#what can I say the last part is very telling.... 'three of my progeny'....... | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

maximumwobblerbanditdonut · 5 months

Text

Eleanor, the Channel 4 people tell me the day before we meet, is very keen I watch the third part of her new series, The Couple Next Door. The problem is that the audio on my preview copy of this episode is so wildly out of sync I can’t follow what’s going on. Anxious hours pass, but by nightfall the problem is sorted and I soon understand why Eleanor Tomlinson ― she who was Mrs Poldark ― wants me to see it. There is plenty to discuss. And the sex is wild.

Tomlinson is Evie in this compulsive six-parter. The daughter of strict religious parents, she has been together for ever with her first boyfriend, Pete, and they are now expecting a baby, which is why they are moving to a larger house in a quiet Leeds suburb. Their neighbours, the couple next door, are something else, a mesomorph cop and a vampy yoga instructor both temperamentally unsuited to the quiet Truman Show-like community in which they live. The old terms for them would be wife-swappers or swingers, but we would probably call them polyamorists these days. Anyhow, you know what I mean. By episode three of what you could call a complex relationship drama, but which is really a sex thriller, it looks likely that Evie and Pete will RSVP in the affirmative to their new friends’ approaches, which are about as subtle as a Bogof sign in a supermarket.

Plot-wise, The Couple Next Door is a slight departure for Tomlinson, not just because the role does not require a period corset but because while she has played many rule-breakers, they usually settle down. The most famous example, of course, is her Demelza in the BBC’s Poldark, a character who started off feral but ended up doing the dishes and giving birth to Captain Ross’s many progeny. After a bit of a scrap, she even accepted the pectorially blessed mine owner back into her bed after his seduction/rape of a childhood sweetheart (which is more than Tomlinson would have done, she told one interviewer). In this series we watch the butter melt in Evie’s ingenuous mouth, first slowly, then very quickly indeed.

We meet on the poop deck of a canalside café in Hoxton, east London, where we are having coffee.

It’s a dangerous game, I say, this extramarital sex thing. Copulation has consequences. Does she agree?

“Do I agree with adultery?”

Does she agree with me?

“Well, look, in terms of ― I don’t know what you call it ― couple-swapping, I guess, it’s not for me, but that doesn’t mean I would judge anyone who wants to do it. I think we’re now in a time where people are liberated and feel at home expressing themselves and who they are. They won’t be confined to certain boxes any more. So if it works for you, then terrific. It’s not a route I would explore.”

We discuss the series’s pristine under-populated precinct, actually a new-build housing estate in the Netherlands chosen by the show’s Belgian director, Dries Vos. “He’s kind of leant into the idea that suburbia is a bit creepy and a bit entrapping. I think everyone has the fear that their life is suddenly going to become scheduled. You leave for work at this time. You go about your day. You get home at this time. Eat your dinner, have your chat and go to bed. It’s that fear.”

Well, that’s the fear of marriage, I say, and she agrees. But she also means that now she is 31 she sees that her twenties flashed by, half of them consumed, professionally, by Poldark. “You just want to say, ‘Stop! Let me just go back to being 18 for five minutes.’”

Talking of marriage ― as I was at least ―Tomlinson last year wed Will Owen, a 28-year-old rugby player with Clifton Rugby Club in Bristol. I suggest The Couple Next Door might feel a strange project for someone who 15 months ago exchanged marriage vows.

“Actually not at all, no, because it’s just a character,” she says. “It’s just a character who is very different from me and I can get stuck into and enjoy playing. My personal life doesn’t really come into any of my work decisions.”

And this is where things with the sharp yet warm, canny yet open Tomlinson get interesting: her work decisions. I am not divulging with whom Evie ends up having the sex of her life in episode three, but it is epic lovemaking. On closer inspection, however, it does not count as TV nudity. My next sentence will sound prurient, but I promise it is relevant to showbusiness in the era that dawned when HBO turned up the lights at The Sopranos’ Bada Bing! club and upon which ― thanks, Netflix and you fellow streamers ― the sun has yet to set. In this sex scene there are no (female) nipples visible and certainly no genitalia. I ask whether this squared with what Tomlinson has previously said about her reluctance to do nude scenes.

“I have done nudity before but, for me, it’s based on each project and how necessary I feel it is. And I didn’t feel like it was for this. I mean, there was a conversation where they were pushing for it and the harder they pushed for it, the more I felt like saying, ‘No, you’re just not being creative here. There are

so many more interesting ways that you can show this.’ So much of it comes down to the chemistry between the actors and working with the intimacy coordinators. You find a balance. You don’t need to show everything, because ultimately that immediately pauses everyone’s concentration. They’ve just seen something and they’re actually not invested in the scene any more.

youtube

“I think because [the show] is so obviously about sexual exploration, it would have been such an obvious choice to have nudity in it. I actually think not having it makes it more interesting.”

So she had a conversation?

“I quite enjoy the conversations where someone tries to tell me why it’s necessary. And if, after they’ve been through my rigorous checklist of questions, I believe that it is necessary ― and I already know at the beginning whether it is or not ― then I would enter into another conversation about it.”

But they’ve never convinced her yet?

“Well, there was one project in which I was convinced and that was a film called Colette a couple of years ago, with Keira Knightley and Dominic West. And because of my character and who she was and what she meant to those two very real characters ― it’s all based on a true story ― and because it was so much from the female gaze, so much about the female exploration of sexuality, I felt like it was necessary for that particular role. But I’ve yet to find a role since.”

Or before?

“Yes. Also, there’s an element of self-preservation that comes into it because you’re opening yourself up to be screenshot and paused, and those pictures end up online and will for ever be there. So it’s a very serious thing that you have to decide. I think if you have the confidence to do it as an actor or actress, great. And it’s not that I don’t have the confidence; it’s just that for me it has to be character-driven.”

It must also take confidence to say no. Younger actors may not have it.

“And that’s the thing. Whenever I’m on a project that younger actors are involved in and they have to do sex scenes, I always make a point of speaking very openly to both parties or all parties about it and just make sure that everyone is comfortable and they don’t feel forced into anything or that they’re frightened of anything. At the end of doing it as well, if they want to talk to someone about what they’ve been through that day [I’m there]. Because it’s a pretty weird thing.”

It is pretty unusual to find on television investigations of female sexual appetites at all. Pete, Evie’s partner, and Danny, the police-biker neighbour, almost too obviously embody two contrasting varieties of adult male human. As Pete, Alfred Enoch (formerly of Harry Potter) is slight, cerebral, an investigative reporter on what is left of his local paper. As Danny, Sam Heughan (the Outlander star but here leather-trousered not kilted) is seriously built and seriously dim. His home features a very big television and little in the way of reading matter.

Does Tomlinson have a type?

“I’ve never had a type. For me it’s all about personality and a sense of connection and, you know, someone who can really make me laugh, someone I can be totally myself with. I always hate that saying ― what is that saying? ― that he or she is punching… I hate that.”

Punching? What does that mean?

“If a guy is dating a girl who is very good-looking, someone might say to him, sort of lad talk, ‘Oh, he’s punching above his weight.’ I hate that. I’ve always tried to steer clear of that and just get to know people for who they are. Particularly these days, with apps and phones, everything is so based around what you look like.”

Certainly her husband looks nothing like Harry Richardson, the actor whom she dated for a year after he was cast as Demelza’s brother, Drake, on Poldark in 2017. Richardson is neat and svelte; Owen, his Instagram account reveals, has biceps that could crack coconuts. Playing centre, Tomlinson explains, Owen is not involved in scrums, but there have been a couple of “bad scrapes” and “quite a few trips to A&E”. “It’s just one of those things where you go, ‘OK. And breathe.’ ”

They met through a friend who was married to Owen’s team captain at the time. “They dragged me along to a rugby game. I hadn’t ever really seen any rugby before but there he was and suddenly I was very keen to watch more rugby, let’s put it that way.”

For ten years in London she lived alone but, when lockdown was declared in March 2020, the couple decided to hunker down with his parents, his two sisters and their partners. The younger sister was a little awestruck at first, as one of her go-to films growing up was Angus, Thongs and Perfect Snogging, in which Tomlinson had starred aged 15. She quickly got over it.

“Covid just sped everything up, didn’t it? Suddenly, I was in their space and with them all the time. And it was quite an amazing thing, really. I just feel very lucky that they are who they are and that they accepted me in the ways that they did. We forged a bond, or I did, with all his family that would have taken us years otherwise.”

Tomlinson and Owen married in July 2022 at a country hotel in the Cotswolds. According to the Daily Mail, which is reliable on such things, she wore an off-the-shoulder Pronovias gown and Christian Louboutin heels (he was in a three-piece lounge suit, incidentally). Among the credits for the big day was her publicist, Victoria Raeburn-Wales. But there was no need to PR their happiness. “He’s a gentleman and I feel very lucky to have found my one,” she says when I offer my congratulations.

Had she planned to marry in her late twenties or early thirties? Her reply rather explains who she is.

“I think at some point I thought, ‘Yes, I’d love to get married,’ but I’ve always prioritised my career. I’ve never really thought, ‘This is what I want. This is when I want it.’ It’s always just been working as hard as I can, following the jobs, and trying to find someone who understands that is quite tricky.”

Yet marrying an actor would have been hard too?

“I love what I do, but I couldn’t think of anything worse ― well, obviously I could ― than to come home and have the same conversation as basically what happened in my day with someone else,” she says. “It would drive me crazy. Also, there’s an inherent competitiveness in my soul. It doesn’t matter if you’re male or female, if you’re working and I’m not, it’s not going to go well.”

Born to an actor, Malcolm Tomlinson, and a singer, Judith Hibbert, young Eleanor decided to become an actress aged ten on the set of The Bill, where her father was working. By 14 she was playing Jessica Biel’s younger self on the very profitable Hollywood romantic mystery The Illusionist. Back home she was in the Doctor Who spin-off The Sarah Jane Adventures and Tim Burton’s Alice in Wonderland.

A lot of her education was perforce conducted on sets with tutors, which made keeping up with her friends at Beverley High School back home in East Yorkshire hard. “There were a “couple of instances where I felt a little bit ostracised”, she admits, but in any case she was quite “insular”, lacked confidence socially and was not particularly academic (but always worked hard).

In 2013 Bryan Singer cast her for a main role in Jack the Giant Slayer but the $185-million movie flopped. She now knows never to predict how something will be received. The stars were aligned for Poldark, however. In 2014 I went to report on the making of the first series and arrived at the West Country shoot feeling sceptical. Having rewatched some of the original Seventies series, Poldark seemed faintly ridiculous and hardly worth reviving. Yet talking to the new version’s star, Aidan Turner, and its writer, Debbie Horsfield (Tomlinson was not around that day), I felt intimations of greatness. Its first season duly averaged more than eight million viewers and made Turner the hottest hunk on television, although not so distractingly that people failed to notice how seductively good Tomlinson was as his young wife.

I wonder whether she feared nothing in her future career would make the same impact but she says no, because she so enjoyed making Poldark. “I learnt so much. I mean, I was 21 when I got the part and 26 when it ended. I just did so much growing up. I learnt so much about myself as an actress.”

Since it finished in 2019 her career has known ratings triumph and ratings disaster. Stephen Merchant’s BBC1 comedy The Outlaws, about a gang of community service ne’er-do-wells in which she plays the troubled influencer Lady Gabby, is going to a third series and next year she will feature alongside Leo Woodall (The White Lotus) in Netflix’s adaptation of David Nicholls’s One Day. Her big break into American TV, The Nevers, however, was cancelled swiftly by HBO, despite having been created by Joss Whedon of Buffy the Vampire Hunter fame, and Sky black-holed Intergalactic, a kind of female Blake’s Seven, after one season.

“I’ve had to grow a thick skin,” she says.“I wasn’t always thick-skinned. Every job that didn’t go my way used to break my heart, and every time a job finished I would just cry for weeks because I missed all my friends and I missed the role. I missed that thing of being away and being part of a company.”

Although she had been in the business for a decade even then, it was Demelza who migrated her from ingenue to leading lady. She made the role her own partly by insisting that the fiery peasant girl who lands Ross should be a redhead, although in Winston Graham’s Poldark books Demelza was dark-haired and Tomlinson is naturally dark blonde. (She wasn’t, by a long chalk, even born when Angharad Rees played Demelza redheaded in the Seventies series.)

“They fought back on it a bit. They wanted her to be blonde at some point, but I remember feeling this kind of drive. I was like a dog with a bone, and that role came up and I just wouldn’t let it go. It just consumed me for ages. I was put through the wringer with auditions and chemistry tests ― whatever they are ― with Aidan and then eventually the role was mine. But even going forward, it was like I inherently knew who I wanted her to be and her having this kind of fiery red hair. It just felt so right to me, and in the end they agreed.”

And red she has stayed?

“To be any other colour would feel really odd. You build a brand. I became known as Demelza and I suddenly thought, ‘Well, why would I change it now?’ Because something finally worked, you know?”

The other day, she says, she turned down a tempting part because it did not “feel” right. I say she is fortunate to be able to make such choices.

“I’m very fortunate,” she says. “I feel very, very lucky to do what I love doing. But, you know, it doesn’t always work out. It’s not always rosy.”

But when it does, it is clearly all-consuming.

“I can’t describe it. It just makes my heart beat faster. Finding a script, reading a script and getting into the character ― whether it’s an audition, whether it’s the offer of a role ― it just makes my heart beat faster. It drives me.”

There will, I promise, be many hearts beating faster when The Couple Next Door starts. It’s good. Just keep your cardiologist on speed dial come episode three.

The Couple Next Door begins on Monday, November 27, at 9pm on Channel 4. All episodes are then available to stream

Andrew Billen has been a journalist for 40 years, including two stints on The Times from 1984-89 and from 2002 to the present. He specialises in interviews with celebrities, politicians and writers as well as writing long-form features for the magazine. For ten years he was also The Times's television critic.

THETIMES.CO.UK #TheTimesMagazine #AndrewBillen #interview #EleanorTomlinson

14 notes · View notes

nahimjustfeelingit-writes · 4 years

Text

Vampr Erik Origin: Part Two

okay so I wanted to quickly get this out to basically wrap up the origin half of my new vampire Erik series Faerie and Vampr that I am starting.

Origin Part One

Let’s start with a little background on vampires:

In order to create a vampire, a human must be drained of their blood by a vampire and the blood lost needs to be replaced by some of the vampire's blood. The vampire and human must then sleep in the ground (this is presumably the point where they technically die) until the newborn rises as a vampire the following night. The newborn and the maker will subsequently have a maker-progeny bond, unless the maker deserts or releases their progeny.

If the head, or the heart are missing at the time of death, the person in question will not wake in transition; but simply stay dead. Currently, it is unknown what will happen to a person who lost other organs, such as a liver, or kidneys, and woke up in transition. Most fatal injuries, such as snapped necks, slit throats, stab wounds, and shattered bones from falls will be healed before the fledgling vampire awakens in transition. Furthermore, the person must be mortally wounded or ill to the point that conventional means cannot save their lives. I

A newborn's existence depends upon their abilities, which are taught to them by their maker. These abilities take time to learn and develop. As vampires age, they become more adept at controlling their abilities. According to the history of the creation of vampires, two-thirds of newborns die during their first year without the guidance of their makers.

Newborn vampires will be thirsty and will need to feed to survive. Although newborns have some control of their abilities, they are mostly controlled by their impulses and can cause serious harm and accidental deaths to humans around them. In addition, newborns cannot resist blood at all, as resistance develops with age. The biggest difference is the fact that a vampire gains extreme strength, and has much agility and reflexes. This is more than a match for almost every human alive, and serves the vampire well for hunting and feeding. Of course, like humans, some vampires are just naturally stronger than others.

Also, if a human who is strong is turned into a vampire, then that human strength is added to the vampire strength, creating a very powerful vampire. This is why many vampire leaders will sire huge men; they make incredible bodyguards even against a Slayer. As a vampire grows older, it’s demon side becomes more and more powerful. Vampires do not age, their bodies are, for the most part, just reanimated preserved corpses, and do they, through supernatural means, stay the same forever. There are some exceptions, for example, vampires still appear to grow hair...though perhaps at a much-reduced rate.

A vampire can suffer terrible injuries and heal from them easily. Since they can only be killed by a few select things, they can suffer injuries a human could not heal from, like a broken spine. Gunshots, swords, and any injuries caused by weapons that aren’t wood can’t kill a vampire, only cause pain. Certain vampire poisons and magic do exist though, which will permanently hurt, or kill a vampire. In 1610, a powerful witch named Antonia Gavilán de Logroño cast a spell that summoned all vampires within a 20 mile radius to expose themselves to sunlight. This caused a number of vampires to die and caused vampires to be very fearful of necromancy.

Another example of the supernatural preservation is that vampires don’t need to take oxygen to live. They can, however, force air in and out of their lungs, which allows them to do things like smoke, or perhaps cool air into their chest if they get too warm. They do not have a beating heart like humans do. Although this is true, through some supernatural means they still seem to have blood flow. Without a blood flow, a vampire can’t bleed, or react to drugs, which they clearly do. They can’t however become pregnant or produce waste.

Vampires are recognizable from their fangs, which are located behind the maxillary lateral incisors (as opposed to the canines, as per vampire mythology). Fangs can be extended and retracted by choice, and are controlled by the movements of certain facial muscles. However, fangs protrude automatically when vampires are feeding, angry, excited, sexually aroused (colloquially referred to as a "fang boner"), need to fight, or see blood. Fangs can also be removed, but grow back after three months. Without fangs, vampires cannot feed on live victims unless the victim is already wounded….

——————————-

Erik’s eyes shot wide open in a flash. Darkness surrounded him and his large, muscular body was resting on a hard surface. He could hear the springtails, beetles, centipedes, and ants that make their home in the soil, crawling around. The katydids and crickets were chirping much louder in his ears now. He could smell the odor of dry blood and decay in the earth from the deceased. His body no longer aches and he felt like he had the strength of an entire army.

The last thing he remembered was waking up on a makeshift bed surrounded by burning ritual candles enchanted with herbs, oils, and crystals chosen for their metaphysical and magical properties. He could recall a voice, a captivating voice speaking Jamaican patois in his ear. Now that he forced himself to remember while lying beneath the cold, damp earth, she said she was Mama Dalma; Tia Dalma. The powerful voodoo priestess Erik heard many stories about in his youth.

Like flashes, Erik could vividly see her coming down on him speedily and sinking her teeth into his neck, draining him of his blood. What was she? She said that she would give him the power of immortality, superhuman strength, and healing capabilities. Did that include drinking blood too? From what Erik could tell from his razor-sharp senses is that it’s nightfall. His hands reach above him, feeling around since he could only see pitch black. He noticed wood beneath his fingertips. Erik pushed with ease, although the top flew off and landed somewhere far within the distance. He sits up, finally breathing in the night air.

Erik stares at his hands in bewilderment before looking around him. Erik could see the full moon peeking through the branches of the oak trees. As his eyes moved he could make out a sprawling wooden shack surrounded by a damp, gloomy world. It’s a steamy bayou and the forest within this area looked like a spooky cypress where fireflies flickered in the heavy air. The swamp water surrounding the shack was eerily still. The sprawling shack clings to the branches of a tree within the swamp. This had to be Tia Dalma’s home.

...Yuh can stay here on muh table and die slowly...or I can give yuh immortality….

Her words rang true in his ears. Tia Dalma saved his life. Erik was about to die by the hands of white men who seeked revenge for burning down their homes and killing their families. He now remembers tasting the mixture of saltwater and freshwater, also known as brackish water in his mouth after being tossed inside the swamp by the white men. The gators would have devoured him in minutes if it wasn’t for him being pulled from the swamp. He figured Tia must have killed those men and rescued him.

