in my baggage. Irony tinged the realization from a dozen angles and I surprised myself with a laugh.

“My friend, I did not realize books of geography amused you so.”

My heart tried to escape my throat as I turned to see the Count. He had entered soundlessly, as he always seems to appear. A feat that still stuns me considering the sheer scale of this horror built like a man. I did my best to retain the accidental mirth on my face as I looked up at him. Another habit of his; the practice of being near as my own shadow whenever I turn my back.

“Geography is a great love,” I said, not lying. The vistas of the land have been a minute solace at any window I am fortunate enough to stare from. “But I laughed only because you lack a book I was certain you would have.”

“What book may this be?”

“The Count of Monte Cristo,” I said.

“By what author?”

“Alexandre Dumas.”

“Ah, a French writer. I confess, I have trifled little with works beyond those born of my destined England.”

“You have novels?”

“Yes, and read all. Sadly, they are…being lent. My library was quite hollowed of all the diversionary texts before your arrival.” His grin bared the sabers of his teeth. “I am certain there are others in my cellars, if you wished to follow me down to peruse such titles.”

Cellars. Dungeons. Catacombs. Stonework caves where, in sick pantomime of Mina with her bookshelves, garnet eyes surely skimmed over King Arthur and penny dreadfuls in equal number, keen despite the gloom. My smile struggled.

“No, no thank you. In truth, I read very little of fiction myself. Alexandre Dumas is an exception for his grand narratives.” It stung as much as satisfied me to add, “Many of his works are well-known staples in the English mind, if not by reading then by common knowledge.”

The great white caterpillars of his brows moved in interest.

“Is that so?”

“Oh, yes. The Three Musketeers is a great favorite in all circles. Then there is, The Man in the Iron Mask. There are dozens of his works published on the Continent as well as England. But Monte Cristo remains the one I hold in most esteem.”

“Then it is surely the finest of his works and I am doubly a fool for not possessing it,” the Count intoned. Then, laboriously, he took himself to a chair that he at once dwarfed with his dimensions and gave the gravity of a throne. He gestured me to the adjacent couch. “Tell me, my friend, what enamors you so with this Count of print and paper. It could be there is something of his character I might practice to endear myself to you and those of your like.”

Be it from desperation to insulate myself against crueler prying, from some mesmeric influence, or something so mundane as the desire to huddle inside an airy, frivolous topic with my sole mockery of a companion, I sat. I spoke. And I realized too late how merciless the subject truly was to my heart.

“I shall not give away all, should you wish to read it yourself, but the chief plot of the book concerns the eponymous Count, who is not a noble at all, but a man come to Paris for a rightful vengeance. This man was betrayed by false peers as a youth and sent to a horrid prison for a crime he did not commit, the better for these conspirators to profit. In prison, he encounters a brilliant teacher who leaves to him a covert education and the secret to discovering a great cache of riches. The man escapes. He finds his treasure. He transforms into the Count of Monte Cristo, now unrecognizable to any who might have known him before.

“Yet he cannot simply blunder his way into high society, where his quarry now dwells. One has become a great and wealthy banker. Another is the highest judge in the land. The third, his supposed best friend, has stolen away the man’s fiancée and had a son. It is the son that made me think to hunt for the book in the first place.”

As I said it, I knew it to be true. The words tasted of bile.

“You see, if it were not for the son, the Count could never have penetrated into the circles he needed to in order to exact his grand sprawl of revenges.”

My throat worked as if I were choking on hot coal.

“The Count of Monte Cristo, for all his innocence as a youth, is a ruthless genius when it comes to manipulation under his new mantle. To win the confidence of his foe’s son, he orchestrates two meetings. One, a lavish introduction as friendly new acquaintances as they enjoy the Roman Carnival. The second, a planned abduction of the young man by local bandits for a ransom the Count easily pays, rescuing the boy and earning his affection. When the Count makes his debut in Paris, it is with the son’s gushing praise, the gratitude of his parents, and all the oiled ease of a Trojan Horse passing through the gates of their unwitting fellow victims.

“He could not bring his machinations down on his enemies’ heads if it were not for his early charade of heroics and friendship with the son. It is,” I fought to flatten my voice and its new fissures, “it is one of the only works I have encountered where I found myself championing the mastermind and his seeming wickedness in plotting the downfall of others. Such is Dumas’ skill with crafting the story. It helps, of course, that the Count does not let revenge ruin his soul completely at the end—his schemes risked a collateral to innocent lives, and he made a hasty recompense for that.

“But the others,” I breathed. Breathed. “His targets. They suffered fully.”

“Because of the young man,” the Count hummed. “And his trusting introductions. I suppose his traitorous father met a poor fate?”

“Yes. He did.”

“Mm,” the Count thought. “If you were in the role of this naïve fellow, I assume this would put our friend Peter Hawkins in some danger, if this Count,” he put a hand to his rotted heart, “owned the same sinister wants as the one of Monte Cristo. Most fortunate he is not and I am not, yes?” He laughed and the ivory cave of his mouth seemed capable of swallowing souls as much as a leech’s diet. I am not certain if I managed to laugh with him, but he did not seem to care either way. “This young man—what is his name?”

“Albert de Morcerf, from his father’s own falsified name.”

“Then I envy your Count of Monte Cristo such an aide as an Albert de Morcerf. One who would ease the way into unknown doors and the hearts of acquaintances. Though not for any revenge. I know no one in England, after all, to assail or to befriend. Apart from Hawkins and yourself, of course.” His eyes seemed to settle on me and then cut through my head. As if seeing something far that I could not. “It would be no small boon to have such a guide to remove the last coarse edges of my transition from one home to another. There is no better directory than a friend, yes?”

At that he turned the conversation briskly away into some trifle and from there contrived an exit for himself, seeming oddly like a man who has just recalled a forgotten engagement while in the midst of another. I scarcely mourned the loss. Not least because, again, there was that tang of change to the atmosphere, and to the infliction of the Count’s attention. Something is different. Somehow, impossibly, something is worse. Now I fear I may guess at it.

I have made a mistake. Inspired him in some way. To what?

He must leave his lackeys behind in this native land. I would expect him to gather a similar legion to do his daylit labors. Yet such is not the same as a singular guide. Someone who might open the way to true connections. Gold will make a friend of many, whether they trust his title or not, but it would be a trial to ignore or mask his inhuman traits for long.

I do not know, I do not want to know what he may now be scheming for his arrival. Night is close.

10 June, evening—

Dread is now dented by confusion.

The Count rapped his knuckles at my door just now and let himself into my room. With a gift.

“One for each of us, my friend,” he sang, thrusting a book into my hands. It was a new edition of The Count of Monte Cristo, leatherbound, printed in English. He held his own volume with the tenderness of a priest with his Bible. “And you spoke true! It is an engaging tale Dumas pens for the Count, née, Edmond Dantès. It embarrasses me again to think I have overlooked it so long.” I saw from the ribbon of his bookmark he had already devoured a third of his copy. “Now we shall both have his company when we make our travels to fair England. Though I must admit, the gift is made in apology, with the deepest mortification.”

Here, he produced a sight that froze my pulse—the false letters he had me write and date, not yet sent. I swallowed dryly.

“What is the trouble?” I asked, unsure if I was meant to frown or grin.

“There has been word given to me that some trouble has befallen the tracks that would have taken you upon your return trip with your original route. That is, they shall require repair that shall overtake your initial plans. I have mapped the alternate routes and have found, to grateful surprise, my own way to the shore and to the good ship that shall ferry myself and my possessions to England is the most suitable option.” Here he feigned a shrug. “Ah, I suppose it is still good fortune to learn of it now rather than post these missives and make a liar of my friend.”

So saying, he took a candle to the envelopes, ensured they were burning in full blaze, and let them fall to the stone floor to gutter out at his feet.

“The only trouble now, my friend, is that I should have you rewrite and adjust your messages.”

Unsure of the game, I pointed out, “Of course, only, I do not understand what major alteration would be necessary.” Seeing as he intends me dead before I could ever travel to anything but the women’s maws. “I shall still be destined for the shore and a ship just the same…”

“Yes, yes, but of a different manner. A better one! That is to say, your travel on land will be brisker, as will your voyage upon the ship you and I shall share. But, of the most vital difference, you shall not arrive outright in the port you left by. Nor will you return so swiftly to Peter Hawkins or your good fiancée, the lady Mina.”

“No?” I asked, scarcely hearing myself.

“No,” he smiled. “You will return to friends and love alike, of course! I would not keep you for good. But I have today posted my own letter to Hawkins in premonition of your own writing—too eager, am I, far too eager!” He strolled forward, his step scattering my first batch of lies into ash and dust on the floor. “You see, I have written that you shall accompany me in Carfax. If only for a small while, and, as you and our friend Hawkins will be delighted to learn, doubly recompensed for the trouble of playing chaperone for that duration.”

I cannot define the exact chemistry of suspicion, wonder, and fear that pooled in me at this change to the Count’s script. The awful medley of feeling only mounted as he stood at my shoulder, dictating what I was to mention. Indeed, the strangest alteration was of the import of the 29th of June. Now it is meant to be the date of my exiting the castle, in the Count’s company. Oddly, he did not insist upon my jotting future dates.

“As before, these premature letters are merely for security’s sake,” the Count said, gathering the new pages up. “You shall have leave to write as we travel, with fresh eyes to take in a new route. I have read all your words, my friend, and your senses are lush with detail when playing witness. I would not rob you of the chance to describe what you experience first-hand.”

He left me with that. With much more than that. It made me sick to the point of nausea to lie to Mina again and the sensation was only made worse for my not comprehending the new evil that would necessitate a new lie. Only, I think this lack of comprehension is a lie in itself. One made to myself, for denial is my last threadbare shield against what I fear.

The Count of Monte Cristo is still in my hand, palm sweating against calfskin.

I must go. But the locks all hold even now. All that is left to me is the window. The stone wall and its distant foot below. Yet Edmond is proof himself that there are worse things for a man than death.

Mina, Mina, I will try once I have daylight as my aid.

? God. God. Help me.

?, daylight—

I do not know the date.

They sleep. I think they sleep. Or at least they are indulging a lull. I pray.

These pages are all that is left to me, of me. All my world has gone to Hell and deeper. It was not an hour since he left me that he returned. This time with the women. I will not burden these lines with all that was done to me. Suffice to say, I was used and emptied. Each had her turn with me, though not before him. Of them all, he was the only one to give as well as take his draught. In the midst of a scream, he held my open mouth to his own gouged flesh, forcing his ichor down my throat. They laughed. I cannot stop hearing their laughter.

I still taste the bitterness of him on my tongue despite the food. Yes, I am still fed. I yet live. Rather, I maintain a thin pulse which the sisters partake of now whenever it suits them. My door is no longer locked, but I huddle in it just the same. Pretending I can hide when now—now they roam free! I would have the wolves at me rather than risk those halls now that he has loosed the brides from their quarantine.

As I have lost track of days under this new routine, I measure my time alone by hours, if not moments. Their smiling teeth find their way to my veins as idly as a drunkard finds his pint. I am kept just alive enough to bleed and breathe. But no more. I have no more.