Standing slowly, Erik tested his ability to move by stepping out of what appears to be a wooden coffin and into the shoveled-out ditch. He clearly recovered from the multiple stab wounds to his abdomen. His cream colored linen blend shirt with a collar was still covering his torso even though it was ripped. Erik delicately touches the skin of his much smoother chest, his head lowering to follow his movements with fascination. His blood still stained the shirt that is also covered in dirt and grass stains. Lifting his shirt up, he examined his abdomen, the muscles crunching the more he bends his back to get a good look.

There are no wounds. The jagged knife used on him to create deep gashes was apparently gone. All that’s left is smooth skin and an eight pack so rock hard that if a mortal punched him their phalanges down to their carpals would be fractured beyond repair. Erik breathes irregularly and his eyes are wide with astonishment. He quickly touched his face and head, his hands moving rapidly with shock. His face is back to normal before the white men kicked, punched, and pistol-whipped him.

“Wut kind of magic is dis’?” He spoke with a staggering voice. While staring at his hands, a drop of blood landed on his skin. Startled, Erik touches his nose, bringing it down to examine. He’s bleeding. After that realization an insatiable need to eat overpowered him. It hit him so fast and strong that it made his body weaken and stumble. He grabbed at his throat as more blood dripped from his nostrils. Erik lets out agonized gasps that turned into deep growls. His fingers damn near clawed at his throat. He felt like he was going to die if he didn’t eat something, anything.

“Wah yuh still doin’ down dere?”

Erik turned with great speed towards the direction of the vivid voice. Standing above him, was Tia Dalma herself. She’s wearing the same sheer, black gown Erik remembers, her long, slender dreadlocks framing her face and a sneaky smile was plastered on her black painted lips.

“Wut happened to me? Did I die?” Erik says while looking up at Tia Dalma with his inky black irises outlined crimson twinkling in the evening night.

“If yuh climb out of deh, Mama will tell yuh everything,” Tia Dalma steps back, “Come mi child.”

Erik grabs hold of a few vines sprouting from the soil-covered wall before climbing up with superhuman agility, his body standing before Tia Dalma in a matter of seconds. The speed still amazed him. It felt like everything around him was moving at a slow pace. Tia locked eyes with Erik before circling him. She was especially proud of herself. She finally has a progeny after 175 years of immortality. Tia smelled Erik’s dreadlocks and squeezed his muscles while circling his beautiful frame.

“I give yuh more life, Erik Stevens. Yuh will walk deh earth unstoppable, like mi,” Tia caresses Erik’s cheek with her sharp, long black nail. He looked her up and down before his eyes moved to the finger on his cheek. He gently brings his hand up, grabbing her finger and bringing it away from his face.

“Wut am I?” He spoke carefully with squinted eyes.

“Yuh a Vampr, Erik, a creature of deh night, deh undead.”

“Ondèd? Mwen? Ondèd?” He walks away, his head moving up, down, and side to side with curiosity and confusion. Mama Dalma watched like a proud mother with her arms crossed, allowing Erik to get a feel of things before she started teaching him. The sooner the better since he’s a newborn. Erik could see with perfect clarity in the darkness of the night, to the point of being able to detect bodily heat emanations. The keenness was comparable on many levels to a bat or owl but ten times more.

Erik starts moving extremely quick, testing out his new abilities. He would run to the left and stop, then turn and do the same thing, creating diagonal patterns with his movements. This speed made it impossible for him to be detected. The more he moved, the more excited he became. He was like a curious child, wanting to explore what else he was capable of doing. Erik ran towards an oak tree, wrapped his arms around it, and without even trying, he uprooted the entire tree before dropping it. The oak tree landed on the ground heavily, causing it to shake like an earthquake. This startled the animals, leading to a few deer and owls fleeing.

“Just rampin around huh?” Tia Dalma laughs before walking up to Erik. His eyes are wide and his nostrils flared. All he wanted to do was move. Staying still only agitated him. Mama Dalma grabs his arm, yanking him towards her with her strength superior to Erik’s since she is much older.

“Ah, yuh have deh bleeds,” Tia wipes Erik’s nose with her fingers, “Deh is what happens when yuh need to eat.” She checked his ears, and sure enough, he’s bleeding from there as well. Erik raises a single brow in question, clearly not understanding a word she was saying.

“Out and bad, yuh will have deh chance to play, but for now, mi have to teach yuh about what it is to be a vampr. Listen to mi, Erik,” She spoke sternly while grabbing his chin harshly, “Yuh have to feed. Deh is mi first lesson. Feedin’. Come.”

Tia Dalma grabs Erik’s hand and the both of them zoom off into the night.

___________________

A white young lady named Isabella Guidry was playing her violin on the open porch of her family's plantation home. The Guidry plantation had about thirty field slaves before they were all freed because of the abolition of slavery. The only negros left we’re the house negros who prepared meals, cleaned, and baby sat. Isabella had just turned 21 years old and she was in preparation to be wed to a veteran named Alex Bellefleur who served as First Lieutenant in the 28th Louisiana Infantry. She suddenly stopped playing her violin when she heard her mother calling for her.

“Isabella! Come in darling! Yvette has to do ya hair! Ya have to teach the new debutants in da morning!”

“Coming, mama!” Isabella places her violin back in its case before securing it. She fluffed out her full forest green skirt that reached the ground, the bustle providing fullness in the back. The cream-colored corset top with cotton bell sleeves cinched her waist giving her an hourglass appearance. She stepped inside of the grand plantation home, the eldest house negro named Mabel approaching her cautiously. Mabel was wearing an apron over her withering cotton dress, her silver hair sprouting from underneath her sun bonnet.

“Miss Isabella, ya needin’ any help?” Mabel asks.

“Just take my violin, please,” Isabella spoke dismissively, “Da last time one of ya broke my precious violin...DONT break this one,” Isabella spoke harshly.

“Yes ma’am,” Mabel grabs the violin case from Isabella carefully before turning to leave with a limp in her leg.

“Why are ya walking like that, Mabel?” Isabella studied Mabel’s legs.

“Nothin’ just tired is all,” Mabel smiles despite her pain before turning the corner to leave.

“Isabella!”

Her green eyes looked up to find her mother standing at the top of the stairs dressed in a black gown with a full skirt, her jet black hair pulled to the back of her head in a neat bun, and pearls dangling from her slender neck. She was clutching a handkerchief and before Isabella could ask why her mother began coughing into it.

“Get up here, Bella. Yvette will put barley curls in ya hair and roll dem up. She’s waiting in ya room.”

Her mother turns away abruptly, her heels clicking against the hardwood floor before disappearing into her bedroom. Isabella climbs the stairs to her room, worry filling her belly for her mother. When she finally made it to her room, Yvette was waiting for her patiently by her Astoria Grand Vanity. Yvette is a mulatto slave who Isabella’s father treated differently from the others because she’s his secret daughter. Her father slept with a house slave named Edna and impregnated her. Isabella’s mother found out and sold Edna to another plantation; the Compton plantation in St. Tammany Parish.

“Evenin’ Miss Isabella,” Yvette spoke with her beguiling voice. She has smooth tawny skin, loose curly, sandy brown ringlets framing her face while the rest was hidden beneath a red and khaki tigon, which was simply the French New Orleans version of an African head wrap. She wore a brown southern belle dress with lace drop shoulder sleeves, a low neckline, and a voluminous skirt. Isabella hates that this is her half sister and the fact that she gets to dress so nicely.

“Who gave ya dat dress?” Isabella asks with an attitude and jealous eyes.

“I made it, Miss Isabella,” Yvette blinks her chocolate brown eyes away, “I have to do ya hair.”

“I know, barely curls,” Isabella takes a seat at her vanity, her eyes sharp on Yvette. Yvette could feel her burning holes through her head with her furious eyes while she took down Isabella’s black hair. Yvette grabs a brush to smooth it down, “Well? Wut are ya waitin’ on?! Do my hair!”

“Yes, Miss Isabella,” Yvette moved at a faster pace before grabbing a clip to pin up some of Isabella’s dark strands.

“I hate ya,” Isabella didn’t hesitate to say, “Ya brought down my family, ya negro tramp.”

Yvette bites her tongue. She had a lot that she wanted to say to Isabella but she would only end up killed. It wasn’t her fault that her father slept with her mother, Edna, around the same time Isabella’s mother was pregnant. Yvette didn’t ask to be here. She couldn’t control the fact that she was half white, even though she despised that side of her because of how they treated blacks. Yvette will always feel disgusted about that part of her. While Yvette began working on Isabella’s hair, wetting a few strands, a scream rang out from her mother’s room. It went on a few more times, the sound so scary it made Isabella’s fingers tremble. Yvette was in the middle of wrapping Isabella’s damp hair around a piece of soft rag to form the curls when she stopped, a startled expression on her face.

“What da hell?” Isabella stands, “mama?” She called. Her father wasn’t home yet from an outing with her fiancé, Alex, and the rest of the men for drinks, preferably hard apple cider and rum. It was unnaturally quiet. A pin dropping would probably echo throughout the room from how silent it was. Isabella lets out a panting breath before standing from her vanity. Yvette began to quickly clean Isabella’s vanity, her hands shaky. She heard tales about Ricardo Dupoux and his revolt burning down plantations throughout Louisiana. She didn’t want to be around for it to happen.

“Go see what dat noise is!” Isabella ordered. Yvette pauses, giving Isabella a dirty look.

“Did I stutter, nigger?! Go see what dat is! NOW!” Isabella yells with a trembling finger pointed to the door.

Yvette drops the items in her hand onto the vanity before gathering the bottom of her dress to walk away. Before she could even make it to the door it was torn from its hinges. Yvette runs to the other side of the room, tripping over the bottom of her dress, and falling to the floor while Isabella screams, falling back against her bed. Standing at the door, both bodies covered in blood, is a black man and a black woman. Their eyes are round with pitch black irises, mouths wide open and sharp fangs protruding automatically to threaten. Their faces from the nose down are covered in blood and some of it stained their clothes. The woman, however, barely wore any fabric, her small breasts with hardened nipples and her hairy mound clearly visible.

“WHO ARE YA?!!! WHAT DID YA DO TO MY MAMA?!!!” Isabella yells with fear. Yvette was hugging herself in a corner, tears filling her eyes as she prayed in Haitian creole.

“Chè Bondye, tanpri, mwen pa vle mouri,” She sobbed while praying.

“No use in cryin’ child, hush yuh mouth,” Mama Dalma spoke with an evil tongue, “hole yuh cahna, gurl,” She insulted Isabella, putting her in her place when she kept yelling about how they are a bunch of niggers and how her father will find them and kill them.

Erik tasted his first victim and it was glorious. It was like an unimaginable, indescribable sweet heavenly nectar. It’s like being able to perpetually exist off nothing but sweet desserts without any negative health repercussions. The taste of Isabella’s mother's blood reminded him of fresh gala apples. It satisfied his hunger but it didn’t give him that feeling he yearned for, a feeling close to an orgasm. A feeling close to his dick chubbing up in his brown knickers. As he stared at Isabella with predatory eyes, he could hear her heart racing, and smell her fear, a scent that Erik relished. While he was draining Isabella’s mother dry he could hear Isabella’s heartbeat through the thick walls. His new powers as the undead allowed him to see Isabella’s blood and brain activity as well.

“Mwen pa ka tann pou tiye sa a,” Erik spoke with a deep, gravelly voice before licking blood from his chin with his thick pink tongue. Mama Dalma gave him a seductive look, her clit jumping below her tightly coiled pubic hair. Yvette shudders from his words. He said he couldn’t wait to kill Isabella. Yvette wondered if he would say the same about her.

“Eat mi child,” Mama Dalma says with a wave of her hand, granting Erik permission to drain Isabella dry. Mama Dalama couldn’t keep her eyes off of Erik’s blood-covered lips and fangs. Isabella tried to run with a high-pitched scream filling the room but Erik already detected her escape, running up on her at a whizzing speed that ripped through the air, grabbing her by the back of her frail neck and slamming her face first on the hardwood floor. Erik twisted her neck painfully before sinking his fangs deep into her pulsating jugular vein. Since he’s new, he drank from Isabella with so much excitement to taste her blood that Tia had to stand by him to instruct him.

“Patience, Erik, slow down,” Mama Dalma moves some of his dreads from his face, “Feel her heartbeat...yuh feel that? Yuh hear it slowing up? Deh is what yuh want to look for. When yuh feedin’ yuh must never take deh last breath or it will draw yuh in and yuh will drop out. If yuh plan on feeding yuh have to learn how to do it without killing dem, yuh know?”

Isabella’s cries grew fainter and fainter. Yvette was staring her in the eyes, watching the life drain from her body. Tears of fear fell from Yvette’s eyes and a hand came up to cover her mouth so she wouldn’t scream. She didn’t understand what she was witnessing before her eyes.

“Good job, Big up yourself,” Mama Dalma congratulates Erik on properly feeding from his victim, “Now, yuh may finish her off.”

Erik didn’t need to be told twice. He sank his fangs deeper, ripping the flesh from her neck, and in a matter of seconds, Isabella was lifeless. Erik retracted his fangs before dropping her body to the floor with a loud thud. Her blood was much better than her mother’s, it tasted like cinnamon apples. He could easily tell Isabella and her mother apart from their bodily odor, down to their blood types.

“Now, appreciate yuh prey,” Mama Dalma smashes Isabella’s head like a watermelon with her bare foot, “Deh are food, and only food.” She reminds a newborn Erik.

“More,” Erik says while the blood of his victims electrified his body.

“There’s one more,” Mama Dalma points her sharp black claw nail at Yvette, “She’s a pretty one too...I bet she tastes better,” Mama Dalma says with a honeyed voice.

The echo-sensitivity of Erik’s hearing is what made him notice Yvette. When his eyes landed on hers and his nose sniffed the air she openly cried, her hands flailing and pretty face stained with tears. His sheer speed made it impossible for Yvette to escape. Erik picks Yvette up by her neck and slams her against the wall, grabbing her chin to aggressively turn her head so that he could have access to her neck, or, another area…

“Mwen...Mwen...bèl, Mwen,” His eyes are glued to the copious amount of cleavage she has spilling over the top of her dress. Her skin was translucent to him and he could see her veins and arteries contracting and pushing blood throughout her. Then, Erik could hear her heart like ritual drums pounding his ears. She smelled so...good. Her scent was like Heliotropes with their vivid purple beauty that reminded Erik of cherry pie.

“Tanpri, pa touye m’. Mwen ansent!!!” She pleaded and shook with fear, “Mwen gen yon ti bebe k ap grandi andedan mwen!!” She couldn’t look Erik in his killer eyes.

Erik retracted his fangs, his eyes tearing away from Yvette’s cleavage with great restraint. He lets go of Yvette walking away to control himself. Yvette slides down the wall to the floor clutching her belly. She trembled as she cried. Erik clenched his fists, trying his best to control his breathing and his temptations to drain her dry.

“Erik? Wuh are yuh doing?!!!” Mama Dalma spoke with rage, speeding over to Erik and standing in front of him, “Yuh stopped...why did Yuh do deh?!” Mama Dalma was hysterical.

“Not dis one,” Erik spoke with a low trembling voice, “She’s pregnant.”

Mama Dalma tilted her head up at Erik before grabbing his chin roughly, causing her sharp nails to sink into the flesh of his cheeks, drawing blood,“Yuh came here to feed, right? Wat a gwaan? Yuh killed the other two just fine. Yuh can’t have remorse, it’s not in our nature.”

“I can’t do it,” Erik moves his head away from Mama Dalma’s grip, “There has to be another way, I can’t-I can’t kill her.”

Mama Dalma’s eyes were scornful on Erik. He didn’t cower under her gaze because he knew she wouldn’t kill him, she needed him, that much Erik could tell.

Mama Dalma closes her eyes with a shake of her head, “Yuh queff dem whites...Yuh need to glamour this one then, wipe her memory.”

Erik’s eyes narrowed with confusion.

“It's a form of hypnosis. Come, I’ll show Yuh.”

Both Mama Dalma and Erik dash to Yvette causing her to scream. Erik places a hand over her mouth to calm her but it wasn’t working. Mama Dalma rolls her eyes with frustration, preferring to kill her but Erik did need to learn how to glamour his victims.

“Alright, now, stare into her eyes.”

Erik locks eyes with Yvette.

“Keep eye contact...yes...now, yuh will feel yourself invading her mind...when yuh feel that connection, hold it with all Yuh might. Now...use your voice to compel her to do wuh yuh want her to do...now try.”

Erik felt tethered to Yvette’s mind. It was hard to hold on but Erik pushed himself to keep Yvette under his control. He liked the challenge and if this was going to be his life he needed to do it right the first time. That was the perfectionist in him, even as Ricardo Dupoux.

“...I’m going to release ya mouth now….” Erik spoke calmly and carefully. Yvette didn’t make a sound as Erik’s hand left her mouth. She stared at him with a dazed expression like she was in a dream-like state.

“Tell me, what’s ya name, girl?” Erik asks.

“Yvette,” She spoke with reverie.

“Yvette...ya very lucky tonight. Ya get to leave dis plantation and never look back. Ya can find ya family, and be free with ya babies,” Erik smiles with his blood stained lips and deep charming dimples causing Yvette to smile.

“I can finally see my mama?” even in a stupor, Yvette couldn’t fight the tears of joy falling from her eyes.

“Yeah, ya can go to ya mama. Ya won’t remember wut happened here tonight, ya never even saw me, or her,” Erik reaches out to stroke Yvette’s face. She leaned into his touch while staring at him like she was stuck in a daydream.

“Now, I’m gonna let ya go now, girl. Forget this plantation, just keep going and don’t look back, ya hear me?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good girl, now, go on, love, leave and never, ever look back.” Erik stressed while holding the eye contact he had with her. Yvette blinked her pretty chocolate brown eyes at him like she was under a love spell, “Say, yes sir so I know you understand what I’m telling ya to do.”

“Yes sir,” Yvette says with a nod of her head. Erik left her in suspended animation while Yvette lifted from the floor, gathering the front of her dress, and walking out of the room. She was gone.

“Yuh gonna tell mi wuh happened back dere?”

Erik turned to Mama Dalma and she was on him in a flash, slamming him to the floor hard and breaking the floorboards beneath him. His fangs extended and he hissed at her with his dark eyes unblinking on her. Mama Dalma’s hands are a blur as she holds Erik down with his arms above his head. She hissed in his face harder, her fangs inches away from biting a hole through his pouty bottom lip.

“Yuh enjoy misbehaving I see. Let me tell yuh something,” She spoke with venom, “I am Yuh maker, I created yuh, and I can take Yuh life away,” She snaps her fingers before dragging her hand down his body to his crotch, squeezing his erection hard, “Just...like...deh, do yuh understand? I command yuh, I have a link to Yuh body and when I call on yuh...yuh come to mama,” She whispered before pushing off of him with great speed, standing above him.

“Retract yuh fangs,” She says. Erik glared at her on that floor, disobeying her yet again.

“As yuh maker, I COMMAND YUH TO RETRACT YUH FANGS...NOW!” Her voice boomed.

Erik retracted them without any more trouble.

“Good boy,” She says, “Now get up. I’m not finished feedin’.”

_______________

There are rows of Cajun homes within New Orleans that belonged to many white people. Some were plantations, others were of regular architecture. Mama Dalma and Erik have been feeding all night and it would be dawn soon in a couple of hours. Since Tia has already killed the men that attempted to kill Erik, Erik seeked revenge on their families. They couldn’t walk into the homes unless they were invited which is what got them inside of the Guidry plantation. An elder house negro named Mabel invited them inside when Mama Dalma persuaded her. As soon as Mama Dalma and Erik stepped into the home, Mama Dalma killed Mabel by draining her blood through her throat.

Mama Dalma made Erik glamor each white person that owned the homes so they could invite them inside to kill them. Bloody footprints made a trail up the road to each and every home. Children, mothers, and fathers all lay in a bloody pile for the flies to swarm them. It was sensual and addictive to feed from his victims. He didn’t feel sexual attraction towards them, especially the racists whites all over New Orleans, but the tastier the blood, the harder his dick became. His mortal life was becoming an afterthought, especially with what happened at the Guidry plantation. He couldn’t bring himself to kill Yvette, even as a newborn, because she was pregnant. Her fear and her words made him think about Justine Dupoux; his wife, and his two little girls, Rose Fabiola Dupoux and Felicie Ines Dupoux.

With Dawn approaching, Mama Dalma and Erik are simply walking through the bayou, dried blood on their skin from head to toe. Mama Dalma tells Erik the story of how she was created. A mob of pirates came looking for her to kill her because of a curse she placed on them. They hunted her down and each of them took turns raping and stabbing her to death. She was coughing up her own blood in her shack in Cuba similar to the one she has in New Orleans. Just minutes later, a handsome vampr with smooth bronze skin, a broad and hooked nose, thick curly hair, and a tall, slender frame cane upon her. He said he had traveled from the Eastern Desert that extends from the Nile Valley all the way to the Red Sea Coast. He was stunned by Mama Dalma’s bravery and beauty, so he granted her the gift of immortality.

Erik impressed Mama Dalma for his thirst for things. She, however, knew that Erik was going to be trouble since he’s not used to taking orders from anyone. Within their walk in the remaining hours of darkness, Mama Dalma taught Erik all about the world of a vampire and its history from what her maker shared with her. As for Erik’s new powers, he was beside himself with the pleasure of it all. He will live forever, he is strong and unstoppable, and he can hypnotize people at will. One downside to it all was that he was going to miss the feeling of the sun on his skin, releasing endorphins such as serotonin; proven to improve mood, and energy, and increase feelings of calm and focus. Another downside stood before his eyes right now. Erik didn’t mean to come here.

Hiding in the trees, Erik stares at his old home. It was a beautiful forest retreat surrounded by green. He remembers building this home from the ground up. Focusing his eyes, Erik can see an oil lamp ignited in the small window of the living room. Just beyond the glass, Justine could be seen praying with Erik’s mother, Fabiola. He could hear them calling on the spirits for help to bring Erik back to them. Rose and Felicie are sound asleep in their beds. Erik can hear their soft breaths. He couldn’t stop thinking about all the times he would enter that home, kicking off his riding boots and sneaking up on his wife while she sewed their daughters clothing, placing a delicate kiss to her neck before trailing those kisses down to his wife’s copious cleavage. He could almost feel her curves against his solid frame. Then, the smell of his daughter's hair; a lavender scent. They were always so happy to see him.

“Come on, we’ve stayed long enough,” Mama Dalma says with a hand to Erik’s shoulder, “A vampire's life is a life of discretion.”

“Discretion?” Erik looks down at Mama Dalma as his eyes become glossy before they leaked bloody tears, “Why must we hide, Mama Dalma? We are da powerful, we are da immortal, we should walk fearless in da open,” Erik spoke with a raucous voice. He didn’t like that he had to leave his family behind. Stopping here to see his home one final time was a grave mistake.

“Deh cannot be, mi child,” Mama Dalma wipes away Erik’s bloody tears with her fingers, slipping them into her mouth to clean off, “Mortals must never know bout’ us for deh sake of our kind-

“So I can never know my family?!!!” Erik’s voice was thick with emotion.

“Not unless yuh plan on killing all of dem. Yuh have to cut out, Erik,” She steps closer to him, her eyes more serious, “Yuh must be dead to deh world.”

“I can’t accept dat,” He steps away.

“As yuh maker, I command yuh to leave yuh family behind.”

Erik’s body felt like it was being controlled just from those words alone. Mama Dalma starts walking away, and Erik has no other choice but to follow her while bloody tears stained his cheeks.

“Yuh will do nothing but feed and feed until yuh are satisfied. We are savages, it is time for yuh to understand deh...I am sick of repeating myself wit yuh,” Mama Dalma scolds, “Now, let us go to ground until tomorrow night, I’m craving infant blood,” Mama Dalma wickedly laughs while twirling around in a state of euphoria, her hands playing in her dreadlocks, “I know where deh newborn nursery is at Charity Hospital!! Nice, plump babies!!!”

Tia Dalma is the epitome of vampiric evil and malice, all because of her abusive, cold-hearted, and manipulative maker named Abasi. Abasi and Tia traveled all over from South America, Africa, Europe, and North America.Together, Abasi using Tia’s abilities to seduce and entice men and women, he lured them into his clutches, thereby raping and murdering countless men and women then mutilating their bodies. Abasi created a sadistic vampire. Erik has yet to see what Mama Dalma is capable of and she couldn’t wait to transform him into a male version of herself, just as cruel, limitless, sadistic, and torturous.

____________________

It is the year 1891, three years after Erik Stevens was made vampr. Mama Dalma and Erik often traveled to the French Quarter, also known as Vieux Carré and Barrio Francés. Anglophone Americans and Francophone Creoles would meet and do business in both French and English. It was a big tourist destination. There are multi-story Creole townhouses with businesses occupying ground floors and living quarters above. There were railroad tracks, warehouses, and industries built near the riverfront. Some wealthy Quarter residents relocated to Esplanade Avenue and North Rampart Street when things became overcrowded. Here, Mama Dalma and Erik felt most alive at night. It’s been a while since Erik came to the French Quarter.

The old Lalaurie mansion that was burned down by a mob in 1834 and remodeled in 1838 is used as a public school for girls. Evening parades with drunken civilians who engaged in sex and violence thrilled Mama Dalma and Erik. There is a luxury hotel that Mama Dalma and Erik often decide to bombard and take the riches from the wealthy whites after draining them. Erik especially loved to steal three piece lounge suits and polished shoes for himself from local shops. He looked dapper with the slim fit, always wearing his jackets partially undone to reveal the high buttoning waistcoats and watch-chain. He didn’t bother buttoning his shirt since he preferred it to be open to show off his defined pectorals and sculpted eight pack. He still dawned the Vodou jewelry he adored so much.

Mama Dalma is a confident woman who screams sex. She often wore long, sheer gowns that gave you a view of her nudity. She wore heavy jewelry like Erik and dark makeup that made her inky black eyes pop. She was determined to fuck Erik, waiting patiently for him to finally accept his new life. It took him over a year to freely accept being a vampire. He never talked about his family again which made Mama Dalma very happy, especially if he was going to be her lover. It was his compelling eyes, his remarkable body, his voice, the way he fed on his victims, how his dick would thicken and leave an enormous bulge that she wanted nothing more but to ride, suck, and nibble on with her fangs. She noticed the way women; white and black, looked at him. She noticed a lot of traits in his new vampire body. Erik is calculating, disobedient because he didn’t like to be told what to do and when to do it, seductive, calm and methodical unless pushed towards a lethal violence with surprising strength for a newborn.

One evening, Mama Dalma and Erik visit a brothel, posing as a wealthy black couple. The prostitutes of the brothel were a mixture of races; French Creoles, Spanish, Haitian Creoles, African Americans, White Americans, and the list goes on. It’s been three years since Erik had sex with a woman. He would often lure and seduce them to kill them or feed but not to have sex. Seeing all of the half naked women offering themselves to him stirred something within him that he hadn’t felt since his wife. He could never see them again so there was no use in denying himself of what he craved besides drinking blood. Mama Dalma sensed his struggle and decided to let Erik have some fun while she watched, that is, until she intervenes.

Erik chose a beautiful African American girl named Althea who physically reminded him of his wife; short, curves in all the right places, and lips so round and full he wondered how good they tasted. She wore tight, barely curls in her hair and Victorian lingerie with a corset in a peach color. She looked timid, constantly staring at her bare feet to avoid Erik’s piercing black eyes. Just simply extending his hand for her to grasp made her gasp. When Erik took her to a room draped in red velvet with fancy suede red furniture lit by an electric lantern, he informed her that Mama Dalma simply wanted to watch them have sex. This poor girl Althea didn’t know what was coming to her. Mama Dalma took a seat in a corner, removing her long coat and revealing her sheer gown underneath.

“I’ve never done dis before...having a woman watch me,” Althea whispered nervously.

“Just act like she’s not even there, girl,” Erik kisses down Althea’s neck, “Ya like da way I kiss?”

“Yes,” Althea gasps when Erik’s tongue snakes down her neck to her cleavage, “Ya sure love to lick my skin, Sir,” Althea laughs nervously. She couldn’t keep her eyes off of Mama Dalma.

“Ya smell just like honey,” Erik drags his nose along Althea’s skin, “I bet ya taste like honey too, girl...right here,” Erik says while rubbing her pussy lips through her lingerie.

“Please,” Althea lays back in the bed, “ya so handsome, I need ya to fuck me.”

Mama Dalma brings her hand down between her legs, resting her fingers over her curly pubic hair. Wet wasn’t even the word to describe how slick her folds are. Watching Erik undress Althea made her fangs extend on its own. Luckily, she’s in the shadows and Althea can’t see. Erik used one had to rip Althea’s corset and lingerie from her body, causing her to moan from his aggressiveness. Althea has nice big, round breasts with dark chocolate areolas and nipples. Mama Dalma could only imagine how it must feel to sink her teeth into all that flesh.

“Goddamn, girl,” Erik practically rips his shirt from his body followed by his waistcoat, trousers, and shoes. Althea couldn’t believe the body before her was real. She touched Erik with intriguing eyes filled with so much desire they began to water.

“What a beautiful man,” Althea expresses, “What are ya?”

“Ya Master,” Erik gives Althea a wicked smile, “And da one dat plans on making ya cum,” He licks his lips before leaning forward to suck on Althea’s nipples.

Her heart rate banged in his ears and the constant pulse coming from her veins and arteries was driving him insane. He was extremely hungry and after three years of being a vampire his control became better. His fangs didn’t extend prematurely anymore, now, Erik could control it. Althea’s sweet moans made his fat dick cast iron hard. He quickly drags his lips down Althea’s body while she grabs a fist full of his long, slender dreadlocks. Erik wasted no time while bringing Althea’s legs up and out, causing her to whimper. The smell of her inner folds was what caused his fangs to extend. Althea heard it and lifted to try and see but Erik held her down with a single hand around her throat while he vigorously lapped at her pussy. Pussy. He forgot how amazing it tasted but with his heightened senses he had to be licking grains of sugar.

“Oh, yes, oh God, yes,” Althea was gripping the sheets while struggling to breath from Erik’s strong hand around her neck, “Yes, Master, eat my pussy like dat.”

Mama Dalma was rubbing her clit in a circular motion with her razor sharp eyes focused on the way Erik’s tongue would lick Althea’s pussy. That thick, pink tongue would flick Althea’s clit up and down and then he would occasionally move that muscle side to side up and down Althea’s inner folds. She was nice and engorged down there, her hips constantly jerking like she wanted to shower Erik with her liquid. The minute Erik’s full lips wrapped around Althea’s clit and labia, Mama Dalma slips three fingers into her pussy to stroke herself. Althea couldn’t handle it. Mama Dalma however would have taken that sweet torture like a champion.

“Unh! Unh! I’m cumming! Master, I’m cumming!”

Althea’s hips levitated off of the bed and Erik followed her movements with his lips still sucking on her clit.

“Jesus,” Mama Dalma whispers, “Yuh tore deh girl up, Erik...her pussy is nice and wet now.”

Erik’s lips slowly pulled off of Althea’s clit to place kisses along her inner thighs. He licked with a circular motion to make her shiver before sinking her teeth into her thigh. Althea screams, yanking Erik’s dreadlocks. Her entire body spasms beneath him, soft whimpers escaping her mouth. She didn’t understand what was going on. Erik retracted his fangs before licking her blood up that constantly leaked. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before kneeling between Althea’s legs with his dick in hand. Althea watched him clutch that long pipe before bringing her knees back further.

“It’s so big,” She says with a stunned voice, her hands holding her pussy lips open now with desperation, “ya fucking me wit dat?” She was nervous and aroused at the same time.

“All of dat,” he leans over Althea’s body, his dick in one hand and his other hand wrapped around her curly strands. Erik rubbed the wide tip of his dick against her clit before slowly entering Althea. She let out ragged breaths with her mouth unhinged. Erik licked and kissed all over Althea’s neck all while his hips were pistoning in and out of Althea’s pussy. The entire bed would moved, the brass headboard banging against the wall covered in elegant ornate French Victorian wallpaper that is a black and red color.

“Fuck, dis pussy is so tight,” He whispers.

“It’s so much dick, Master, so much dick!!!!” Althea pushes at Erik’s chest but he wasn’t going anywhere, “Jesus! it is filling me up!! unh, FUCK!”

“Ya better take all dis dick I’m giving ya girl,” He whispered to her, “Don’t run from me, I’ll hold ya down and fuck ya some more.”

Mama Dalma moaned from his words before bringing her fingers to her mouth to taste herself. With her spit covered fingers she rubs her clit, bringing one leg up so she could have a better reach. She could only imagine the pleasure Althea was experiencing. The more Erik fucked her the more possessive Mama Dalma became. Althea was taking all that dick, dick that belonged to Mama Dalma. Erik’s stroke was dangerous. The muscles in his back rippled and flexed each time he entered Althea.

“Ya making me cum again!” Althea twisted her head to the side, tears falling from her eyes, and moaning into the pillow beneath her, “UNH GOD!”

Erik’s inky black irises dilated when he saw Althea’s jugular vein protrude from her neck. While stroking her, Erik takes a single finger to trace her vein before extending his fangs from simply flexing his jaw, startling her by coming down on her with speed, his teeth sinking right into her vein. Like a pipe bursting, Althea’s blood spilled into Erik’s mouth. His eyes rolled and the grip he had on her hair became painful and uncomfortable. Her screams turned into scared cries as her hands attempted to push him off of her.

“Yes, feed, mi child!!! take her blood!!!” Mama Dalma felt overwhelming joy and lust instead of a building orgasm since she is the undead. Mama Dalma sucked the lubrication from her fingers before speeding over to the bed. She moves Erik’s dreadlocks out of the way so she could sink her teeth into Althea’s right breast. The fleshy area was like a cushion for Mama Dalma’s lips while she fed off of her. Althea could do nothing but cry. Erik continues to fuck her until his body tingled and the same overwhelming lust that Mama Dalma felt blasted through him. It was strange and intriguing to not ejaculate but still very powerful like an orgasm. It hit him so hard that the hand in Althea’s hair yanked some of her strands out. Blood began to soak the sheets and Althea’s body soon became lifeless.

“FUCK,” Erik stares at Althea’s dead body. Her blood was so rich and sweet Erik couldn’t help but to lick and suck on his fingers. His dick was standing straight up and pointed out with deep veins and a tight sack.

“I’m gonna suck and fuck deh sweet dick so good, Erik,” Mama Dalma grabs Erik’s dick, her fingers barely touching, “Oooh, it’s so damn thick.”

“I bet ya been wanting to suck dis dick for a long time...wut took ya so long? Huh?” He says with a sly smirk.

“Eva since I first laid eyes on yuh.”

Mama Dalma forces Erik to the bed with her superior strength. Erik’s fangs retracted instantly when Mama Dalma started stroking his dick. Erik hisses while taking his strong hand to rip Mama Dalma’s dress to shreds, revealing her toned body with small breasts. Mama Dalma lowered her head between Erik’s legs and with her superhuman strength and stamina, Mama Dalma tightened her jaws and bobbed her head expertly to fill her entire throat with his dick. She would suck him all the way down to the base and back up.

“Fuck, kenbe souse m’tankou sa,” Erik closes his eyes, “sa kaka santi li tèlman bon,” He spoke gruffly between moans. He was telling Mama Dalma how good it felt and that she needed to keep sucking on him. Erik felt a pinprick on the side of his shaft that made him bite down on his pouty bottom lip, drawing blood. Mama Dalma was tasting the blood from the throbbing and protruding veins of his meaty length. Erik instantly healed from her bite.

“Yuh are one sexy man, Erik, and yuh are mine. I always get wuh I want. I will take it by force if I have to. Deh dick is mine, yuh hear me? Alllllllllll Mine.”

Mama Dalma couldn’t be stopped the more she gave Erik fellatio. Suck long, suck hard, and suck often. That’s exactly what she will do every chance she gets. With Erik’s newfound strength, his dick was practically impenetrable; unyielding; tremendously solidified. That pleasure stick will have Mama Dalma feeling intimacy stronger than she ever did in her early vampire life. It was different at first for Mama Dalma to be sexual but not in a reproductive way. Since discovering Erik, she felt the strongest sexual lust in her 175 years of being a vampire. Mama Dalma mounted Erik speedily, grabbing his dick at the base before lowering herself on him.

None of the sex is quite as good as vampire sex, though, which can happen at the astonishing rhythm of 120 bpm while simultaneously devouring one’s neck and making your eyes roll back into your head. If they go from a base level, vampires create a hole in the neck where there wasn’t one before. It’s a devirginization—breaking the hymen, creating blood and then drinking the virginal blood. And there’s something sharp, the fang, which is probing and penetrating and moving into it which is pretty sexy.

As she bounced on his dick Erik fed from her neck, tasting the very blood that heightened the feeling like ecstasy. His strong, powerful hips met hers in sort of a race to see who was in charge. Mama Dalma clawed at Erik’s chest with her sharp nails, creating deep claw marks that healed instantly. Her nimble body moved at a swift speed above Erik causing him to grip her hips to try and keep her in place. They were fucking so hard and fast that the bed banged against the floor loudly. The mind-blowing passion was most exhilarating while feeding. It’s not simply “feeding” but it’s sex, breathing, having the best dinner you’ve ever had, feeling the life force of another filling you and making your flagging essence re-surge with vitality. It bolstered your sense of well-being as well as gave life to your body, mind, and demon spirit.

The sensation of feeding is akin to an orgasm, but even more powerfully so in some instances, particularly when properly hungry, which is why stopping can be an issue for vampires. That’s what Erik was experiencing. He lets out a guttural rasp, gasping for air until Mama Dalma finally stops. Erik sucked on her nipples and trailed kisses all over her flesh before forcing her head down so he could nibble on her lips with his fangs. Her moans were stuck in her throat the more Erik fed from her lips. She couldn’t get enough of it, and neither could he.

_____________________

After three months of torture, kill, and sex, Erik became concerned for his family’s welfare when a pox epidemic broke out. Just when he was finally accepting his vampire life, Erik was soon reminded of his mortal family and how they must be struggling to survive. Maybe the faith of the Vodou Religion kept them stable but this epidemic was killing hundreds of people. After Mama Dalma and Erik had sex at their home in the shack, Mama Dalma went to ground earlier and that gave Erik an opportunity to check in on his family. He speeds over to his forest home, peeking through the trees to see how things were. It was dark inside, almost lifeless. Erik became afraid and made the risky choice to approach the home. Out in the clearing now, Erik walked towards the home, nervous and afraid for his family to see him like this.

“Ricardo?! Ricardo se ke ou?!”

It was Justine, standing on the porch wearing a poor Victorian style dress made from cotton with her hair wrapped in a tigon. She looked exhausted with dark circles under her eyes. She was 30-years-old now, and his daughters would be 8-years-old. Fabiola’s birthday had just passed in August, she turned 56-years-old. All of the time had slipped away. Living as a vampire, time wasn’t important with the exception of when dawn was approaching. Justine had lost weight, her fullness that Erik loved no longer there.