The last of my possessions and dignity have been harvested from this room, save the ruined clothes on my back, the backhanded gift of Monte Cristo, the crucifix even I now find a vulgar token, and this, my final treasure. My strength is so shallow I can hardly scratch these words. I have lost count of the marks pocking my throat, my arms, my breast; as if they wished to eat their way to my heart. And they could. Instead, they merely nurse at me, a feeble chattel that they can overpower without effort, or shock awake as my ever-deeper dreaming is startled by fangs in my skin. All the while I dwindle to nothing.

“It is only fair,” the girls sing-song between drinks. “He promised us more play with you. Now we have such a brief time to enjoy ourselves together.” They laugh. In my thickest deliriums, I have laughed with them. Or else I wept. Both?

Mina, Mina, I cannot force your face over them. I cannot hide in your memory when they take from me. My skull is another pillaged room and I find there is only more of them crowding it with the poison music of their voices. An intrusion that is almost merciful beside his presence within and without. I have not spied him since that hideous upheaval, yet I sense where he is. I see, I smell, I taste, I hear, I know his chthonic company in whatever shadow he stalks.

Sometimes beyond the castle. Sometimes inside it. Sometimes in this room.

Watching. Waiting.

I can guess for what. But there is still the window, with whatever escape it offers. There is strength and will enough to bring me to the ledge. If my footing fails, then God and gravity will carry me the rest of the way from here. I will not stay with them. I will not leave with him.

Good-bye all! Mina!

?, night

Lost. All lost.

I should have known it at the precipice. So weak, so sure of my fall, yet I scaled it deftly as a spider. Fool! Idiot! How did I think it a blessing rather than an omen? How did I take my newfound freedom for anything more than a final jest at my humanity’s expense?

I made it to the ground and I ran, staggered, dumb as a newborn deer into the gloaming’s half-light. It was as I could endure; not for pain of the sunlight, but a lethargy that nearly tranquilizes me in the day. Night is when the last of my mental powers are at their height. So, the hour before dusk. Out, away, as far as I could. Wolves bayed—I saw their shadows keep pace with me—yet I was not attacked. Another portent. Yet I had no mind to care.

Away!

And then, people. A caravan. One I recognized with bile. I knew I could expect no shelter or escape with them. In the moment, I did not know why I approached their party. These were the ones who had betrayed my letters, who had left me to die and cackled to themselves over it. Did I convince myself that I wished them to kill me? Perhaps that was it. I cannot say. My head turns to red fog.

I approached them, possibly raving. Swore oaths and promised violence. Yet I doubt I made an imposing figure; glazed in sweat and tears, the crust of my own blood under my rags. Still, I tried to goad them. They spotted me, jeered to each other, pointed in recognition. Half their number came to meet me. With ropes.

No execution—only a trussing and delivery back to the castle.

To him. Him, who I sensed spying with the same keen amusement as his wolves, as his minions, as his brides! Even the voyeur moon itself seemed to conspire with him!

A blankness fills my memory here. I recall them coming at me like stockmen approaching a wayward sheep, me taking long steps toward them. Then, nothing. Only a hating, hungry void.

My next lucid moment was filled with screaming; not my own. Wet warmth in my mouth, upon my face and hands. And a red taste I knew too well. I was crouched upon one of the men, I think the one who took my letters in his cap. There was no throat left between his chin and shoulders. An animal had torn away the whole of it, Adam’s apple and all, down to the ladder of the spine.

My innards swung on a pendulum of supreme intoxication and truer illness. I made noise with my shrilling audience. A scream, a howl, a laugh? Yet it did not matter—now they were taking aim. Even with the cutting teeth now pricking my tongue, I prayed I was still man enough to end by what they offered. So I might have. I bared my face and chest to them, ready.

But then, him.

I felt him manifest and descend even before the great shadow fell first over, then between us. He stood as a grinning monolith, neither side of him free from dread at the sight of that gleeful rictus. From the cloak, a flash of gold. It flew in its purse, striking and bursting against a wagon like a gilded pustule.

“Enough for recompense, my friends,” came his voice. It bore through my ears and into the foam of my brain, anchoring there. Never had it been more hateful. Never have I hated more that I could not hate it. Stranger still, he was not speaking English. But I understood. His gaze welded to me, knowing that I knew his will. “Carry on your way,” he told them, “and have our preparations in order. I trust they are unchanged by this small interruption.” They gawped.

He spun on them, the human face breaking with new and hideous shapes.

“Be gone!” he barked at them, and the forest snarled with him. They saw now the ocean of wolves that surged among the trees. As I watched, they did not spare a glance for myself, a wan gargoyle still dripping with their comrade’s life, but gathered up the gold and fled. By contrast, I was a sight which he looked on with the fondness of a father at a child’s first step. “You see, my friend? I have been the Count to my fullest. My hospitality and friendship has been yours, I have saved you violence with myself and my gold. All that leaves is your part, Albert.”

But I would not. Cannot. I ran from him. He let me, as did the wolves. Though I wonder if he already knew what I had stolen from the dead man.

The knife is sharp, if only a simple blade.

Of course he will find this cave. All this land must be known. Its hollows and tombs, all his. If I cannot take my own head for certainty’s sake, then I must strike my heart. Only I fear something is wrong.

You see, I have been carving and piercing since the moon was high. The hour before dawn is here and so am I, still. The wolves watch at the threshold.

I know which one is not a wolf.

He knows I know.

Why do I not care that he sees me writing?

Mina, I am so sorry. So tired. If I could only hit my heart again, perhaps it would help, but I cannot feel it beating.

Mina the wolves are coming

I fear I am too

Mina

5 August, night—

Forgive the absence. Much has happened to keep me from this habit. But tonight the Demeter is finally hushed, we are free to stroll on deck, and between the good captain’s steadfast pose at the wheel and my friend’s subtle guidance, Whitby shall come to us soon. There is no better time to indulge in these absurd pages once more. I have been teaching my friend shorthand and he has thumbed through this volume at his leisure. We laugh to read from the ghost of the fretting thing I was before.

I do have fresh eyes now, as he promised. They make a masterpiece of this moonlit mist and the obsidian waters. Even the spent husks of the ship’s available cuisine have been more than manna. My senses are rampant and many now. Want is a sense, I have discovered. A deep and demanding pit that flowers like hunger the more it is denied. It is more than the castoff toy called love. Far more.

I want the shore. I want my friend’s home. I want our sleeping soil laid in place.

I want you, Mina—or shall you be Eugenie? Ah, but she and Albert were not to be, in the end. And I want you for far longer than any end born of human rot. Will it be my kiss or his? Who will that make you?

“Haydée,” my friend hums to me, though he perches up by the bow. I hear him there as easily as he sees with my eyes here. “They shall all be Haydée, my friend.”

“Then I am not Albert?” I ask. “I shall surely make a poor decoration in Carfax.”

He laughs at that, but gives no confirmation or denial. Which is just as well. Perhaps we shall all be Haydée, for I am to room under his roof once more. Longer than you or Hawkins believe, at present. Much longer. Oh, Mina, Mina.

I cannot wait to introduce you to my friend.

#in which Dracula is educated on the scheming of another literary Count #and Jonathan Harker continues to suffer in exciting new ways #dracula #the count of monte cristo #jonathan harker #horror #my writing #dracula daily

157 notes · View notes

stleoshi · 1 year

Text

Top 4 Fic Recs

If I could only read four fics per fandom for the rest of my life, I would choose these.

Under the cut are recs for Danny Phantom, Daredevil, House M.D. Rurouni Kenshin, Sherlock Holmes, Supernatural, and Thor, though I may add more later.

Danny Phantom

The Disparaged Series by imekitty (gen, rated T) Long

Maddie Fenton’s obsessive quest to capture Danny Phantom brings disastrous consequences.

A recent take on the classic “dissection fic”, with Danny/Maddie’s relationship at the center of it. The first two fics in the series are complete, and the third is currently being updated monthly. The author skirts the limits of the readers comfort in an absolutely fascinating way which would not work in a lesser authors hands. I’ve been loyally following it for a couple years now and I find that I’ve never had to reread a previous chapter in order to remember whats going on. It’s very memorable.

Masks by Cordria (Gen, rated K+) Mid-Length

Sometimes, people hide who they truly are behind masks. This is a short story about the day that Lancer decides enough is enough when it comes to Daniel Fenton. Sequel is 'Plunge'.

It feels a little blasphemous to pick this Cordria fic when they have many, far more iconic fics to choose from (*cough* PITS) but this one just holds a special place in my heart.

Phantom of Truth by HaiJu (gen, rated T) Long

Locked away in a secret government lab with Phantom as her subject, nothing stands between Maddie and the truth... except, perhaps, herself.

Everyone and their mother recommends this fic, and that’s because it fucks severely. There’s a complete sequel now, but I find that I prefer this fic over it. The progression of Danny and Maddie’s relationship is titilating, you’re constantly on your toes wondering how he’ll make it out of this situation half-alive.

What A Nice Surprise by DarkNymfa (gen, rated T) Long

A ghost and two ghost hunters, sitting around. Like a family. Which they were, but, well. The other two didn’t know that. --- AKA the story of how the Fentons accidentally adopt their own son.

In a fandom full of fucked up and sad fic, it’s nice to have this cute, fluffy series to come back to at the end of the day.

Daredevil

Lucky Devil by ChuckleVoodoos (Matt/Foggy, rated T) Mid-Length

Matt gets caught, Foggy gets a clue, and cases get won.

Emotionally intimate, loving and believable. I’ve read this fic a thousand times and can never look away once I’ve started it.

Of Monstrous Shape by RosaLui (Gen, rated M) Short

“Put me in the ring,” Matt said. His glasses were cracked like a spider’s web, and in the shifting shadows it looked as if he was raising hackles in disgust.

“The House doesn’t profit from quick deaths,” said the jailor.

This fic is dark, violent, dramatic, and insanely engrossing. The author deftly paints the world of Daredevil and I am always in particular gripped by the climax.

Trial and Error by shyday (Gen, rated T) Mid-Length

'You're a lot of scary adverbs right now, my friend. Trust me when I say that "fine" is not one of them.'

This author loves to get into Matt Murdock’s head and imagine the world the way he perceives it, and they do it very well. Each fic of theirs is a sensory trip, but this one is my favorite. Very strong dialogue between Matt and Foggy as well.

Trust: Handle With Care by ceterisparibus (Matt/Karen, rated M) Long

Matt and Foggy's new client is a mother whose son was sexually abused by a priest.

This is a fic that deals with the heavy topic of abuse in the Catholic Church, but if you are able to stomach that it is an expertly executed fic. Not many authors would be able to craft a fic like this, but you can tell that every aspect of it comes from a place of deep personal knowledge and care. Also, the author is a lawyer, which is a rare treat in that the legal case is legit.

House M.D.

Codependency by debbiel (Hilson-ish, rated PG) Short

It was the sort of diagnosis that wouldn't rate a sad-face on his whiteboard. And yet it could change everything.

I’m a huge sucker for the premise of this fic, but none that I’ve found have hit quite like this one. Like a soulmate au, but more poignant ;)

Down to the Water by Blackmare (Gen, rated PG-13) Short

After Amber’s death, House and Wilson try to figure out their place in eachother’s lives.