“Kote ou te ye?!!” She yells while running down the front steps to their home. She wrapped her arms around Erik’s neck, pulling him down into a tight, suffocating hug. Erik’s nose landed in her hair and it smelled earthy, floral, sweet, and relaxing. This was the scent he remembered. It took all of his will power not to sink his teeth into her neck. They stayed like that for some time while she weeped into his cotton shirt.

“Ti fi Yo? Manman m?” Erik asks, pulling Justine away by her upper arms so that he could look at her. He asked where the girls and his mother were. Justine broke down crying again, her knees buckling. Erik held her tightly while a crease formed in his brow.

“Ricardo, ou ta dwe retounen!!!! Poukisa ou kite nou!!!!” Justine attempted to push Erik over and over but he wasn’t moving.

Hearing Justine refer to him as Ricardo felt strange. He almost forgot that was his birth name.

“I had to leave...for ya safety...dem white men would have killed all of ya.” Erik squeezed her tightly to calm her down.

“Fabiola...li mouri.” Justine’s voice was barely audible when she told him the news. Erik felt like he was dying all over again. Fabiola was dead.

“How?” He asks, holding back his tears.

“Fever... a year ago... couldn’t save her...she died in her sleep,” Justine’s words halted as she began to cry again, “Her last dyin’ wish was to see ya again but ya never came back!” Justine looked at him like she was looking at a stranger, “Ya look so different, Ricardo.”

“Da girls, Justine, I want to see dem,” Erik says.

“Ya too late,” Justine fought for oxygen in his arms.

Erik’s eyes grew wide and he stormed past Justine and into the house. There, lying in a coffin, was Rose Fabiola Dupoux and Felicie Ines Dupoux. They are dressed in cotton gowns, one purple and one pink with floral crowns and white dress shoes. Their coily hair is long and luscious, even in death. The last time he saw them they were five years old, running through the little garden in their yard, playing hide-n-seek. They were covered in pox that left nasty scars on their beautiful melanin skin. Erik couldn’t stop the bloody tears that began to flow. He walked up to their wooden coffins, his hands reaching out to touch them. Erik dropped to his knees, loud, uncontrollable sobs filling the room as his body shook.

“I tried, Ricardo...dere was nothin’ I could do,” Justine kneeled by his side, resting her head against his shoulder, “Dese precious girls…I prayed to Papa Ghede for help but nothing worked. I’ve exhausted all of my tears…I accept dat dem girls have to go...Marie is dead, ya mother is dead...I had no one to turn to.”

Erik stands, walking up to each of his daughters to place a final kiss to their heads. He felt disgusting. If he wouldn’t have chosen this life, he would have been here for his daughters, he would have been here for mother, and he would have been here to comfort his grieving wife. He couldn’t begin to understand what Justine was going through. She assumed that Erik had perished when he left their home to go with Augusto. Justine clings to Erik so tightly she was afraid he would slip through her fingers. Erik tried to hide his face from her but Justine’s delicate fingers smoothed his dreads from his face so that she could give him a kiss. It’s been three years.

“Ricardo, ya so cold,” She says before her eyes fell upon the bloody tears spilling from his eyes. Frightened, Justine practically leaps away from him before grabbing a shotgun that used to be Erik’s. She pointed it at Erik’s back with her shaky hands before cocking the gun.

“Who are ya?! Wut did ya do with my husband? Ya not Ricardo, ya are a demon!!!! A zombie!!!” Ricardo turns, his hands up in surrender. The blood tears made him look like a monster.

“Justine, it’s me...it’s Ricardo,” Erik walks towards her, “I won’t hurt ya. I just wanted to check on ya to make sure everything was fine. I can’t stay, not like dis-

“DON’T COME ANY CLOSER!!!” Justine yells, “I WILL SHOOT YA!!!”

“Justine-

Pop!

Justine shoots Erik in the chest. He stumbles back with disbelief that she just shot him before his eyes went down to stare at his wound. The bullet wound healed immediately causing the bullet fragments to fall on the floor. Justine drops the gun, screaming at the top of her lungs while running towards the door.

“Justine! Wait!” Erik was right on her tail but his maker, Mama Dalma unexpectedly appeared at the door. She grabs Justine, pulling her towards her and holding her hostage with her hands, yanking the tigon from her head and grabbing her by her hair, pushing her down to her knees. Erik’s fangs extended, ready to attack Mama Dalma. Justine gawked at the sight of his fangs. She was ready to scream but Mama Dalma brought her to her feet speedily, wrapping a single hand around her neck.

“If yuh so much as scream, I will rip yuh throat out,” She spoke between clenched teeth before showing Justine her fangs, “I don’t care if yuh are Ricardo’s wife or not, I will FUCKIN’ kill yuh.” Mama Dalma snarled in Justine’s face, scaring her half to death. Justine was paralyzed with fear.

“Tia, let her go...now,” Erik says as anger stirred within him.

“Yuh planned on leaving mi? Erik?”

Panic surged through Justine, “Erik?! Who is Erik?!”

“Yuh hear deh? She wants to know who Erik is…tell her, Erik, tell her who deh is,” The corners of her mouth quirked up into an evil smile, “TELL HER!!!!”

“I’m Erik, Justine,” Erik spoke to Justine but his eyes were focused on Mama Dalma.

“So, if yuh Erik, why would Yuh come back after I told Yuh not to? Dis isn’t yuh life anymore. When yuh left yuh home that night, yuh left Ricardo behind.”

“I-I don’t understand,” Justine’s stomach clenched.

“Of course yuh wouldn’t understand, child, it’s alright, yuh won’t see Erik anymore after dis...Erik, yuh know wuh yuh have to do, right?”

“Tia-

“DO IT. It’s either deh, or I kill her.”

“I can’t do dat to her-

“So killin’ her is better? Fine,” Tia was on Justine fast, Feeding on her viciously from her neck. Justine’s throat tightened and she could no longer scream.

“STOP!” Erik speeds over to Mama Dalma only for her to push him off of the porch. Erik fell painfully against the ground.

“AS YUH MAKER-

“ENOUGH!!!” Erik yelled so loud his voice could probably be heard a mile away, “Awrite, I’ll do it...I’ll glamor her.”

Tia drops Justine carelessly, “See? Wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Justine’s body felt numb and the blood froze in her veins. Erik approached her, his eyes locking with hers, holding her gaze before finally connecting with her brain. Justine was transfixed under Erik’s spell. He tried to hold back his tears but they disobeyed him.

“Justine,” Erik strokes her face with his fingertips, “Ya never saw me, ya never saw her, I am dead, have been for da past three years. Ya will move on with ya life, start a new one hopefully because ya deserve it.”

“Yes,” Justine’s pensive eyed saddened Erik.

“Now, I want ya to go on upstairs and get some rest. Rose and Felicie will be buried in da St. Louis Cemetery. Ya can go visit dem anytime ya want.”

“I’d like that,” Justine says.

“I know, baby,” Erik kisses her forehead. He brings his fingertip to one of his fangs, pricking it before bringing it down to the bite mark on her neck, rubbing his blood into the wound to heal it, “Everything will be just fine.”

Erik stared at Justine one final time before she stood up, walking into the house and up the stairs. Erik’s temper sparked again when he noticed Mama Dalma smiling like the entire thing was a joke.

“If you would have killed her, I would have ripped ya fucking head off,” Erik says.

“With what strength more than mine? Yuh can be angry all yuh please but dis needed to be done. Now, yuh have no reason to come back here.”

“Ya evil, ya have no remorse, I’m exactly like ya. Didn’t care to check on my family, I let my manman die, my babies die, Nothin’ will change dat.” Erik was defeated.

“Like I told Yuh, yuh are a vampire now. Deh won’t EVER understand deh. Keep this up, and yuh will end up dead. If anotha vampire catches yuh acting weak deh will make an example out of yuh. It’s okay...I have a lot more to teach yuh. Now, let’s bury deh babies and leave for good. Deh is deh last time I’m telling yuh.”

“Erik Stevens,” A single bloody tear fell from Erik’s eye.

“When yuh bury deh babies, yuh burying Ricardo Dupoux. As yuh maker, I command yuh to never come back here, and never go back to deh cemetery. Do yuh hear mi, child?”

Erik simply nods his head before walking into his old home to grab the coffins that held his deceased daughters. What this vampire life has in store for him Erik could only hope it would get better.

#killmonger smut #Erik Killmonger #black panther killmonger #vampire #nahimjustfeelingit-writes

264 notes · View notes

anamoon63 · 3 years

Text

E76. RETURN TO AURORA SKIES - Part 2

"Wait a minute. 'Baby Engineering'? Is that even possible?"

"It is possible in the Future. You just donate your DNA, they combine it with another one from a volunteer and... well, it's a complicated process. Believe me if I had known you before, I would've never resorted to such thing. But I was desperate back then so I signed a contract with the labs".

"Can't you cancel it?"

"I tried, but the process had already started. I'm sorry, Ann, the last thing I wanted was to complicate our lives like this".

"And what are you going to do now?"

"Well, there isn't much I can do, except that I'll have to take care of the baby".

"You'll have to?"

"I mean, I don't have to adopt him, but I'm required to support him. And... I must accommodate the volunteer during her pregnancy".

"Accommodate her, you mean in your house?"

"I know it doesn't sound good, but those are the rules".

Ann was angry for a few days, during which she hardly talked to Robin. She didn't know what to make of the situation. What if Robin was lying and such labs didn't exist? What if he didn't have a "volunteer" but another wife in the Future? After all he traveled there a lot. But if he was cheating on her, why would he tell her all this? Wouldn't it be easier to keep it a secret? Besides, Robin wasn't a liar, he had always told her everything about the Future, so he was probably telling the truth this time too.

"Alright, I believe you and forgive you, on the condition that this issue does not interfere with our marriage".

"It won't, I assure you. Everything's gonna be fine, you'll see".

"I hope so, 'cause I have something to tell you too. It's good news".

"Oh, did you get a promotion?"

"Much better"

"..."

"I'm pregnant again!"

"W-what?"

"Yes, love, we're having another baby, aren't you happy?"

"Of course I am, but..."

"I thought we had enough with Jessie".

"Well I thought that, after having a girl, it would be lovely to have a boy too, don't you think?"

"S-Sure, but now I'll have three babies, counting the one with the volunteer, I mean". I'll have to work the triple to support them.

"And? Is that a problem? You just said that issue wouldn't interfere with us".

"And it's true, it's just..."

"Come on, Rob, say it'll be okay".

"It'll be fine. I'll just have to work a little more, it's no big deal. I will install the workshop here and I'll bring my two plumbots to help in the house and with Jessie".

"Then you are happy?"

"Yes, dear I'm very happy".

"What do I do now? I wanted a child, now I'll have three! True, I wanted a progeny, I still do. But it won't do any good to have a family if they won't make it to 2054. Now more than ever I must talk to Emit, I must make sure that Ann and all my children get to the Future alive".

"Robin? Are you sure it's alright?"

"Yes, dear, I am".

And he was... until he got a text message from Dustin, telling him they should talk about something urgent.

#the sims 3 #sims 3 simblr #into the future #aurora skies #time traveler #the crane legacy #robin crane #ann conners #los sims de ana #my sims 3 stories

6 notes · View notes

walkingshcdow-a · 3 years

Text

As some of you guys know, I RP with a FANTASTIC Blitzo on Discord and we were talking last night about our AMAZING AU (Blitzo and Stolas and their daughters go to Earth undercover to avoid Stella and her assassins and have to pose as a married couple with teenage daughters for everyone’s safety; Millie and Moxxie are next door, living their best lives. We’re so cool.) and Tis pointed something out to me I hadn’t noticed: Stolas’ official lore page says “fallen angel”. There are two possible candidates Tamiel and Rathaiel, who deal in astronomy. The page further goes on to describe his angelic form as being a very beautiful human with black hair and blue eyes. So, you know, gorgeous or w/e.

But we got talking about the universe at large and what things we believed are on track for the future of the series (and for its sister series) and what we would *rather* see and *why*. Here are seven HCs about Stolas, Hell, and maybe even a little bit of Heaven to give you an idea of what to expect from me. These apply only to my RP Stolas, not to general series predictions, so fanblogs, please do not interact.

The Goetic Demons are princes(ses) of Hell. This implies they were the ones who followed Lucifer in rebelling against God, which means they are angels. This leads not only to class disparity between Goetic Demons and native/colonized citizens of Hell (like imps, succubi, and hell hounds), but a racial component. Stella’s issue with Blitzo is then three-fold (at least): first, he is the man that her husband is having an affair with; secondly he is much lower class than the Goetias; lastly, imps are a different race (and possibly a different species, but different in the way that wolves and dogs are different species, since we discussed them as the progeny of Satan in the Wrath ring, and thus, (fallen) angel born.

)The Goetic Demons are fallen angels. Stolas’ form was that of an exceedingly beautiful man and when he rebelled against God, part of the punishment is not only separation from the holiest of holies, but separation from the physical identity he’d had since the start of creation. He has embraced his demon form - that of a giant, four eyed owl - because 1. He’s beautiful, especially in comparison to some of the other fallen angels and 2. There is no undoing* his choice to have fallen. This means, of course, that other Goetic demons are fallen angels (including Stella!) and that their children are full-blood angels, who cannot unlock their forms in Hell. Theoretically, this means Octavia is an angel who has not chosen to fall and could enter Heaven. (Theoretically. I still think the angels that are left to run the day-to-day operations of Hell are jerks, even if I disagree that God is corrupt in my take on this universe).

That asterisk? *It is possible for the fallen angels to gain redemption, but they don’t realize that. Some, like Lucifer, Satan, and Mammon might be beyond the pale, but Stolas? Stolas has reopened himself to giving unconditional love (to Octavia first; to Blitzo in our AU as things unfold and with other ship partners and friend characters here as time goes by) and has accidentally set himself on a path of redemption. Native denizens of Hell, such as imps and Hell Hounds, are capable of putting themselves on redemptive paths, too, but would not necessarily become angels (although I wonder if they *could*, since they are angel-made beings? I also imagine some subspecies of demon - which is more like a nationality than a common set of genetic traits - are primordial/elemental spirits, entirely separate from Heaven and Hell, drawn into the conflict only because they live there. This probably applies most to my Fae universe here on Tumblr. This makes me wonder if they can earn redemption, too.

God is not the corrupt one here. He’s overworked and stressed, a little depressed that his children (especially Lucifer) flipped him the bird and chose estrangement with him over staying in Heaven. He focuses his energy on earth and is a little unaware of the turmoil in Hell and in Heaven. If he knew units like CHERUB weren’t doing good things and were misconstruing his teachings, he’d be angry; if he knew that Charlie had essentially invented purgatory, he’d be proud of his granddaughter and try to help. And if he knew Stolas finally understood unconditional love for another person, he’d sit with him under a tree and dispense fatherly wisdom to him about being a father and tell him he was so proud of how Stolas is raising his daughter. *Heaven* is corrupt under the angels who have taken over since the rebellion. They don’t ever want the fallen angels to know they can regain their places in Heaven; they don’t want to give up their power.

Goetic demons and the princes of the realms retain some angelic powers. Stolas’ include portal-creation to anywhere in the universe(s). He took Octavia to a real dying solar system to let her know she would be safe with him (and with his love when he was gone). His grimoire contains the secret to doing that. The fact that Blitzo can open a portal makes me think that because he’s technically (fallen) angel spawn, the ability to use the book is not unique to Goetic demons, but to those with angelic heritage. Humans might not be able to use the magic, even if they tried for years and studied.

If fanon lore about angels that their wings/feathers are the most sensitive parts of their body, does it surprise anyone that Stolas is the way he is? The man is now covered in feathers!

Threads with human-shaped!Stolas are surreal to Stolas because it’s a funhouse mirror or his angelic form and he isn’t sure if he misses his demon form (which he’s grown fond of and used to) or if the gnawing in his chest is for reunion with his heavenly Father and heavenly self. It’s actually very stressful for him to be “human” for very long, but he won’t appear as a demon unless he wants to scare your muse or he’s very comfortable with them/their surroundings.

There was definitely more and there definitely will be more as I get comfortable RPing him

#;;i used to think that i was bold | {stolas}#;;headcanon | {stolas}#((fandom blogs dni))#((this is just for a semi private rp project and I'm not interested in Discourse))

8 notes · View notes

slightlyrebelliouswriter23 · 4 years

Text

We’re All Mad Here | Jurdan College AU

Summary: Ire is a thin blanket around us, an opaline veil that makes everything shimmer and sharpen with pristine clarity. I have never felt more alive as I do when I look at him, and feel nothing but hatred.

Rating: T

Content Warnings: Mild cursing. Minor mentions of anxiety, panic, murder.

Part I | Part II | AO3

Part III- Rival

He is hanging my shirt to dry on a shelf, high up where I can’t reach, weighting it down with two cans of coffee beans.

I stare at his back. The black fabric of his shirt pulls into ripples and waves as he moves. The sleeves are still rolled up past his elbows, exposing pale forearms and the creeping blue veins there.

In the front of the coffee shop, customers continue their prattling, spoons continue pinging against ceramic mugs. The espresso machine drones on. All of it sounds muffled from beyond the kitchen door.

In here, though, there is only the refrigerator’s low thrum and my raging heart loud in my ears.

Greenbriar. My mind reels. This man, my classmate—a Greenbriar progeny.

Namesakes of the city’s most prestigious university and beneficiaries of a mega-corporation called The Mab Group, the six children of Eldred Greenbriar are not quite heirs to all of Insmire, but they may as well be for how much power their name holds.

If the heir in front of me is in one of my mandatory lectures, he must also be in the same year as me. Which can only mean one thing.

I look up at him with renewed hatred.

He appraises me, taking up a casual stance leaning against the island countertop right across from where I sit. He crosses his arms and seems entirely unaffected by my serrated gaze. Which only makes me grit my teeth harder.

“You seem awfully quiet, Jude,” he says, voice made of velvet. “Have you pieced it together? Have you figured out who I am?”

I have to fight to keep my breath from going ragged, my hands from shaking. I grip the edge of the counter with a vengeance. It’s my only tether to sanity.

He brushes one knuckle across my whitened ones. They are nearly as white as his, now. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he says. The laugh that skitters from his lips is hushed and dry, like a centipede’s legs scraping as it scuttles through seared grass.

Out of every pompous prick in the Greenbriar line, the one who stands before me is by far the worst. And not just because he spilled coffee all over my only nice blouse—though that has certainly been added to the growing list of all the reasons why I hate him.

I have only ever seen his name on paper. A list tacked to a bulletin board outside the Politics and International Relations department. Three names, one from each year. His name instead of my own. For a year, that list has haunted me.

Cardan Greenbriar is known for his debauchery, not his intellect. He’s the kind of entitled that makes me want to paint the wall with his brains. And then my own. This, a kind approximation of his person, I’m sure.

Perhaps that’s why it hurt so much when he won Top Scholar last year. Perhaps that’s why I never learned his face—knowledge of it would only derail me from my goal.

“I have to say,” Cardan continues, “I’m disappointed it took you so long to deign to work it out.”

“Starved for attention, are we?” I hiss through my teeth.

Something I can’t quite decipher snaps across his face; but then it’s back to that cool veneer, and I wonder if I imagined it. One corner of his mouth tugs up.

“Figures,” I say, tearing my eyes away from his and towards the ceiling. Mostly to distract myself from that corner. “Your whole family seems to think the world revolves around them. I’m surprised you haven’t keeled over with the weight of my offence.”

“On the contrary. I find your not knowing me… refreshing.” He starts unrolling his shirt sleeves.

It is an exceedingly nice shirt for a day off. Come to think of it, all of his clothes are exceedingly nice. Gilded filigree triangles make the tips of his collar look dipped in gold. Between them, right where his top button should be, clings a black onyx brooch in the shape of a beetle.