So many little moments of this fic have stuck with me over the last decade, it’s quiet and beautifully melancholy. There’s a sequel as well which you can find on blackmare’s profile.

The Open Road by Pun (Hilson, rated M) Mid-Length

Wilson goes along for the ride.

Another road trip fic! This one is how I used to imagine the show would end, and somehow in the end it.. kind of was. This is still better.

Two Solitudes by mer_duff (Gen, rated PG) Short

"You were protecting me," House snapped. "What would you have done if he'd had a gun? Stood there and taken the bullet?" Wilson shrugged. "Better me than you."

A short exploration of Wilson’s tendency towards self-sacrificial protectiveness for House. I come back to this fic constantly.

Rurouni Kenshin

An Unexpected Lesson by Conspirator (Gen, rated PG-13) Long

Three years after the end of the Bakumatsu, a chance encounter with a kabuki troupe teaches Kenshin an unexpected lesson in survival.

A wandering era fic that gives us a window into what might have aided Kenshin in developing his “bumbling rurouni” act. I’ve read it a hundred times over the years, it is a great story with believable OCs and balance of humor and drama.

Out of Time by Siriusfan13 (Gen, rated PG-13) Long

During a trip to Kyoto with his friends, Himura Kenshin winds up in deep water... thirteen years in the past. How will Kenshin deal with the Revolution again? And how will his friends deal with Battousai, who has traded places with him?

This is such an earnest and loving study of Kenshin, who is my all time favorite character. This is certainly in my top fics of all time, and shares a similar premise to my other favorite fanfiction Bargaining, which just goes to show I have consistent taste lol.

Recovery by hakubaikou (Gen, rated T) Long

As Kenshin recovers from his wounds after his duel with Shishio, his friends sense a threat and take precautions for his safety. Complete.

Kenshins characterization rings absolutely dead on and the tone in general is like canon . This fic always feels like a warm hug to me, and I come back to it often. Hakubaikou was an amazing writer and she is missed every day, I’m so happy she shared her work with us.

Twelfth Knight by an_earl (Gen, rated T) Long

A bloody street-side massacre has been identified by Saito as the product of Hiten Mitsurugi Ryu. There are two suspects: Himura Kenshin and his master Hiko Seijuro the Thirteenth. Unbeknownst to them, a third user of their exalted style has time travelled to the future: Hiko Seijuro the Twelfth.

A fic about mistaken identity inspired by Shakespeare's Twelfth Night.

An ongoing fic that reads like a fandom classic (and I mean that very, very affectionately). The author’s Saito/Kenshin interactions absolutely crackle.

Sherlock Holmes

Bel Canto by bendingsignpost (Johnlock, rated T) Long

After years of waiting for wealthy patrons to faint, Dr John Watson discovers a far more interesting patient in the opera house basement. (AU through a Phantom of the Opera lens.)

The Phantom of the Opera AU I hold all others to as a standard. So delightful and entertaining.

How Sherlock Holmes Was Compelled to Remember One Festive Occasion Per Year: A Reminiscence by John H. Watson, MD by MirithGriffin (Johnlock, rated M) Short

Known to the SH fandom as The Turkish Bathhouse Fic. Charming as hell with ACD canon flavor, reading this fic has become a Christmas tradition for me.

Particular Peculiarity by saavik13 (Johnlock, rated M) Long

“How high is your regard for me, Watson?” He asked abruptly, his eyes still trained on the fire. “If I were to confess my darkest secret would you leave? Would you abandon me here to my melancholy?”

A case forces Holmes to reveal the truth to Watson and risks both their reputations and their liberty. Just how understanding is John Watson?

An obviously well researched and beautifully characterized fic. It feels very Granada in Holmes’ mannerisms, though it can be read as ACD or Granada. This fic is like a warm cup of tea on a cold day to me.

The Quiet Man by ivyblossom (Johnlock, rated E) Long

"Do you just carry on talking when I'm away?"

This is a BBC fic, as opposed to the rest on my list. It’s well worth the read though, ivy’s prose is so organic. It was a fandom classic for good reason.

Supernatural

a turn of the earth by microcomets (Destiel, rated M) Long

Dean’s your typical half-orphaned, monster-killing 22-year-old until a trenchcoated stranger crashes into his back windshield one September night, claiming he’s an angel that knows him from the future and that he’s on the run. Frigging fantastic.

(Or, in which Castiel gets stuck in Dean’s timeline preseries and Dean kind of hates it—until he doesn’t.)

This fic is overflowing with love, desire, longing and loneliness . It’s a time-traveling Cas fic which is something of a trope in this fandom these days, but the premise of Cas being dead by the time he meets a young Dean just lends something special to it.

I CARRY YOUR HEART (I CARRY IT IN MY HEART) by unicornpoe (Destiel, rated E)

“Take me,” Dean says. He doesn’t have to think about it. “Take me as your vessel, Cas.”

or: Cas is cursed into an endless sleep. Dean offers himself up as his vessel while they try to break it.

Compassionate, tender, and full of evocative imagery. It’s about being taken care of, and the act of caring for another.

Phantom Load by lovesrain44 (Gen, rated M) Long

Dean and Sam return to Boulder, CO, where they investigate a haunted school. The job seems simple enough to Sam, who has good, although vague, memories of living in Boulder back in 1992. Dean, however, has altogether different memories, far less pleasant and far more damaging.

Quiet, moving, and melancholy. The past-present scenes are woven together very well. Subtle where it needed to be. Just an amazing fanfic, though it deals with some possibly upsetting subject matter which is presented up front in the warning section.

So Says The Sword by komodobits (Destiel, rated E) Long

Castiel doesn’t mind working security duty; he was briefed shortly after the initial salvation of the Sword from the pit, and again before taking up his position. He knows what to do. However, it’s easy to forget that the green room isn’t real. Time moves differently there, the space ever-changing to make a prison of mountains, cathedrals, salt flats, orchards, and whatever Castiel was led to believe about Heaven’s greatest weapon—Dean Winchester is something entirely unexpected.

Original, dazzling and creative, komodobits was an absolute force in this fandom. They took it upon themself to recreate the entire Destiel relationship timeline, and did so beautifully.

Thor

Bargaining by Proantagonist (Gen, rated T) Long

Faced with an eternity without his brother, Loki strikes a bargain to change the past. Post TDW.

This is a near-perfect fanfic, and one of the most emotionally satisfying stories I’ve ever read. Cannot stress enough how much this fic means to me, it’s possibly my favorite fanfic of all time.

Mirror, Mirror by Lise (Gen, rated T) Mid-Length

While poking around in corners of the palace, Loki finds a peculiar mirror that doesn't show his reflection.

It’s clear that I love Loki’s various issues, and this fic puts an industrial spotlight on them.

Slow Poison by Mikkeneko (Gen, rated T) Mid-Length

Years before the events of Thor and Avengers, Loki is working as a spymaster for his father the King. Or at least... that's what he thinks he's doing.

I love miscommunication and fucked up family dynamics. This fic is like a friend to me.

#fic recs #loki #danny phantom #thor #supernatural #sherlock holmes #rurouni kenshin #house md #daredevil #hurt/comfort #whump #mostly lol

56 notes · View notes

thorniest-rose · 7 months

Note

listening to songs with lyrics that hurt like slaps to the face, making me think about my favourite fucked up Prism Boys 🖤

Eddie - Flower Face, Spiracle

I want your secrets, your clementine fields/The ropes that you climb up, the parts that won't heal/I want your safe word, your passive resistance/The sickness you foster, your favorite addictions/And I want your nightmares, the ghost in your doorway/Your paralyzed sleep and your-/I want you, butterfly, I want you, sailor/I am your lover and I am your jailor

Billy - Madalen Duke, Love into a weapon

Try to hurt me I won't let them/Do it for my own protection/No redemption/When I turn my love into a weapon/My heart has teeth/Don't make me have to use them/A kingdom too fragile too defend/Hides a dragon/Oh I'll make em sorry when/I turn my love into a weapon

Steve - Nicole Dollanganger, Flowers Of Flesh And Blood

Legs and limbs and lips/All open with your fingertips/You make holes in me and little slits/You use as mouths for you to kiss

Why didn't anyone tell me/Love is like being fucked with a knife?

I will kiss it and stick my tongue in it/Hard enough for you to feel it in your stomach/And I'll fist it with knuckles full of rings/Give you back the love you said was mine

hi there!! omg these are beautiful and I completely agree!!! The Nicole Dollanganger song for Steve... wibble. We actually almost used the quote "why didn't anyone tell me love is like being fucked with a knife?" for a chapter title in Part One, we still might for Part Two!! Ugh and that song for Eddie too, these are SUCH amazing choices, thank you so much!!! I love that you're still thinking about Prism, you're so sweet 💕💕💕

#asks #prism fic #song recs

10 notes · View notes

sshbpodcast · 10 months

Text

Won’t someone think of the children?! A Rok-Tahk Appreciation Post

By Ames

Last week, we covered just why your hosts here at A Star to Steer Her By largely dislike the children characters in classic Star Trek (tl;dr: it’s mostly because they’re written as props instead of people, or so I make my claim). There is one show in the franchise, however, that’s a huge outlier in how its children characters are written, acted, and treated overall as individuals who grow and develop. Obviously, it’s Star Trek: Prodigy. Since basically all of the main characters are children, the show would have failed if it couldn’t make them compelling and relatable to both a young audience and the preestablished fanbase.

And against the odds, it succeeded like whoa. There’s a reason why the fanbase is in such an uproar right now about Paramount’s avaricious cancellation of the Emmy Award–winning animated underdog (go sign the petition if you haven’t yet!), and that’s that the show is just so surprisingly good. We’re the last group of people who would laud a kid’s show so much, and we absolutely adore it.

Read on below for what Prodigy gets so right when establishing its children characters. Rok-Tahk is the prime example here because a) she’s voiced by Rylee Alazraqui, a legit child voice actress, who NAILS IT, b) she ticks all the boxes for what makes a good child character, and c) she’s just the best. Period. But let me explain anyway…

Rok is more than you expect

I think all the kids who made our favorites list in last week’s blogpost have one thing in common: they had some kind of hidden depth to explore. A character having some kind of twist or secret or hidden identity is just a staple of science fiction. We see it in Barash and Taya, who turn out not to be the children they appear to be. We see it in Mezoti, whose dual nature as both a young innocent girl and a Borg drone with the collective experiences of a whole hivemind makes her endlessly fascinating.

So when this massive rock creature whom we start off being intimidated by turns out to be the sweetest little girl, we’re immediately interested because it subverts our expectations. We’re forced to remind ourselves not to judge someone by how they look on the outside, something Star Trek has been doing since its very conception. And then when we learn even more about her and realize that her jailors put a child in a prison camp, we can’t help but root for her.

Rok is allowed to just be a kid

Sure, Rok is still smarter than your average kid, but she’s smart without being obnoxious like other naturally brainy kid characters I could name. *cough cough Wesley Crusher* As the obvious example, Wes is exhausting as a character because he’s a boy genius who is acutely aware of it and his supernatural smarts force him into situations another kid wouldn’t be in. He isn’t allowed to be a kid because he is first and foremost a child prodigy.