I narrow my eyes. This is obviously a rouse of some sort. I think about how kind he acted before. His seemingly innocuous request to help get the stain out of my shirt. His sudden change in demeanour. There’s something missing, but I can’t figure out what. I don’t like it—this waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“What do you want with me?” I ask.

“The same thing you want with me, Jude,” he says, black tourmaline eyes unflinching. He buttons his cuffs. “I want to ruin you.”

I clench my jaw as his words soak in. My nostrils flare. My heartbeat is so wild in my chest I think I might die. Or be sick.

I want to tell him the feeling is absolutely mutual. I want to breathe fire and be livid and berate him for the crime of his family’s existence. I want to tell him to go fuck himself. But I know what will get under his skin most.

“I want nothing to do with you,” I say, sticking out my chin, defiant.

Cardan’s mouth splits into a hideous smile that must usually be reserved for the pillow and languorous mornings in bed. Though, I suppose for him, such mornings probably lie within the same realm of pleasure as tormenting enemies in the kitchens of what is apparently his coffee shop.

“Fortunately,” he says, pushing off the counter, “You won’t have anything to do with me much longer. I have a meeting.” He holds out a hand. I blink at him. “Jacket please.”

“Like hell,” I seethe, clutching at the lapels.

“Fine.” He drops his hand. “An interview without a statement piece wasn’t exactly what I had in mind for today. Though, I suppose it shouldn’t matter.” He straightens his collar, his black beetle brooch. “Dain will hire me regardless.”

Something sinks in my stomach like a stone. Dain.

Dain Greenbriar. CEO of the Silhouette Gazette, taking time out of his very busy schedule to interview today, and only today, for one coveted position amongst his team of interns. Dain Greenbriar, his brother and my would-be boss had I not been so foolishly diverted.

But I have been a fool. One look at Cardan tells me this. The spill, the innocent act, the plea to help me. It was all a ruse. Strung up and sutured by none other than the youngest Greenbriar, himself—and I, a much too eager victim.

He’s smirking and my face heats. Something roils right under my skin, white-hot. Just waiting to be unleashed.

So I unleash it.

I lunge. Across the countertop. I am diving, scrabbling, reaching.

Right for the knife block. Metal sings as I rip one free. A sound almost as glorious as the way it feels to angle a blade right at Cardan’s throat.

He braces his hands on the countertop behind him but does not lift a finger to defend himself.

I only see red, and the way he regards me cooly. A smirk juts the cliffs of his cheekbones. The steel I hold to his skin reflects his face so that I see it twofold. Even my own weapon taunts me.

He looks down his nose at me, despite being held at the peril of my blade. I know then what it is to loathe with my entire being.

“That internship is mine,” I tell him, my breath a jagged thing in my lungs.

“Looks unlikely, sunshine,” he says, and I want to scream. “What with you missing your interview and all.”

“Because of you, you snivelling little coward.” I press the knife’s edge flush against his throat. His eyes shutter. It’s the only surrender I get to savour before I am fixed with his stare once more.

“Ouch,” he mocks. “Not nice words.” Though he is smirking, his gaze glitters dangerously, as if he might murder me outright. Even though I’m the one with the knife.

“You took Top Scholar from me last year,” my voice quakes. Bile rises in my throat at the admission of it—my one and only failure. Until today, at least.

“Took?” His brows rise high and arrogant on his forehead. “I think I won that title from you, fair and square. Upset that someone bested you for once?”

“Please,” I scoff, indignant. “You’re a nefarious moneybags prick. Your family probably paid someone off.”

His laugh is surprised and derisive at once. “Nefarious moneybags prick,” he muses, giving me a full grin. “Now that, I have not heard before. Kind of a mouthful, though. Got any nicknames?”

I only lean in closer, pressing the knife harder. One slip of my hand and— “Give me your interview slot.”

“I will do no such thing.”

“You’re quite confident for someone held at knifepoint,” I say through gritted teeth. “Give me your slot.”

“What are you going to do? Murder me about it?”

“You really want to test that theory?”

He considers me for a moment from under hooded lids. His eyelashes are stupidly long. It’s disgusting. “Even if you had the balls to do it, which I don’t doubt you do,” he says. “You wouldn’t. Wanna know why?”

“Why?” I say with ample venom.

“Because it would cost you everything,” he tells me. “How my father would froth at the mouth for the opportunity to put you in shackles.”

Ire is a thin blanket around us, an opaline veil that makes everything shimmer and sharpen with pristine clarity. I have never felt more alive as I do when I look at him, and feel nothing but hatred.

“It’ll be your word against mine,” I say, “And you’ll be dead.”

Cardan rolls his eyes. “Even if you had a valid excuse for murder, which you don’t,” he points out, “And even though my family does not give a rat’s festering ass about me, they would not hesitate for a moment to rip you apart in court. To see the Duarte name trampled down into the dirt where it belongs.”

I know what Cardan says is true. I would revel in dragging the Greenbriars down to the deepest trenches of hell, even if it took me with them. Just as surely as they would relish in my demise. It has always been this way. For as long as I can remember.

I am sure he reads this all on my face as I think it because his smile is a sharp gash of white.

“You may have held the title of Top Scholar once, but I bested you last year,” he says. My mind sieges against the notion. “And though I fully intend on doing so again this year, if you murder me for it, you won’t even be in the running for the title come tomorrow morning. No, the only title you will ever hold for the rest of your small, pathetic life will be Inmate.”

I almost concede a flinch. Small. Pathetic.

I know what he’s doing. He’s trying to get under my skin, and credit where credit’s due: It almost works. But my fickle temperament, his not knowing what I will do next; these are my only chances at gaining control again.

I cannot show my hand.

So as my instincts scream against it, I tilt my chin up to look at him. “And how are you so very sure, Greenbriar,” I spit, “That Inmate is not a worthy enough title for me?”

“Because, Jude,” he says my name like it is his favourite flavour of sin, and I despise the way my heart flies into my throat at the sound, “It’s not. I am observant, if nothing else. I happen to know that being locked behind bars is a far cry from what you crave most.”

“As if you’d be privy to what I crave,” I say, though my stomach turns itself in knots, my grip loosening on the knife. Because he’s right. He’s so very right, I am nauseous at the thought of it.

Cardan shrugs. “Believe me, or not. I have my ways of knowing,” he says. Then, with the newfound space I have given him, he leans down close to my ear. “I reckon, however, that I am far too insignificant a name on what is presumably a very extensive blacklist for you to be kept from your higher ambitions by murdering me on a whim of passion.”

He makes a lazy trail with his index finger from my left elbow up my arm. My cheeks blaze, but the skin still pebbles there. I hate him, I hate him, I hate him.

“There are so many more valuable prizes for you plunder,” he croons, breath fanning across my face. He leans back a bit to look me in the eye. “Aren’t there, dear Jude?”

It is the secret of myself unravelled before me. I cannot bear how vulnerable it makes me feel. I stagger back, breathless, and blink.

My knife is in his hand. How did it get there? How had he taken it without my noticing? He’s moving away from me now.

“As lovely as this little meeting has been,” Cardan says, sheathing the knife back in its stand, “I think I’ll be going now.”

He brushes himself off, grabs his to-go cup from the counter, and I’m standing there like an idiot with my mouth hanging open. He pauses in front of me before he goes. I’m not sure what it means when he frowns, but I hope he feels every poisoned dagger I sink into his skull.

Then, Cardan does the very last thing I expect.

Every inch of me goes still as he takes a strand of my hair between his fingers and tucks it carefully behind my ear.

“It really was quite the show,” he murmurs. As if we are lovers tangled in sumptuous silk sheets. Instead of what we really are.

Rivals. Luring each other into cages of our own making.

Just like that, he’s gone, and I am left alone with my threadbare self.

♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛

It takes me all of twenty seconds to react. I count them going by on the ticking hand of my cracked watch as I try to cobble together a plan, try to breathe. I feel like the walls are closing in on me, all my demons crawling to the surface. But I’ll be damned if I let them win. If I let him win.

Then, I am chugging my cappuccino. It’s lukewarm. The syrup has pooled at the bottom and I get it all in one gulp. Sickly sweet and absolutely revolting, but I need the fuel.

When I’m done, little rivulets of coffee stream down my cheeks. I wipe them off with the sleeve of Cardan’s black jacket, grab my bag from the floor, and start running. I leave my shirt hanging to dry on the shelf. Buttoned, the jacket covers me enough and I cannot waste time. Not now.

I careen through the metal doors, apologizing to a grumbling Liliver as I sprint out from behind the counter, and wonder just how much Cardan’s glorified bathrobe would go for on eBay. He did say it was designer…

Finally, I’m outside again. It’s stopped hailing, and the air is blessedly cool. It helps me sort through my muddled thoughts.

I see Cardan’s wretched curls bobbing up ahead. He stops for the red man on the pedestrian signal. Idiot.

My breath swirls around me. I look both ways and dive between a reasonably spaced motorcycle and a bus onto the median in the middle of the road. Then between a bus and a less reasonably spaced car, who has to put on their breaks. The driver lays on the horn and I flick him off over my shoulder.

I’m already on the opposite side of the road, flying through the heavy glass doors of the Silhouette skyscraper. I don’t look back to see Cardan’s face, though I can imagine some pretty satisfying expressions on my own.

It’s enough to help me form the next steps of my plan.

I survey the lobby. It’s all glass and dark wood and marble. A crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling. It smells like coffee and expensive cologne. Moneybag pricks, indeed.

There’s a sign to the right for the lifts; and right next to it, the door to the stairs.

The Gazette’s main offices are on the fifteenth floor. Which is actually probably the fourteenth floor, when you factor in people’s weird aversion toward the number thirteen. The stairs would be faster, anyway. Especially if there were multiple stops on the lift. Or many.

I think I could climb thirteen stairs. I don’t think Cardan could.

Moving as quickly as I can without drawing too much attention, I slip into the stair-well. I climb one floor, slip out into the hall, press the lift call button, slip back into the stair-well, and climb to the next level.

I do this thirteen more times, pressing the lift call buttons on every floor. I get some weird stares, some alarmed looks from people passing by. But mostly, I ignore them. My vision is tunnel-like.

I cannot let Cardan beat me. Everything I’ve been working toward for the past thirteen years is riding on this internship. If I can get just two minutes alone with Dain, maybe I can convince him to let me reschedule my interview. Maybe I can fix this.

By the fourth floor, my thighs start to burn. My feet slap against the concrete steps. The sound echoes off the stair-well walls.

Small, pathetic.

To see the Duarte name trampled down into the dirt where it belongs.

I want to ruin you.

It really was quite the show.

It’s that last one that sets me sprinting. By the tenth floor, I am heaving breaths. My lungs feel like they’re full of hot lead. The only things keeping me going are my goal and Cardan’s extremely punchable face like a beacon in my mind’s eye. I hate him I hate him I hate him. It drives me.

Finally, I slam my shoulder into the door with a sign next to it that reads, FLOOR 15, in bright red.

I spill out into a warmly lit hall. It’s lined with framed newspapers, chic black and white photographs of the city, and one large gilded mirror. There’s a potted organza sitting on a copper accent table just opposite the lifts, but not much else.

The set of glass double-doors to my right reads, “THE SILHOUETTE GAZETTE”, just above the handles, in bold black lettering. The same doors my mother walked through to get her internship here when she was my age. The same doors she walked through every day for so many years after.

No time, no time, no time. Cardan is hot on my tail. I can’t be sentimental, now.

I’m a little frazzled, but only a tad sweaty. I glance at the mirror. No, that’s utter bullshit. I look like I’ve walked through a sprinkler.

I take a moment to straighten my pencil skirt. Smooth the hair away from my face, dab the sheen on my forehead and nose and chin and everywhere else with the back of my hand. No time.

I roll the sleeves of the ridiculous jacket so they don’t swallow my hands. The red lining is vibrant against stark black. I throw my shoulders back, and before I begin to doubt myself, stride toward the doors.

My boots click against the dark granite tiles, but when I step over the threshold, it’s all grey carpet and phones ringing, the shuffling of hurried feet and stacks of paper.

The familiar smell of freshly pressed ink greets me. The man behind the reception desk straight ahead does not.

The receptionist is burly and bald, save for a tuft of black hair right on the top of his head, pulled back into a small bun. Blue ink creeps from underneath the collar and sleeves of his crisp white button-down. Tattoos. Lots of them. He wears a floral printed tie and doesn’t glance up from the computer when I approach.

I clear my throat. “Ex—cuse me,” I say. “I’m… here for an interview? With Dain Greenbriar. About an… internship?”

“Are you sure about that?” the man asks in a gruff voice, still typing away.

My brows cinch. “Yes. I scheduled it weeks ago.”

“It’s just…” he looks up at me then, “You don’t sound so sure. Besides, he’s in a meeting right now.”

My jaw clenches. “No. Actually. He’s not,” I say as politely as I can, then throw a glance over my shoulder to make sure Cardan isn’t on his way to dropkick a wrecking ball right through my life. Again. “I’m his 8:20. I know I’m incredibly late, but I got into an accident on the way here.” It isn’t technically a lie, but it slides from my tongue just as smoothly.

The receptionist gives me a disapproving look. “He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

“I really only need five minutes of his time,” I say, breathless. “Could you please. Please. Just page him. Everything in my life depends on it.”

He raises one brow, regarding me dubiously. “Uh-huh. That’s what they all say.”

“Look,” I say, starting to panic, “I don’t have much time to explain before the world’s largest middle finger to the very foundation of this establishment walks through those doors and ruins everything. But if you do this for me, and I get this internship, I will bring you coffee every morning for two months.”

He’s silent for so long, I think he’s going to reject my offer. But then he says, “Make it three. Regardless of whether you get the internship.”

“Deal,” I blurt before I can stop myself. Before I can think about the strangeness of his contention. I certainly don’t have time to haggle.

The receptionist sighs, lifting the phone to his ear. Punches a few numbers. Listens. “Wait over there,” he mouths at me and points to a cluster of sleek leather chairs in the corner of the entryway that look about as comfortable as your standard park bench.

I thank him silently and head over, plopping down on the nearest one. I was right. It feels like I’m six again and sitting on the lap of my sister, Vivienne, whose legs are notoriously spindly.

The receptionist is muttering words I cannot hear into the phone’s receiver. I presume it’s Dain, but for all I know, he could be talking to Glinda in accounting, or whoever. Laughing about the silly little girl who just fell through the doors, looking for all the world like she’d been down the rabbit hole and had to claw her way back up to get here. He wouldn’t be far off, if I’m honest.

Or worse, maybe he’s calling security.

I shove those thoughts from my mind and lean back in the chair. My right leg starts to jiggle like it always does when I’m nervous. I lean forward again, bracing my elbows on my knees. I need to focus.

There’s a sudden movement in my periphery. A tall man in a navy blue suit enters the reception area. His golden crown of curls and swaggering demeanour clue me in enough. Dain Greenbriar.

The last time I saw the second eldest, and arguably the most decent of the Greenbriar progenies, was thirteen years ago. In a rescue chopper. Above a boating accident. He was in the pilot’s seat flying the chopper, while Madoc was tending to my sisters and I. But I still remember his confident air, that dash of white smile when he told us everything was going to be okay. Even though it wasn’t.

He hasn’t changed much.

“Miss Duarte,” Dain says, stopping near the reception desk. I wonder briefly if it’s a power play. Make me come to him. It’s fair enough, if that’s his ploy. It’s what I would do.

I’m surprised I’m not more phased by the memory of him. I expect to feel an inexplicable sense of dread. I expect it to be difficult to see him now, in the flesh, but it’s not. I feel nothing. Maybe that’s the difficulty. Or maybe this is just the tip of the iceberg.

I rise to my feet and make swift but assertive strides.

The thumping of the chopper was so loud that day, I don’t think anyone said much. So I’m not sure I’ve officially met him. Though, I could be remembering it wrong.

I stick out my hand anyway. “Mr Greenbriar,” I say. “I apologise for my delay. I was in an accident and couldn’t get here sooner. Thank you for meeting with me.”

He looks me over none too swiftly. He’s either decided that my appearance is evidence enough of my story, or that I’m attractive enough to forgive the faux-pas, because he takes my hand in his, giving it a firm shake that I return in kind.

“As much of a pleasure as it is to see you again, Miss Duarte—”

“Please. Call me Jude,” I say, then clamp my mouth shut. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Who the hell do I think I am, cutting off the man who’s about to hire me?

Dain’s smile is small and savours highly of pity. A sinking feeling starts in my gut. “Jude,” he continues, apologetic, “I wish we could be meeting again under better circumstances, but I’m afraid I have an appointment very soon and quite the busy schedule today.”

“I only need a few minutes of your time, Mr Greenbriar.”

“You understand, Jude, that we take our internships here at The Silhouette very seriously.”

“Yes, of course. I am one-hundred percent serious.”

“Unfortunately,” he says, “Interviews at the Silhouette require more than a few minutes to be conducted.”

“I’m sure I can give you a shortened version. When is your next appointment?” I ask, and he pauses, then looses a hesitating laugh. I realise too late that he’s not laughing at my gusto. He’s laughing at something over my shoulder.

“Now, apparently,” Dain tells me.

I whirl around and see a most loathly figure walking through the doors.

♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛

More like this: Crashing | Fine Line | King

Last Part

WAMH Masterlist

Fic Masterlist

AN: We love a petty Jude. Just hitting all those lift buttons on her way up. Also some of y’all guessed it but Jude definitely went for those knives huh. Anyways, thanks so much for reading! If you liked this chapter please do let me know, via comment/reblog/keyboard smash! It truly does help me recharge my writing energy, and I appreciate every single one.

If you’d like to be added to the tag list for all future updates of We’re All Mad Here, let me know via comment/ask/message!! Thanks again for reading! Back to the forest now. -em 🖤💫

Title Inspo: Rival by Ruelle

Tag List: @the-mithridatism-of-jude-duarte @velarhysismine @knifewifejude @danieldesario @annihliation @wickedqueenoffantasy @not-tess @clockworkgraystairs @jurdanhell @afexiss @snap-crackle-and-pop @rowaelin-percabeth @runnybabbit9 @cardaans @hoegreenbrair

293 notes · View notes

kylorengarbagedump · 4 years

Text

Little Bird: Chapter 37

Read on AO3. Part 36 here. Part 38 here.

Summary: There are only so many ways you can deliver news.

Words: 2700

Warnings: dystopia

Characters: Kylo Ren x Handmaid!Reader

A/N: I really didn't think I'd get a chapter out today, but I did, so yay!? Sorry it's a bit short (I remember when 2000 words was normal for me!), but I must be on my bullshit, as always.

Thank you very much to everyone who reached out. I had a shitty week this week, and I anticipate things in the next few weeks will not be super great. If there is a week where an update is missed, I hope you can understand.

I love y'all very much, I hope you enjoyed the chapter! <3

Beyond the sheet, the doctor’s shadow worked in silence, collecting instruments to soon be used to pry and expose your pomegranate flesh. Your monthly exam would never feel routine--prior to the collapse of society, they’d already been unpleasant. But now, separated from the provider by gossamer cloth, scrutinized in anonymity while metal objects cracked you wide, they crushed you in revulsion. The doctor whirled on his stool between your legs, air whispering over your bare skin. You swallowed.

A squeaking, clacking, and the cold metal of the speculum parted your labia and pierced your entrance. You held your breath, willing away the tears that pricked your sight--you’d always cried at this part, even before it became obligatory--drifting to your mind until he was finished.

Kylo Ren had been gone for 18 days, and in his absence, Gilead had drawn from your veins, a vampire of systemic proportions bleeding you not of life, but of the will to live itself. Without his presence, his power, his capability to extract you from bondage, you’d sunk into it like a tarpit, thick sticky ooze edging ever-closer to your throat. Sutures now removed, antibiotics completed, your days consisted of waking, walking, waiting, and, more than once, weeping, before wishing yourself into a witless slumber. Not that you were surprised. After all, before you’d fucked him in secrecy the first time, you’d asked yourself, what was life without living?

As it turned out: pretty fucking awful.

Pain lit up your spine when the doctor dug at your cervix for a swab--you winced, and the exam room door opened.

“Hey, we’re running behind, you do you want me to grab the next one, or--”

“No, no,” your doctor replied. “I’m almost done with this one. Did you get the urinalysis back?”

“Uh, no, sorry, I haven’t checked. I can go do it now.”

“Yeah, that’s fine. Oh, hey.” Then he swiveled away--leaving you gaping, a red tunnel open for observation. “Did you hear what the director said this morning?”

The other man hummed in thought. “Something about Commander Pryde. I didn’t really care.”

You stared into the ceiling, hands folded over your stomach, tears stinging again while your thighs began to tremble. Privacy and respect hadn’t been afforded to you in three years; you had long been designated a womb buried in a hunk of meat. But something about having your cervix on display like the Hope Diamond was particularly nauseating. Your stomach groaned in humiliation.

“Yeah. Anyone who’s even spoken with Pryde in the last month is getting rounded up.”

Breath stalled. There was no way the doctor knew who you were--the sheet separating you ensured that. Dread iced over your chest.

“Shit,” the other man replied. “Really? Damn.” A pause, clanging of instruments. “Just questioning, right?”

“For now.” The doctor grumbled. “I just had the tenaculum. What the hell?”

“Isn’t it right over there?”

“Oh, right, yeah.” Wheels squeaked across the floor. “Anyway, it’s just a new round of Ren’s bullshit.” He sighed, scooching between your legs again. Something sharp and cold pinched you--you bit your lip. “Dissenters this, threats to Gilead that. I wouldn’t worry about it. Unless--”

A snort. “I hate the both of ‘em.” The man sighed. “You’d think that fixing the birthrate should be their top priority, the way things are going.”

The doctor grumbled, and something pinched you like talons, shooting pain up your spine. “Yeah. Well. If Ren has his way, half the people in this country are gonna end up dead.”

Your heart was tumbling into a canyon. In the time without him, your belief in your Commander’s defection had dimmed. You’d believed initially that his motivation for Pryde’s capture was revenge--something undesirable, but still understandable--but the longer his campaign went on, the more you realized that there would be nothing that would convince him to release his stranglehold on his position. A gnawing despair within you whispered that whatever Kylo Ren felt for you, he felt it one hundredfold for power and control; convincing him to leave it behind would not only be improbable, but impossible. Yet, as you considered betraying what little affection he might have, sorrow shredded you. The thought of his capture, trial, possible execution--

More tears. You couldn’t stomach the thought of him not here, of being torn from him, of his existence in the past tense. And you also couldn’t sacrifice your freedom for his sins.

The release of the speculum tugged you back to the exam, and you sniffled, clearing your throat. You’d missed the rest of the conversation.

“Whatever happens, at least we won’t be out of a job. They’ll always need someone to make sure the breeding stock is healthy.” A pause, as if to acknowledge that, yes, you were still in the room. “No offense, of course.”

Bile burned your tongue. You said nothing.

“Shit, that reminds me,” said the other man. “I’ll go check the urinalysis.”

“Thanks.”

The door shut. Without warning, latex fingers pushed inside of you, another hand pressing down on your belly. The inspection went on for seconds longer than you thought it should, his fingers curling, as if he was languishing there, reveling in the sensation of feeling your uterus. For a blink, every thought surrounding your Commander’s desertion of Gilead fled your mind, consumed by a venomous desire that he might catch this doctor in the act and crack his skull on the pearly tile, spray his blood, stain the grout. And then the intrusion was over, and your fury dissipated, the ache for retribution hollowing in your heart.

It wouldn’t have mattered, really, if he had been standing in the room when it had happened--the doctor was no anomaly, but a functioning cog in Kylo Ren’s machine. As long as you both remained in clutches of his own creation, he would spend eternity defending you from its design. Even if you could be an exception, other women would suffer in forced silence. And even if he could mould it to your liking, it would still mean he preferred you to exist in subjugation instead of liberation.

Hope had been a security blanket almost three weeks ago, thick and warm around your shoulders while he’d bathed you with gentle hands. Now it clung in tatters to your ribs, the tiny scraps fluttering like tissue with every gust of reality.

The door opened again.

“Hey,” the man said. “Got the results.”

A snap of rubber as the doctor removed his gloves. “And?”

“Look for yourself.”

Shuffling paper stifled the sad knock of your pulse in your ears. Perhaps you knew, and had always known, that Kylo might never come to agree with your perspective. You just frequently forgot to acknowledge that it would mean letting him go. Forever.

“Hey! Okay!” A warm palm slapped your thigh, and you squeaked. “We got another one!”

When no one responded, you realized he had been speaking to you. About a result. A urinalysis. Another one...

You couldn’t speak. Or breathe. Oh--

“You’re pregnant!”

Like a geyser, it burst from you--your sorrow, your fear, your disgust, your absolute joy--and poured in rivers down your cheeks, your hands clapping over your face. There was no one coherent thought that could be plucked from your mind, just a constant tornado of horrific exhilaration, a celebratory mourning that within you, a tangible testament to you and your Commander’s connection beat and pulsed and flourished with life, growing veins like vines and limbs like wings.

His child--your child--a physical entity you could nourish in the wake of his reluctance, an unalterable legacy inside of your womb, one that you, if you were to be denied all else, could adore. Your child, but also his child, descendant to a despondent devil, progeny to a preserver of your own imprisonment. A child that, if born into the realm of its father’s regency, would never know normality, or maybe even you--at all. A heaving sob cracked through, and you shivered, trembling with terrified bliss.

The doctor slapped your thigh again. “Don’t stress!” he said. “According to the chart here, you’re about six weeks along. There’s still a chance for disruption. So I’d stay relaxed, all right?”

Swallowing, you creaked out a noise of assent. There wasn’t a word you could bear to say.

After the doctor left, you slipped back into your red dress and wings--despite Kylo’s words weeks earlier, you had been provided no other options after he’d left, and you suspected he’d meant for you to only be out of uniform in his presence, regardless. You were escorted by an armed nurse out of the clinic, where a Knight--still masked, no cloak, just in tactical gear--was waiting by the black SUV you’d seen a few of them in before. Averting your gaze, you climbed into the back and buckled in. The vehicle started, you coasted through the parking lot, and onto the road.

For the first time in several days, the sun was out--though it would need more than an afternoon to evaporate the muggy air that had accumulated in its absence. You gazed into the stark, cloudless sky, placing your hands on your belly, as if you could commune with the little being inside of you, know it before it knew you. A question, awful and exciting, lingered in your mind as you imagined telling Kylo the news, but no answer revealed itself. You replayed the scenario over and over again, practicing it on your tongue--I’m pregnant--digging deep for his reaction. But it was useless, as initially unknowable as anything else about him. Anxiety constricted your heart, a dam about to crumble behind your eyes.

The Knight turned a corner, and you jostled in the backseat. There couldn’t have been much intimacy between them all. But still.

“How do you think the Commander would respond…” You swallowed again--hesitation kept wadding in your throat. “How do you think he’d respond to a pregnancy?”

Long, sweltering seconds ticked by without a word. Balling your hands in your lap, your palms slipped, heartbeat thumped in your clasped thumbs. You’d never heard a Knight say a word, before--you weren’t sure why you were expecting one to answer you. Lava licked at your neck, dripping down your spine, your teeth tearing at your cheeks.

“Whatever it is,” the Knight said, shattering expectation, “anything in comparison will look like apathy.”

A rush of interminable origin raced your flesh, flushing hot in your blood. That was about as accurate as you could expect. And unsatisfying as you could predict.

When you arrived at home and stepped out of the vehicle, another realization crested over you. Johana. Though your relationship had settled into an uneasy truce since the day the Commander had left, the words she spared you had been few and far between. You knew that your pregnancy was possibly her only dream, but combined with the uncharted territory of her husband’s intentions, you worried it would become her nightmare.

At the same time, perhaps these worries were unfounded--the threats Kylo would face by disrupting his Wife’s right to your child might be too great for him to risk his power. His concessions had been minor and in relative secrecy, affecting only his relationship with you--everything else had the secondary benefit of securing his reign. He’d said plenty, but how much had he meant? After overhearing the discussion in the exam room, you were fairly certain that if made to choose between Gilead and you, you’d lose.

You followed the Knight into the house, relieved to cross into central air. Taking a few slow steps, you drew a deep breath.

“Ms. Johana!” You paused, listening for a response. You heard none. “Ms. Johana?”

She wasn’t in the house--that meant she was likely out in the yard. In the heat. Sighing, you trudged through the halls through the back door, squinting as light smacked your face. In the weeks since Kylo’s departure, the garden had been cleared and mostly restored at Johana’s behest--the grass gleamed gold, summer flowers replanted in over-saturated swirls of color. You hopped over the stones, turning the words on your tongue, hoping to make them real in your mouth.

I’m pregnant. I’m pregnant. I’m pregnant. I’m--

“Ofkylo.”

You stalled, recognizing the moniker as yours, resentful of its familiarity to your ears. Beyond one of the hedges was Johana, prying open a birdfeeder. Heat--though whether it was from the sun or your fear, you didn’t know--sizzled the nape of your neck. You steeled your jaw, grabbing your skirts and tromping through the trimmed lawn in her direction.

“What are you doing out here?” There was a bag of mixed seed at her feet, her sleeves pushed up to her elbows as she wiped the feeder clean with a rag. “I thought you just left for your exam.”

“I did. I’m back,” you said. “I was, um. Looking for you.”

“Oh.” She flipped the top in her little hands, scrubbing it clean, too. “Well, that’s fine. What’s going on? They didn’t find out about the gunshot, right?”

You shook your head. “Oh, no no. That’s fine.”

“Good,” she said. “I’m tired of lying for your benefit. The antibiotics weren’t--”

“I know, Ms. Johana,” you sighed. “So…” The words were so simple, but so difficult to say. “The exam went well.”

She nodded, digging into the seed, scooping a helping. “Uh-huh.”

There was nothing that would make this any less nerve-wracking. You inflated your chest, and let it go. “I’m pregnant.”

Johana stopped, like she’d been shot herself, staring into the ground. The seed fell from her palms and spilled over her shoes. She rose, gaze drifting from your feet, to your hands, to your face, her chin shaking. A smile was threatening to explode across her lips.

“Wait.” She exhaled. “Really?”

Wagging your arms in admission, you nodded. “Yup.”

A human springtrap, she squealed, launching into you and wrapping you in a tight, bony hug. You wheezed from her strength--she squeezed you, pinning your limbs to your sides as she wriggled you like a toy.

“Yes!” She jumped up and down, still holding you. “Yes, yes, yes!”

“Yes,” you repeated. “It’s, um, it’s true!”

Johana released you, erupting with elation. “This is amazing!” she said. “Lord, I’m going to have to go see everyone. Yes, we’ll have to have a party.” She clapped her hands and hugged you again. “Can you let the Marthas know to clean this up? I have to get going.” A playful, devious smirk twisted her mouth as she skipped into the house, congratulating herself. “Oh, they’re going to be so jealous! I’m pregnant!”

You stood, staring down at your belly. It wasn’t obvious, yet--but it wouldn’t be long. The thought of Johana preening, presiding over your stomach like it was her work paralyzed your heart. Had it been any other Commander, any other household, you might have even been relieved to incubate your ticket out of the Colonies, but now, you felt only panic. You didn’t want to give this baby up to her--a desire you never would have anticipated.

But then, none of this had been anything you had the ability to anticipate. A Handmaid was not supposed fuck her Commander outside of the Ceremony, or kiss him, or wake up in his embrace. A Handmaid was not supposed to yearn for her Commander, feel comfort from his voice, find companionship in his presence, or feel grateful for his brutality and strength. A Handmaid was not supposed to plan her Commander’s downfall, or plan his escape, and especially not plan his future with her in it.

A Handmaid was not supposed to fall in love with her Commander. But you were a Handmaid. And it was too late.

You left the empty birdfeeder and the bag of seed, slinking up the stairs, creeping back to your room. Throat, chest, face tight, you laid in bed, palms planted on your stomach, and breathed. Shutting your eyes, you hoped for the hundred-thousandth time in three years you would wake up in a different world--a world where the father of your child was not your legal owner, a world where another woman was not claiming it as hers, a world where you opened your eyes and you were not alone, and you were free, and you were truly, deservedly loved.

If you fell asleep, you didn’t know--the next thing you recalled was the familiar rumble of the Audi’s engine, dying as it rolled into the driveway.

#kylo ren smut #kylo ren x reader #kylo x reader #kylo ren imagine #kylo ren #kylo trash #little bird #handmaid au #fanfiction problems #idk I got feelings

110 notes · View notes

loveafterthefact · 3 years

Text

Love After the Fact Chapter 76: Going Home? Question Mark?

Lance, Keith, and their ‘associates’ give their farewells and prepare to leave.

Sorry for my perpetual lateness :’(

First Previous Next

Keith sits across from his mother, sipping some tea. Krolia watches him. He’s very still, waiting patiently for her to speak. He's put his circlet back on, though not his Altean clothes, as they no longer fit. A part of her wonders if he has what it takes to be a leader. He always seems so gentle outside of combat.

Perhaps a little too gentle.

“Are you going to tell me, or are you two keeping it to yourselves for now?”

“Putting it like that sort of backs me into a corner,” Keith observes. He worries his lip. “We’re very excited, but I don’t feel ready to celebrate yet.”

“Because you don’t want to feel sad if you miscarry,” Krolia concludes.

Keith nods. Guilt stings at his hearts. “Lance is so happy. I don’t know what I’ll do if-”

“You’re allowed to be happy, kitten.” Krolia pushes some hair out of her son’s face. “Thace’s equipment only goes so far. A few movements ago, we weren’t certain you could get pregnant. Now, you know you can, and you will have every possible chance of bringing this kit into the world.”

"Right..." Gazing around his freshly cleaned den, Keith’s visibly saddened. The windchimes are gone from outside; BleepBloop’s climbing towers missing; the fireplace has been cleaned and scrubbed of soot. The den is empty, like it’s never been lived in. It feels wrong.

“Keith? What-”

“I don’t want to go,” he whispers, throat tight and ready to choke him. “I want to stay here with all of you. I want to see Lance be happy and feel like himself.” “Feel like himself?” Krolai’s ear cocks, trying to understand.

“When we return, Lance will become busy again, with no more excuses to delegate so much of his work. He’ll sort through it, and give me the easy tasks so that he finds time to eat and sleep, and we’ll be together, but apart all over again. He’ll be distant, and coy, and never touch me unless we’re alone and I’ll hate it!” The young man sighs, tugs on a lock of his hair. "I know he's trying, but I don't know how to help him break out of these habits. I don't think he can do it alone, either. I don't want him to."

Krolia fixates on her son, watching his frustration over the rim of her cup. “This is my fault. No one ever told you what being a bearer means on Altea, did they.”

“Obviously I know what it means-”

“No, you don’t.” Krolia’s stare is searing. “Pregnancy is power, Keith. A good man or not, the crown prince is no different than any other Altean sire. You carry his progeny, and he will worship at your feet. He will give you anything you ask for. If you want to be his fawned-over, spoiled pet, tell him. If you want power, tell him. If you want luxury, tell him. If you want to share in his duties, tell him. If you want him to hold you, keep you close all the days of his life, tell him. Whatever you want, he will give it to you.”

“Momma. That’s…”

“That’s survival, kitten. You have power over him. He’s desperate for heirs. After your first kit, hold out on him. You’ll have whatever you want.”

“Momma, what I want is my mate. By my side. Sharing my life.” Keith sips his tea. “I understand what you’re saying. And I understand that you still have concerns about me mated to an Altean, and living on Altea. But I promise, Momma. I promise I don’t have to manipulate Lance into giving me things that I need. I can just ask.”

He waits until his mother meets his gaze. When she does, her eyes are so very sad. Sad for everything they’re still struggling to build between them. He taps his fingers against the clay of his cup, tries to find a way to explain why he’s not worried about having to ask for things.

“You know, when I first arrived, I spent the first movement avoiding everyone, including Lance. I didn’t realize it at the time, but he was watching me. Asking the guards about me. He must have asked the gardeners, or was approached, because it’s the only way he found out about this flower I stole from a greenhouse.” Keith laughs. “The next thing I know this garden he built for me is full of orchids. I kept finding new blankets and pillows, uh. Puzzles. Random trinkets. Raw crystals. Snacks.

“We’re addressing his control issues, obviously, but… He was so desperate to make me comfortable, to make it easier. He cared about me even then. I don’t need to manipulate or use him to get what I need or want. Chances are he’ll give it to me before I even ask.”

“I hope you’re right. I do think better of him. But he wears the face of the species that slaughtered your father. My mate.”

“Are you sure we shouldn’t be blaming my uncle for that?” Keith asks, steady, completely serious.

“An excellent question, kitten. One I ask more every quintant.” The soldier woman gets to her feet. “We should go and meet your mate and your friends. It’s about time for you to leave and we need to stop by my den on our way to the Compound.”

Keith nods, reluctantly following his mother to her own den. BleepBloop is already on their ship, ready for Altea. It’s on the edge of the community. No one owns dens, or even has an ancestral den anymore. Too many people have left, or died. A den becomes empty, and whoever’s lived on the fringes the longest gets to move inward if they like.

“I have something for you,” Krolia tells him. “I suppose, in a way, you have your mate to thank for this. Perhaps you can educate him about it.”

“Okay?”

“Wait here.” Krolia ducks inside her den, coming back out seconds later with a very small wolf cub. “So your mate decided to save an orphaned wolf cub, which was incredibly honorable and respectful of him, but his mother’s companion could not find a surrogate for him, and now he needs a home. The hunter decided that since your mate saved him, you two might like to have him.”

“I-” Keith gulps. Being offered a cub is an extreme honor, especially as an outsider. And the cub is cute. He takes the animal from his mother, rubbing his ears, looking him over. “I love him already. So much.”

Not that he could turn down a wolf cub even if he wanted to. Especially not this one, the one that carries not only a piece of his mother's life force, but Lance's as well. He strokes the wolf’s midnight fur, working a tangle out of the pale blue ruff circling around the animal’s neck and down his back. The cub stares up at him with brilliant, golden eyes.

“I knew you two didn’t have the time for him, so I told Lance I’d keep him here. It was his idea to give him to you today. I guess he thought it might make going home easier.”

“It doesn’t,” Keith whispers. “But it’s still something. Stupid idiot, he’s really toeing that line between secret and surprise.” He holds the cub up to his face, smiling. “You had a rough start, huh?” The cub licks his nose. “Me too. Don’t worry. It gets so much better.” Keith smirks. “Finally someone to take BleepBloop down a peg. He’s gonna be so jealous-”

Keith’s comms unit buzzes in his pocket, a message from Adam: It’s time to go. He takes a deep breath. “Well, little one. Wanna come with me to Altea?”

The animal licks at his face again, tail wagging. Keith grins, cuddles the cub close. Yeah, he’s keeping this little guy.

Keith stalls on his way to the compound, stopping to talk to people, ask a few carefully worded questions about the political climate and what the villagers think of Lance, ask if those thoughts have spread. It’s good news. It means their kit will be a little safer.

“So… Lunch last quintant was a thing, huh?” Lance nibbles at his breakfast. He’s in Allura’s sitting room, one of the few rooms she and Lotor have deemed safe from prying eyes and ears. Meaning Lotor and Pidge searched the room from top to bottom.

Allura nods, eating as quickly and as much as her manners will allow. “It really was quite something.”

“What do you think?”