Rok, on the other hand, is first and foremost a child in the show Prodigy! Her excitement about new encounters is because most encounters to her are just that: new! She plays “Delta Heart Magical Veterinarian” in the holodeck, she loves ice cream, she plays with the cute little creatures on “Dream Catcher” planet, she naturally cares for Murf as though he were her puppy. Rok’s youth informs how she reacts to circumstances in the show and she acts accordingly in ways that aren’t forced, better suited for other characters, or just downright unnecessary. And seeing the universe through the eyes of someone with such a clean slate allows the audience to make their own judgements about the Protostar crew’s circumstances episode by episode.

Rok is a freakin’ alien monster

Prodigy also introduces us to the Brikar, a new alien race of rock monsters. And everyone accepts her without a single word! Now that’s the Star Trek way! From the moment we meet Rok-Tahk, she’s not physically cutified or even feminized, which is frankly refreshing. She’s less humanoid than most creatures we meet, outside of say, the Horta or Murf. It’s also a great use of the CGI-animated medium because live-action shows can’t pull stuff like this off.

I’m honestly impressed to see any female character, let alone a little girl, portrayed in a way that isn’t that cookie-cutter kind of attractive that we see everywhere. Rok is BIG. Rok is HARD. She’s not feminine or pretty or soft. Her cuteness comes from how she acts, talks, and treats people. And the crew of the Protostar and the Starfleet officers we meet later treat her like they treat everyone else: like a person. The people who run the slave show in “Preludes” pin her as a monster because they don’t/can’t know her. But our other main characters do get to know her and barely even bring up her size! And when they do, Rok subverts it by proclaiming that she doesn't want to be the muscle on the ship, and they go with it. I love that.

Rok has character flaws

Like any person, especially a well-written character in a television program, Rok isn’t perfect. Perfect people make for obscenely boring television (unless it’s a satire or something), and perfect children are just plain not believable and take you out of the story. But Prodigy writers went a few extra steps in developing someone like Rok to have credible flaws for her situation that also informs how she acts, changes, and grows. Rok overthinks and doubts herself constantly because she has anxiety. She’s suffered through traumas, like some of the orphaned boys mentioned in last week’s blog have, and that gives her something to overcome over the course of the season and [hopefully] beyond.

And, as mentioned above, she’s also really young! She doesn’t have the experience and knowledge yet to save the day every week. She knows she has limitations and when she remembers this, she panics, freezes, and languishes in self doubt. I’m thinking specifically about the turmoil she goes through in the supremely excellent “Time Amok,” in which she is forced to be alone (already terrifying) and also with so much pressure put on her (downright immobilizing!). Audiences can relate to anxiety and stress like this. It doesn’t matter that she’s a kid: we all get what she’s going through and connect with her immediately.

Rok grows throughout the season

You’d think it would be easy to create story arcs that help child characters grow since they’re going to grow up just by virtue of natural development anyway, but it’s harder than you think. Both Jake Sisko and Wesley Crusher get things to do as they get older that build on the foundations for their characters, but they also had several seasons to work with. Rok, in just one season, has her entire world opened up for her because of the nature of the story, and she runs with it!

This is a science fiction show, so of course the characters are going to love science, and watching Rok learn, try new things, occasionally fail, and try again is an excellent entry point into STEM. Just like how a lot of today’s doctors credit watching Dr. McCoy and today’s engineers got their start because they wanted to be like Scotty, and just like how many women and people of color joined the space program specifically because of Nichelle Nichols, I really hope that kids today watching Rok-Tahk and crew are captivated by science in that same way. I would be.

We love you, Rok! We love the other crew members of the Protostar too! We love Star Trek: Prodigy! Check out the other character appreciation posts for Dal R’El, Gwyndala, Jankom Pog, and Zero while you’re here. I know I can speak for not only the other hosts here at A Star to Steer Hey By but for myriad other fans when I seriously hope someone picks up this wonder of a show. We’re really looking forward to seeing more from these amazing child characters, and we’re seriously wishing we get that opportunity. #SaveStarTrekProdigy

#star trek #star trek podcast #podcast #star trek prodigy #prodigy #save prodigy #save star trek prodigy #rok-tahk #brikar

17 notes · View notes

raayllum · 9 months

Note

Hi! Just want to say I really enjoy all the posts and theories that you and many others post here on Tumblr. It keeps me guessing!

I saw a post very recently about Aaravos potentially being a giant, and it helped to solidify another theory I have, but I cannot find the post or who it was from anywhere. Basically it said that the underwater area where the “prison” was looked like a ribcage, and the pearl is like a “heart”. Aaravos as a giant is backed up by the stone “playpieces”‘who we know as the other human characters, yet Aaravos picks them up as if they’re the size of chess board pieces and uses them in a game. (Obviously symbollic and I have seen a few metas about this!) but hear me out because this theory (and I am sorry I can’t find the original author) backs up the other theory I have!

What if the Infantis Sanguine spell isn’t for bringing Viren back… but Aaravos himself? (Or both?) because the spell needed the blood of “your” child… and Sir Sparklepuff is the “child” of both Viren and Aaravos… Avos just needed Viren to do the spell for him to bring his body “back to life”, as we already pretty much can gather that he’s somewhere between life and death (the spirit world Rayla visited in TTM is very reminiscent of the colours we can see Aaravos’ prison to have through the mirror). Viren came back for 30 days because of a spell Claudia was given by Aaravos that sacrificed presumably one person, as we glimpsed at the end of season 3- so we already know the price this magic has to pay… and that in Viren’s case, it doesn’t seem to have to be someone related to him (ok, sure, to make it permanent it might require his own blood so to speak). The fact that the prison the gang retrieved is a “pearl” that glows makes me very suspicious that that is actually the prison itself. I recon that is Aaravos’ magic, or power of some kind, which is why he lacks that glowing star in his chest, and why he can’t just “burst” himself out of wherever he is… as that’s what’s been sealed away under the water- his magic.

Which leads me to Sir Sparklepuff- Aaravos needed Viren alive to perform the sacrifice spell to bring Aaravos’ body back. It is BOTH of their child (homunculus?) so who’s to say that will bring Viren specifically back? We already know Aaravos is a master manipulator… I wouldn’t be surprised if the ulterior motive with this is to bring himself into their world, he just needs someone else to push (pull?) from the other side at the same time.

Now, we know that Callum has the “key”, and the gang now has this “Perl”… again, Callum has been foreshadowed a few times to break or smash rare magical items, and I refuse to believe that the great Aaravos’ prison can be simply smashed like a primal ball and he will rise again like a genie out of a bottle. I think that like the prison’s location was broken down into many pieces, so was Aaravos himself, and not one person/ dragon knows the complete picture, expect for the Jailor. Aaravos needs to be “revived” and magically brought back into the world (hence his focus on mages, on Viren specifically- sure he is a useful tool to engage Claudia, but why not rely on her specifically to cast this spell for Viren? Why does Viren himself have to do it (I suppose we could argue that Viren needs to do dark magic for Aaravos to have influence over him, but he’s already done that once post-revival, so it shouldn’t be a problem, right?) EXCEPT for the reason that it has to be the “blood of your child” (blah blah something about Sparklepuff being the bridge between the mortal world where Viren is and Aaravos’ ‘somewhere-in-the-middle’ world theory that’s not fully formed but in my head it makes sense)- so yeah, Sparklepuff is a conduit for this magic that will allow Aaravos to pull himself out of wherever he is and into where a Viren is, through their shared “blood”, simultaneously pushing and pulling to either give Viren permanent resurrection and/or Aaravos a physical manifestation in the real world, which is why Claudia cannot cast this spell. ((Unless Aaravos’ spirit will take over Viren’s body completely until all the pieces of Aaravos himself have been assembled…?!???! Maybe that last bit is a bit too far-fetched of a theory, but maybe this is how everyone will overpower Aaravos as while he’s still in someone else’s body he’s not at complete power? Again maybe too far fetched and I literally came up with that while typing so probably not, lol! ))

I’m curious to hear what you think. Do you really think Aaravos is inside that pearl? Callum’s key is also an interesting factor here. A key to what- I’m sure it can’t be a literal key to the prison. Why would you make a key if you never intent to let Aaravos out? What if it’s a key to finding the star pillar or something like that instead? It certainly can’t have been pointing to the prison as the “prison” was underwater, so that’s pretty useless if that’s the case. It was reiterated many times that no one dragon or elf knew the full picture. Nobody actually knew anything more than what they were told, except Akiyu- but does she really know WHAT is inside the prison? Is it actually him or a part of him? We still haven’t met all the dragons and don’t know what Sol Regem was told, for example. How does the gang have the full picture of the prison, it’s location AND everything else from only three dragons? There are potentially more clues we are missing!

Anyway, sorry for the long message! This is probably the only theory I’ll ever post. I am curious to see what you think! 🤭

Thanks again to you and everyone else for all your lovely theories and metas. I always enjoy reading them when I come across them!!

Hello & thank you for sending in your thoughts!

I don't think Sir Sparklepuff's bloodshed was required for Aaravos' release, especially when he was presumably able to communicate with Viren at any time, and could've subsequently had Claudia on shore as a back up to either 1) do the spell if Viren wouldn't or 2) strong arm her dad into completing the spell. The fact that, if SS's or the blood of one of Viren's children, was all the resurrection spell required means that Aaravos has been manipulating Claudia this whole time, making her believed that she needed to go to a specific place and release him in order to free her father, and that's just not true. I think the manipulation/reality we end up with there is harsher and harder, and a bit more fitting accordingly. It also means, otherwise, Aaravos could've had himself released as soon as SS was 'born', and there's no reason to not want to get himself out as soon as possible.

I also do think that Aaravos is in the pearl given 1) magic can probably shrink things and we know people('s spirits at least) can indeed be trapped or bound to contained spaces, and 2) the white glowy walls we see outside of Aaravos' windows match what the inside of a pearl would look like pretty well.

This is an old pre-S5 meta but it talks about the archdragons so I'm linking it here, but Sol Regem is completely removed from any of Zubeia's flashbacks regarding the prison. Only her, Avizandum, Domina Profundis, and Rex Igneous are depicted, so the kids have each of pieces from the 3 that were entrusted to the archdragons (Zubeia and Avizandum being a pair). So he could have a piece of the puzzle, but it seems unlikely given the framing.

There's also a lot about the Orphan Queen we don't know, but I've long wondered why keep Aaravos' key at all, and suspected that perhaps while she wanted to reveal Aaravos' treachery she didn't fully approve of the direction the Archdragons took with it, given that she seems almost upset in the prison flashback:

The diamond pattern on the clothes of Katolis, presumably started by her line / reign as well, are a perfect match to Aaravos' old diamond patterned crown as well. Her flashbacks with the Key also make it clear that it is, presumably, older than the prison. Which, whether it was ages before or right before he was imprisoned, I believe the Key of Aaravos may hold Aaravos' missing chest piece, and therefore is a double meaning - a literal key to literal Aaravos, perhaps something he wants/needs to be at the height of his powers (and also maybe free?) accordingly.

I'd love to hear more theories in the future if you have 'em, and thank you again for send this one in and for your kind words! <3 Your art is truly a wonder & blessing to the fandom

#thanks for asking #miriiart #deep lore dive #speculation #tdp theory

16 notes · View notes