“I think…” Allura wipes her mouth with her napkin. “I think I should stay closer to Lotor and keep a closer eye on Romelle. I think you should keep an eye on yourself and keep closer to Keith.” She gives her brother a meaningful look.

“Was it that obvious?”

“No. The others wouldn’t have caught it. But I know you, and I know Keith. I could tell… Are you trying to keep it quiet?”

“For now. Keith may very well miscarry and feels too uncertain to make an announcement.” Lance sips his tea.

“And?” Allura gives her brother a pointed look. Lance sighs.

“And the longer we can hide this, the longer our child will be safe. The moment Alfor and Zarkon know, our baby’s future will be dictated to us.” Lance leans forward in his seat, expression tense. “Remember our cousin, Griffin? His son is four years old and rumor is Alfor’s already made an arrangement. Keeping it quiet means I have time to come up with something myself, or pass some legislation under the table to protect the rights of our children. We only have a few movements until the thaw, and I’ve just got ideas, nothing written.”

“Do you plan on including Nibling in that?” Allura asks, gesturing to her belly with her spoon. “Because frankly I don’t like the way Honerva’s been looking at me lately. Lotor doesn’t like it either.”

“Of course. Anyone possessing Altean blood, or under Altean rule.” Lance frowns. “How long do you have?”

It’s a more difficult question than it seems. Galra gestation is only five phoebs, their children born small-bodied, vulnerable and useless with eyes and ears still shut. Altean infants gestate for a decaphoeb and a half- three times as long. They’re born hearing and seeing, ready to learn how to walk and talk.

“Well, I’m about six phoebs along… We’re guessing six more, judging by their development.”

Lance nods. “I don’t know how long we have. I just- I want us to be safe and happy.”

“Lance…” Allura taps her finger on the table. “You don’t remember what Mother was like. She wasn’t at all how she’s described. I mean, she was kind and all that, but she was also wild and very strong. A powerful leader and presence. She didn’t die by accident, Lance. Her death was on purpose. When she was assassinated, they chose her for a reason.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Safe and happy are not available to us. Be respected instead. Be the type of leader that people will kill on purpose, because of who you are, not what you are. That’s how you can best protect our children. Be feared and respected.”

Lance nods, licks his lips. “I should visit Romelle before I go.”

Allura sighs. “I’d appreciate it if you would… I know father was lying about looking for more possible solutions. It was unusually kind of him.”

“I… had a screaming fit with him before we left Altea. I think I got through to him. Somewhat. He’s still Alfor, but he’s a slightly less frustrating Alfor.”

Allura laughs through her nose. “We must take what we can get.” She meets her brother’s gaze. “I am going to miss you, brother.”

“I’ll miss you, too.” Lance rises to his feet, giving his sister a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll come visit again when I can.”

“So… When I make you an uncle?”

Lance grimaces. “Or when Keith makes you an aunt.”

The princess nods, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. They stay like that for a long moment, Lance standing, Allura sitting, missing each other, still in the same room. This woman, his sister, raised him, loved him, supported every one of his choices, even if she disagreed.

Sometimes, he still feels lost without her.

“I love you, Lance.”

“Love you too, ‘Lura.” Lance kisses her cheek again, slips his hand from hers as he heads for the door. “I’ll see you again soon.”

Across the hall, in another room, Lance finds an even sadder affair. Romelle is sitting by a sunny window in yet another red stone room, eyes staring into some unfathomable distance. Despite her vacant expression, she’s visibly well cared for. Her hair is groomed and braided how she always wore it before and she’s clean. Her clothes are fresh, fingernails files short and round so she can’t hurt herself.

He wonders if she still knows how loved she is.

“Hey, Romelle. I just thought I’d come say goodbye. We’re leaving today, so…”

Lance sits in the chair opposite the frail woman, disrupting his sister’s imprinted shadow. Before he knows it, Lance’s eyes are stinging, welling with tears. He grew up playing with this woman, watching her and Allura fall in love. She was so, so young when she went on that final voyage with Alfor, and she won’t ever get better. Not hoping for conversation, Lance elects to sit quietly and keep his friend company for a while-

“Are you afraid of the water?”

“I-” Lance blinks, unsure of the proper response. He takes a chance on the truth. “No, I’m not afraid of the water. I love the water.”

Romelle hums, skeptical, quizzical. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t be. You would not even be aware.”

“Beg pardon?”

“What has come to pass will pass again... the love story theirs and yours are so very fond of. Only neither of you knows it.”

“Romelle-”

“Generations of flesh give way to the rebirth of souls… The guardian waits for the descendants.”

“...I understand,” Lance lies. It’s easy, like lying to a small child, promising that there are no monsters outside their door. He stands, having had as much as he can bear. He gently squeezes the woman’s hand.

“Do not fear the water,” Romelle whispers. “Even submerged, you will still burn.”

“Good, uh.” Lance clears his throat. “Good to know.”

As Lance leaves to gather Pidge and Adam and say goodbye to Lotor, Shiro, Thace, Ulaz, and a few other Blades, he can’t quite shake the anxiety. He struggles to convince himself that Romelle is unwell, just spouting random nonsense from her collapsing mind.

He doesn’t quite succeed.

Sooner or later, Keith finds himself in the courtyard where they arrived, the ship open, revealing a number of packages- gifts and other items they’ve accumulated since their arrival. Lance is talking with Thace and Kolivan, hands animated, eyes shining. Whatever they’re discussing, Lance is excited for it.

“Keith.” Krolia turns him to face her, grips his shoulder tight. “Listen to me carefully. Are you listening?”

Keith turns to his mother, nods, holds the wolf cub closer between them, petting his head.

“You train this animal well. You keep him close. Do not trust anyone except the crown prince… There is something in the stars. I have seen it. All we can do is brace ourselves and wait.”

“What do you mean?” Keith whispers, fear trickling like ice down his spine.

“I mean that the sociopolitical strain on Daibazaal is reaching a breaking point, and none of us are prepared. There are enemies in every corner, and fools behind and beside them. You are carrying the hopes and dreams of an entire civilization in your womb. Know your place, even if it is to run.”

“I-” Keith gulps, nods. “I will… I love you, Mom.”

“I love you too, kitten.” Krolia embraces her son, kisses his temple. “You tell that Altean of yours I’m allowed to visit, because I can and will.”

“Okay. Just let us know you’re coming. There’s an entry medical procedure.”

“Noted. I see your mate-”

“Ready to go, beloved?” Lance slips an arm around his waist.

“Not really,” Keith whispers.

The Altean’s smile is so, so sad and so very gentle. “Me neither. But we’ll come back soon; I promise.”

“I know.” Keith doesn’t want to ask for one more trip before their kit is born, but he imagines Lance is already trying to set up the same thing. Lifting his gaze, he spies Adam, holding both of Shiro’s hands. They’re talking quietly.

He’s not the only one breaking his heart today. As he watches, Pidge trots up to the Altean, tugs on his vest, gently whispers that it’s time to go. The look on Adam’s face is inscrutable as he nods, leans up, whispers something in Shiro’s ear before he slips away and onto the ship. The conflicted expression on Shiro's face tells Keith it was a tender confession. His heart breaks for his littermate and for Adam, who finally found each other only for them to be kept apart by duty and honor.

As the ship lifts off the ground, Lance catches Keith sniffling into his new pet’s fur, trying to hide it. The crown prince doesn’t question the cub’s presence, having known about it the whole time. Instead he just holds his husband close, lets him cry.

There’s not a whole lot else he can do. Pidge’s feelers creep over his hands, investigating them both. They hum, soft enough to barely register, sitting quiet for a moment before going to watch Altea loom larger and larger before them. They whisper quietly to Adam, who only shakes his head.

Leaving here is far harder than leaving Altea.

#LoveAftertheFact #LAtF #klance #galtean au #altean lance #galra keith #adashi #altean adam #galra shiro #voltron legendary defender #vld

10 notes · View notes

monomonomagines · 4 years

Note

If its not too much trouble, could I ask for the monster AU with the sdr2 guys? I love monsters and I love the monster AU you did for v3

Howdy, Anon! I hope you don’t mind, but Mod Kokichi and I tend to get very excited with our Monster AU so we ended up having to split these into three parts this time thanks to the inclusion of Izuru. Now that my short explanation is out of the way, I hope that you’ll enjoy part one, and thanks so much for enjoying our V3 Monster AU. I plan to post the next parts tomorrow if possible so I hope that you’ll look forward to them.

Part 1 (Part 2 here) (Part 3 here)

Twogami (shapeshifter)

You were on an evening stroll through the neighborhood when it happened.

With nothing but the marmalade light slowly fading in the distance and sound of birds chirping in the distance to keep you company.

That serenity seemed like it would last for ages that is until an inhuman screech pierced your ears.

Within an instant, you lost that peaceful moment and in another you're legs were carrying you towards that sound before you could think to do otherwise.

Now out of breath and confused by your own lack of forethought you ended up laying your eyes on a strange shadowy figure with a nasty bite wound on its leg.

It didn't seem dangerous or that it would attack you though as it lay there with sad eyes looking at you. If anything, you felt bad for the guy so you took him home with you carrying the shadowy form, feeling it's warm and weirdly fuzzy form.

Soon enough you were home though with your new "friend" in tow. Now was the time to get him some medical attention though.

You quickly grabbed some supplies and got to work. Then by the time you were done, you sent him off on his way.

It was at least a week ago since your encounter but you still wondered at times how he or it was doing. It was hard to tell really if a shapeshifter had a gender in its truest form but even then there was no use worrying about it.

Today you had to focus. There was a charity ball being held by none other than the Togami family and as your family was the one that catered the event and you being the only one with free time, you were sent to act as a representative.

Pushing open the doors you take a deep breath as you enter immediately noticing the Byakuya Togami going absolutely ham on the food your family provided.

You wouldn't have guessed he was such a big eater but even then you shouldn't stare probably. You take your eyes off of him rather embarrassed by your own lack of manners when he called out to you.

"You're S/o are you not? I must thank you and your family for most humbly procuring all this food for us. It's sure to make our event a great one."

His eyes seemed to be looking you over rather analytically yet his words were gentle as he continued.

"I know you're not accustomed to dances such as this with your status most likely but I was hoping that you would join me for the first dance tonight."

Wait, he was asking you!? Despite any protests you gave he admonished you with equal amounts of passion, insisting that he, the Byakuya Togami, the Ultimate Affluent Progeny was to dance with you and there was no convincing him otherwise.

What you didn't expect was to even be close enough to Byakuya to interact with him but by the end of the night, you were both already planning on going out together again.

It had been like some fairy tale meeting, the way you two met was special and the relationship that quickly bloomed between you two was just as much.

That's why as months went by you decided you wanted to take things further. You ended up buying yourselves matching rings, they weren't similar to wedding rings but they were their own unspoken promise that you two were each other.

You were excited to propose the idea to him as he arrived for another one of your rendezvous but at the sight of the ring, he seemed nervous.

"Of course...I-I'd love to accept, it's nothing...just hand it over."

Despite his unnatural and obviously suspicious reaction you carefully drop the ring into his larger hand only to see him become a familiar shadowy figure before your very eyes. The rings, the gold in them must have turned him into his true form!

"I'm sorry....I'm not the real Byakuya Togami, S/o." he speaks up before you can react looking at you sadly as he admits. "I just wanted to be someone you could like and everyone seemed to like that Togami fellow so I tricked you. I know that it's unforgivable though, for me to think that we could continue like that forever so, I'll leave if that's what you please."

He seemed so genuine and yet it was hard to formulate a response. What he did was wrong, you knew it but he meant so well and you couldn't turn him away then.

Telling him to wait, Togami or Twogami turns to you perplexed by your response. Confused or not though, you reached down to pick up his smaller, plump, shadowy body.

"S/o I...thank you."

Teruteru (Incubus)

When Teruteru applied to join you in the kitchen at your family dinner you didn't think anything much of him at first.

Sometimes he'd make perverted passes at you or tease a bit but overall he was kind and a reliable coworker. You both would spend many days and nights in that kitchen just chatting as you cooked and cleaned after a hard day of work.

However, as you both continued to close your shop together you couldn't help but find him alluring in some way.

Alluring and yet there was something odd about him. Teruteru always seemed to have some new girlfriend or boyfriend to spend time with after work whenever you tried to invite him out.

Maybe his flirting meant nothing after all but even then it felt so real that trying to convince yourself it wasn't was even more painful.

You were tempted, his flirtations were sweet as honey but what if you'd regret indulging in your own sweet temptations. He could be some player or heartbreaker for all you know after all.

Pushing those thoughts to the back of your head though you decided you had enough of being lead on by the fellow chef.

You waited until it was just you two and the remains of your labor left in the kitchen.

Per usual, he started with his usual small talk when you hushed him up with all the questions that tormented you day and night. Did he like you, did he hate you, was he messing with you, and most of all why? If it wasn't anything then why, why bother!?

He was shocked to say the less and thrown off guard for sure as he leaned onto a counter covered by flour in a moment of clumsiness to steel himself.

"I...I do have a reason for my flirtin' n' all but I just...yah need to promise y'all won't fire me if I spill the beans!"

Huh? So first he admits to lying something but then what's with the sudden accent too!? As much as you wanted to laugh at his nervous mistake of coating most of his sleeves in flour, you decided to urge him to go on.

"Well, I do like yah a whole lot but...but I'm also a...I'm an Incubus." He admits, showing off his normally hidden demonic form as though to emphasize his point.

"I want to be with yah really, but I don't wanna take anythin' from yah because of these dang powers a mine."

Sucking in a shaky breath you make your way towards him, disregarding his warnings against getting close and pulling his short frame to your own. You didn't care if he was an Incubus, even if you couldn't have his body you wanted his heart far more and would do anything for it.

"Oh S/o, how could'ja take in a guy like me?"

Nekomaru (Stone Golem)

You were taking a hike on a trail through the mountains. Your plans were to make it to the top in order to look out at the beautiful scenery before your eyes but those plans surely changed when you noticed a weird statue standing at your goal point.

It wasn't too odd for a statue to be somewhere like a mountain top your supposed but something about it made you feel unnerved.

Maybe it was because of how the statue looked as though it were mid-scream or maybe because of how eerily alive it felt. However, around you, it didn't move what so ever, the only other point of interest now the large piece missing from the side of the statue.

At this point, it felt a bit awkward being up there with this thing silently screaming at you forever so you decided to focus on searching for the piece you noticed missing and sure enough it wasn't far.

Picking it up in your hands wasn't too difficult despite the obvious weight to it and with trembling hands, you were easily able to place it in it's allotted slot.

That was when that silent scream of his turned into a roar, loud enough for you to feel it shake you as his large arms came to wrap around you, pulling you into an embrace.

"GAHAHAHA! I'M FREEEEEE!" he yells out, once loud enough for anyone nearby to hear him a second time.

Now setting you down he smiles at you, finally addressing you this time. "Thanks for saving me, I knew someone would have to find me eventually!"

He gives another hearty laugh at your own confused expression, not even bothering to give you time to process what's going on as he speaks up once again.

"I guess that means that I owe you now but don't you worry. I always pay back my debts," he scratches around his nose, adding, "Though all I can offer is to protect you from now on. Tell you what, I'll be like your bodyguard even!"

Despite you opening your mouth he only continues to go on, taking this proposition far more seriously than you thought he would.

"With me around NO ONE will touch you for I am NEKOMARU NIDAI!" he cheers, picking you up again despite your protests.

"No way am I letting you walk! It's my job to protect you so just tell me which way to go!"

Despite his kindness, he really was far too insistent, but even then you could tell you weren't getting out of this so you relented, eventually arriving home in his arms.

It's been about a month since that day that Nekomaru came to live with you. With the two of you growing closer each day it wasn't surprising for you to have developed feelings for the kind golem, but you did worry about what would happen when you'd confess.

Would he leave if he didn't feel the same? Despite your fears, you wanted to face him and to lay all of your feelings bare for him to see.

You two were planning to revisit the path that you met at and so you planned to then, bursting into your confession as soon as you arrived.

You hadn't meant to be so hasty but with Nekomaru it's hard not to be, you wanted to just rip the bandage off and be over with. You were prepared for the consequences of your actions but you didn't suffer at all like you might've guessed.

No, the only suffering you were enduring was from the lack of air when Nekomaru wrapped his arms around you again just like he did when you met.

"I was wondering when you'd say it! I love you too, S/o!"

Wait he knew? As soon as you questioned him though all he did was laugh as usual.

"GAHAHAHA! I thought you knew I did too already. I mean we lived together after all!"

What!?

#danganronpa #danganronpa imagines #dr2 #danganronpa goodbye despair #danganronpa x reader #x reader #byakuya twogami #teruteru hanamura #nekomaru nidai #ask #mod toko #can you guys find all the food references in the first two? ;)

115 notes · View notes

beyondthecosmicvoid · 4 years

Photo

~Henry VII: The Red Dragon’s Unlikely Triumph~

Henry’s victory to success is simply amazing due to how far down he was in the line of succession -if he was at all! Of all the Tudors, and don’t get me wrong I love them all! He had the most adventurous life! His life is the stuff of movies and you’ll see why. Henry was born to Edmund Tudor, Earl of Richmond and Margaret Beaufort, heiress of Lancaster in Philippa Gregory’s words. But she was far removed from the line of succession! The Beauforts derived their name from a castle John of Gaunt had in his possession in English occupied French territory. John of Gaunt married three times, the last to his mistress Katherine Swybford. When they married their children were already grown up but by no means less ambitious. In an effort to ingratiate himself with the shifty king Richard II, John betrayed many of his comrades and persecuted anyone who stood against the king, his nephew. In return for his good services, Richard II legitimized all the Beauforts but that’s it. No say if they were inthe succession or not. Later after John died, his firstborn, Henry Bolingbroke ascended to the throne after he deposed Richard. He didn’t overturn Richard’s legislation but added a new restriction: The Beauforts were legitimate in the eyes of the law of men but due to their revious bastard status they were excluded from the line of succession. So bye-bye ambitions. By the time Henry IV’s grandson had issue, this changed altogether. Their descendants were still seen as progeny of a bastard branch (albeit legitimized) of the House of Lancaster but their status had changed overnight as support build around the Duke of York and his Neville relations (who also descended from the Beaufort line, but through the female line). Henry VI betrothed his young relation, Margaret Beaufort to his half brother Edmund Tudor. He was thirteen years her senior and while it was common for women to be married at a young age, people still found it disturbing because the groom didn’t wait for her to grow up. As soon as she was 12, he married her and the next year she was pregnant.Edmund and his brother Jasper had supported the Duke of York on various occasions but when the conflict escalated to war, the Tudor brothers sided with their kin. Edmund was captured during battle in late 1456 and died in attenpts to escape, possibly of sickness. Margaret , thirteen at a time, was already a young widow and expectant mother. She feared for her safety and the safety of her unborn child so she started a dangerous sojourn to Wales, to Pembroke castle where her brother in law resided. There, she gave birth to her only child, a boy she named Henry.Henry did not have a lonely childhood like some Ricardians and fiction writerss love to depict, nor was his mother a crazy fanatic. She was the same as the rest of the women. Religion was not separate, it was part of women’s lives, especially the adoration of female saints and the virgin Mary from whom women kept relics and images to pray to so they could be safely delivered or to protect their young. Of this latter cult, Henry became a firm follower, worshipping the image of the blessed mother with the same fervor as his mother. Likely, the little boy had childhood companions like David Owen, the illegitimate son of his grandfather by an unknown mistress. In spite of her second marriage, Margaret was allowed to visit her little boy and spend hours teaching him, but then her fortunes changed when Edward Earl of March forced the Lancastrians to flee and was declared king by popular acclaim in March 4 1461. Margaret and her new husband now had to curry favor with the new regime and to prove their loyalty, they had to let her son go. Edward saw Henry Tudor as a potential threat and to neutralize this threat he gave his custody to a loyal Yorkist, William Herbert and his wife Anne. They raised Henry as if he was one of their own, and he had the company of the new Earl’s other wards. But Henry knew that a prison made of gold was still a prison. One mistake from his mother, his guadians or worse, his runaway uncle and he would be dealt with.After the Lancastrian Readeption which only lasted a year, Jasper Tudor was forced to flee yet again. This time he took his nephew with him. The deaths of every Lancaster made Henry a potential threat. Every male Beaufort was also gone. Margaret had to let him go once more, this time she would not see him for another fourteen years.Bad weather brought them to the court of Francis II, Duke of Brittany. There he continued his education, by the time of Richard III’s accession, he enjoyed the company of many English exiles, among them the formidable and staunch Lancastrian loyalist -Earl of Oxford. It was in Brittanny, that December of 1483 after it was clear that the princes were gone for good, that he made a promise to marry Elizabeth of York and become King of England, thus uniting both bloodlines, the Houses of York and Lancaster into one.The next year and a half he spent his time planning, borrowing money and now in the court of France, currying favor with the French king. He had tried to invade England but failed. What made Henry think, the French king and others told him, he could succeed? But they didn’t know Henry. He was by now an educated, cosmopolitan young man who was also confident that god was on his side. On July 29 1485, Richard III gave the seal to Barrow, one of his officials to carry out his orders in the counties nearby and prepare for war.To be fair, Richard III was the most experienced soldier here. He had known the horrors of war since he was very little and his life parallels Henry’s but unlike the latter he had been participant in many military campaigns and had the entire North at his disposal. Henry had mercenaries, disatisfied English exiles, Edwardian Yorkists and most of Wales with him, but that was not enough to beat Richard’s armies. On August 7, Henry’s ships docked on Milford Haven. According to Fabyan when he disembarked he knelt and thanked god, reciting the Psalm 43: ‘Judica me deus & discern causam mean’. -Judge me, Oh god, and distinguish my cause. The following days he spent recruiting, some of Richard’s most staunch supporters defected to Henry, others refused to fight and just stood by as the two armies clashed on August 22. Others like his stepfather, chose to intervene in his favor only when the tide turned against him. After William Brandon, his standard bearer was struck down, Stanley and his brother with his armies charged down, and with their combined forced Richard’s was cut down. Richard, according to various sources screamed 'traitors’ and refused to go, instead seeking to confront Henry, but he never got to. The enemy got to him and he was forced down from his horse and minutes later, killed. It was a glorious day for Henry Tudor, now Henry VII. He had won against all odds, but the war was from over. Henry would face many pretenders and plots against him, his mother knew and she cried tears of fear, likely anticipating all her son would have to endure. He died in 1509 after twenty four years of reign.

In relation to Paul Atreides from DUNE MESSIAH onwards …

While DUNE, the first published novel of Frank Herbert set in the Dune universe is the book every reader should start with; DUNE MESSIAH is the most crucial one of ALL Dune novels because rather than reading like a science fiction novel or another inclusion into this space opera, it reads like a narrative tale that is chronicling events that already happened. For a history buff, this novel is the deciding book in the series that sets the tone for the rest of the saga. Additionally, aside from being a deconstruction of the hero mythos, it is also a critique of history. From the onset, the book starts with one of many historians being killed simply because he wanted to tell the truth. But obviously, Muad’Dib, the grand emperor Paul Atreides with his ongoing Jihad spread across the Known Universe can’t have that. So … what does he do? He starts rewriting the past, allowing only a few historians (who in reality are propagandists and religious zealots) to tell his version of history. Irulan is (thankfully) exempt from this. Despite being made fun of by the ‘I do not need to read books because thanks to the spice melange and the superior breeding program of the Bene-Gesserit I am a product of, I can access all the knowledge stored in my super evolved brain to keep feeding my ego’ crowd, she stays a true historian until the very end. She doesn’t agree with Paul Atreides or his other crazy fam, but slowly comes to realize that what they are doing (while terrible) needs to be done to free humanity of pre-destination and oblivion. And due to being understimated by the pretentious Lady Jessica, her husband’s concubine and true love, the Fremen Chani, and of course, Paul and his whole band of Jihadists, she gets to write down history as it truly transpires. But she does it in a way that makes him look less of a tyrant and more of a reluctant hero.

This historical treatment is the same kind of treatment that was given to the Tudor Dynasty starting from its very first monarch, HENRY VII.

I long for the day that Henry VII is correctly portrayed on screen because the way that the Tudors have gone down in history is how the Atreides clan did in the Dune universe. For every history buff that has enjoyed Dune, I urge that likewise, Dune readers do a deep dive into Tudor history to further appreciate both fandoms and see how the two can be studied together and dissected. Currently, revisionist historians who want to restore Richard III’s reputation have not ended up doing that. Instead, they have swung the pendulum the other way. As DUNE MESSIAH teaches us (through Irulan’s writings and Alia’s observations), the best way to understand saviors and deified leaders is not by extolling or vilifying them. Rather, see them as individuals trapped within their time period who feel as though they are ahead of it, and have to do what they must because otherwise darkness will reign.

Paul and Henry Tudor started off as exiles. Their foes never expected them to beat the odds but they did. But part of the reason why they did is because of the element of prophecy. And I am not just talking about the whole Henry Tudor claimed to be the long lost descendant of Arthur Pendragon and what not. Edward IV and Richard III did that too (though it worked less for Richard). I am talking about the issue with the whole Welsh prophecies that supposedly predicted the rise of Henry Tudor, Earl of Richmond. Before he was born, a prophecy was sung that from his father’s line, the savior that the Welsh were hoping for would come. This prophecy in itself was a call back to a much older one which said that eventually one of the Welsh royal houses would rise to claim the English throne and unite all of the Isles. Well … Henry didn’t unite all of the British Isles but he did start the process when he married his eldest daughter Margaret to the King of Scots, James IV. Their descendants, from James VI of Scotland and I of England and Ireland, ruled all the British Isles.

In an interview, Frank Herbert said that he chose to take the direction of Paul Atreides and (especially) his son, Leto II’s stories in the way he did to caution about the danger of charismatic leaders who reach messiah or (in the case of Leto II) divine status. It’s not so much the power they possess or how evolved thy are that makes the Atreides so revered, it is their genius at how they present themselves and understand that the power of propaganda (be it religious, political or both) is the stronger force in the universe and what shapes human events. In studying the Tudors and Dune we learn that history is a collection of accepted events that are part factual, part propaganda, and part a reflection of the time period when they were written.

#Tudors #History #Relation to Dune #Dune Messiah #Science Fiction #propaganda is thy name of history #dailytudors

14 notes · View notes

nothingeverlost · 4 years

Text

Fic: It Begins at Midnight (2/?)

For the Free (and last) day of Cabalanca week I’m circling back to Day One, and posted a second chapter of this fic. I realized after the fact that I had named my kid character Charlottle, and that’s the same name @bearholdingashark is using for her awesome Single Dad Benoit fic. I’ve decided to change the name to Amelia.

Breakfast

The first thing Marta did when she woke up was take a shower and get dressed. Greeting Benoit that night before in a robe was one thing, but she wasn’t about to do it a second time. The second thing she did was check on the room across the hall. The door was open, both beds were made, and the only overt sign that the whole thing wasn’t a dream was the stuffed dog on top of the pillow. There was no note; she hoped it meant he hadn’t left.

The kitchen seemed the most logical place to look first, and she could hear them clearly as she came down the back staircase.

“What about this one, Miss Amelia?”

“Triangle.” The young girl was sitting on the counter far enough from the stove that she couldn’t touch, but close enough that she could see what was happening. Benoit was dressed in his same clothes from the night before, but they were now protected by a red floral apron. He was making pancakes.

“It’s an A, the first letter of your name. A for Amelia.” His voice was gentle as he put the pancake on a plate. He’d clearly been working for a while since there were a dozen other pancakes on the plate, none of them round.

“A for ‘melia. A for apple.” Amelia almost sang, rather than speaking. She sounded like it was something she’d said before. Her mom had probably been working with her on her letters. Marta’s heart ached for the little girl who wouldn’t get to see her mom again. “More.”

“Alright. This time we’re going to do a B, for Benoit. That’s my name.” He carefully poured more batter into the pan. From her place in the doorway Marta couldn’t see the shape, but his intense concentration amused her. “Can you say Benoit?”

“Wah,” was the proud but not quite accurate reply.

“It’s better than Benny,” he said with a shrug. “Now remember we’re waiting for the bubbles. You tell me when you see them and then we count to three and turn it over.”

“Can I get one of those or are you working your way from C to L first?” Marta was tempted to see how long it took before she was noticed, but that didn’t seem fair.

“You may have any letter you like, or any shape with the warning that all my animals end up looking the same.” Benoit took the pancake out of the pan and set down the spatula before picking up the little girl. “Amelia this is my friend Marta. This is her house we’re staying in right now. Can you say hi to Miss Marta?”

Amela buried her face against Benoit’s shirt and shook her head.

“It’s okay, Amelia, you don’t have to say anything. I have a couple of friends you might want to meet, though. Do you like dogs?” She hoped the stuffed dog she carried might mean she liked animals, though some kids were afraid of dogs.

“Puppies?” Amelia turned her head just a little. Marta was relieved to hear the note of interest in her voice.

“Yes, puppies. Big ones that are waiting for their breakfast just like you. Would you like to help me feed them?” She pointed to the bowls in the corner of the kitchen. They were in a raised stand engraved with their names - Chandler and Hammett. It had amused Harlan to name his dogs after other mystery writers.

“Puppies eat pancakes.” Amelia wiggled and Benoit bent down, setting her carefully on the floor.

“I don’t think so, Miss Amelia. The pancakes are for you, me, and Miss Marta. I believe Miss Marta might show you where the dogs have their own food.” He winked at Marta, nonchalantly turning back to his pancakes.

“The puppies are very hungry so we need to give them three scoops each of food. Can you count to three?” She helped the little girl fill the bowls. They weren’t quite done when she started to hear the telltale sound of paws on the tile floors. She braced herself, ready in case it was too much all at once for Amelia, but she didn’t have to worry. The little girl was delighted.

“Puppies!” she squealed, her hands clutching at Chandler’s fur as he stood patiently despite his waiting food. His brother was more interested in his breakfast, but Chandler was an old soul and seemed to understand that he was needed. “Love you puppy.”

Marta took a step back, letting the child play with her new friend. When Chandler wandered over to his dish Amelia followed, giggling to watch the boys eat their food. It was nice to see her so happy and innocent looking.

“You’re good with her.” Marta tensed for just a moment, not realizing how close Benoit was until his voice was almost a whisper in her ear.

“Says that man using pancakes to teach the alphabet.” He was a natural. If she hadn’t known differently she would have assumed that Amelia was his daughter, not part of his job.

“I am one of seventeen cousins, and most of them have progeny. I’ve taken my turn changing diapers and entertaining the little ones. Our family gatherings would make even this place look crowded.”

“I can’t imagine that. I’ve never met any cousins, they all live in Cuba.” Family for her meant her mom and her sister, now that her dad was gone.

“I’m more than willing to let you have a few of mine, if you like.” He laughed. “Now what shape would you like for your first pancake?”

“A dog?” she asked as she watched Chandler finish his dinner and lay down. Amelia quickly figured out that she could use him as a pillow.

“I think I might manage that. Do you have any syrup? I haven’t had a chance to look yet.”

“Alice made me buy some. I don’t usually eat breakfast.” She was usually too busy to do more than get herself a cup of coffee.

“It’s the most important meal of the day. As a nurse you should know that,” he scolded lightly, but his gaze lingered until she went into the pantry to find the syrup. When she came out he was setting the table, the small one in the kitchen rather than taking things out to the dining room. He’d found a couple of old phone books, apparently, as a makeshift booster seat for Amelia’s chair.

“Breakfast is served.” He held out a chair for her. When she sat down she found that he had made a pancake that looked more like a mouse than a dog, but he had given it a smiley face.

“Thank you.” He sat across from her, with Amelia at the ‘head’ of the table. A dog sat on either side of her. They probably instinctively knew that small children were more likely to drop food, but Marta liked to think they were feeling protective of the girl. It was good, she needed to be protected. Then again she had Benoit in her corner, and who could ask for more than that?

#marta cabrera #Cablanca #cablanca week #cablanca fic #benoit x marta #benoit blanc #my fic

23 notes · View notes

go-hux-yourself · 4 years

Text

Holdout

Request fill for @thethespacecoyote: Hux trying and failing to keep his pregnancy secret from SL kylo because he thinks he wont want it but when kylo does find out, he's SOFT. YES this is right up my alley let’s do it!

Also on my ao3 here :) My masterlist archive of bullshit i write can be found linked at the top of the blog or here.

He’d thought he could hide it.

A tall order when dealing with a mind-reader, but Hux was certain Kylo would have neither the inclination nor the interest in the rearing of children, so the alpha was left in the dark about the pregnancy.

It would be a while more before the omega’s lithe stature gave away his secret. A while more for Hux to figure out how to hide it from a Supreme Leader that sometimes shared his bed, but had no greater urge in life than that which to hunt down every last faction the Resistance still had left.

Kylo had let it consume him, as if there were something he needed to prove, and his sole focus had kept him from Hux’s bed for weeks now. The First Order had been keeping very busy indeed; little time for attention on personal matters.

Hux hadn’t even noticed his heat was two week’s past, so embroiled in the detailed movements of the Supreme Leader and their various military incursions was he. Intelligence was coming in from various posts in the galaxy, and Kylo left Hux to delegate as he personally searched after leads. It was an exhausting amount of work, and one that prioritized sleep well over any ideas so strenuous as sex.

One exhausted moment of introspection about how he was sure to stress himself right into heat he was so tired, and Hux realized with dread that he was actually overdue for his own.

One panicked visit with a medical droid whose memory he wiped immediately after, and Hux was blankly faced with the fact that he was just over two months pregnant with the Supreme Leader’s pup.

It was far from an ideal situation.

Unbonded. The solidity of his relationship with Ren tumultuous at most. They got along best between the sheets, though professionally they still butted heads a great deal.

It was clear that his priorities and that of the new Supreme Leader went in opposite directions towards the same goal of conquest. They both wanted the old galactic systems of rule to die. Peace from war. Order. Crime punished, and people efficiently managed into a working system of governance.

Ren thought the destruction of the order of the Jedi would secure that end, and meanwhile Hux sent battalions of stormtroopers after Resistance hideouts to strike hard and fast with confirmed intelligence. But Ren was clear that he wanted every lead chased, every whisper checked out, and it spread their resources far too thin, their net cast just a bit wider than Hux would say was effective. Much of the crew had pulled extended shifts in order to deal with the heavier workload and sifting through gathered intel, and Hux was no exception.

His own duties as General kept him far too busy to add an infant to the mix. The idea of sending his own progeny away from him into the First Order nurseries, and subsequently into his Stormtrooper program, would never be an option. He’d never much entertained the idea of having children but already he was fiercely possessive about the pup inside him. His father might not have wanted him, but he desperately wanted his own.

Hux liked kids. They were moldable, adaptable, and the idea of being the father he never had-- to love, to cuddle, to teach his own child to carve out their destiny- plucked at some sore spot inside of him that would do anything to keep it.

When weighing the possible outcomes of telling Kylo, his mind easily imagined the worst scenarios, hard-based on their once-violent professional relationship. Even in the better-case scenarios, he couldn’t imagine a Kylo that would choose fatherhood over being Supreme Leader; to prioritize time for a pup over waging war. And with his hang-ups over family-- ignoring Hux’s own for the moment- his concerns weren’t just over Kylo’s indifference; he was worried the alpha would actively not want it.

Even now with their sometimes-heated arguments, he wasn’t necessarily afraid of the other man. Kylo had promised to never use the force against him in such a manner again, and while Hux did believe him, the cynical, protective part of himself still decided it wasn’t worth risking the not-yet-visible bump on his middle.

He could take being thrown about by the Force-- the terror didn’t do him any physical harm like the hard edges of console once had- but if Ren were to be particularly upset upon Hux’s insistence on keeping it-- in wanting some say in choosing just who would be siring any heirs to his reign- it wouldn’t take much to make the omega miscarry.

So Hux kept quiet, abandoning any ideas of letting the alpha know, and trying to formulate some plan to keep it from the other man’s notice before and after it was born. He had a lot to prepare, and many plans to make.

He didn’t mention it when Ren returned from some trek through an icy moon, warming himself around Hux for the first time in weeks with kisses and touches he’d sorely missed. And when Ren left on some mission again without even bothering to inform him, he felt vindicated in his choice to not inform the alpha in fair play.

Hux began his plan of discouraging their trysts when his belly began to show obvious signs of the pup there, pleading exhaustion to their workload that he followed up with a jab about how surely their Supreme Leader couldn’t spare the time to fuck him when he didn’t even have enough time to inform the fleet when and where he took off to at a whim. It only helped matters that, in terms of security, Hux’s jab was in-line with current Order protocol for high-ranking officers. As Supreme Leader, that made him the rule, rather than the exception.

It played well right into Kylo’s own petty sense of spite, and he’d declared that two could play at this game; if the man thought he could dictate when they’d fuck, then Kylo could wait until Hux became so frustated for his knot that he’d be begging his way back into the alpha’s bed.

That had been about three months prior, and the past three weeks Hux had been growing considerably concerned that his greatcoat could no longer hide the prominent bulge of his pup beneath his modified uniform. Holo-calls instead of in-person meetings, and general avoidance of one-another was the only thing standing between Hux and Kylo finding out his secret. But he knew that the further along the pup got, the more difficult his plan would be.

Thankfully, one could always count on Kylo being far more petty than he. The alpha avoided direct-contact with him (even if he made allusions to innuendo in order to frustrate Hux on their private calls), but by some mercy of the galaxy, Hux’s secret was still unknown by the Supreme Leader.

He knew his scent must be unmistakable now, and he was fairly certain that the inquisitive little looks he saw Mitaka give him were informed of the fact that their commander was pregnant. It was a credit to his crew that they largely pretended otherwise. Hux did the same, continuing in his duties no matter how his feet hurt or his back ached, trying in vain to keep to his usual routine and workload when his body was busy growing a little person.

If Hux’s crew didn’t know he was pregnant before, then when he’d collapsed from exhaustion on the bridge, they certainly did after.

Waking up on his back minutes later with Mitaka and petty officer Thanisson leaned over him was as disorienting as it was embarrassing, and Hux tried to right himself before the worried voice of his lieutenant gave him pause.

“Sir! General, please, we’ve called for a hover-stretcher--” Mitaka’s concerned voice informed, the other omega’s hands palm-up as if to deter him from getting to his feet. It was clear he wanted to touch Hux to keep him down, but also wouldn’t dare to do so without permission.

Thanisson got to his feet, informing those alerted that Hux had regained consciousness. Mitaka kept his place at Hux’s side.

“Hover-stretcher?” Hux repeated, cheeks growing a bit red as it sank in that not for the first time in his career, he was laid out flat on the bridge of his own star ship. His eyes darted around, passing over Thanisson’s face as the beta was speaking to presumed medical officers on comm. Mitaka’s gaze settled on Hux’s belly more than once, and Hux realized the telling-bump in his uniform was clearly visible in the way his greatcoat had fallen open on his figure. The stretch of modified, regulation pregnancy-attire over his belly was informing of its own, but splayed out on the flat of his back, it became wildly apparent that he wasn’t just pregnant, but heavily pregnant. Hux could curse Ren’s imposingly large stature later for what was surely going to be a pup that would take after its sire’s height, but for now, he focused on keeping his breathing even and deep even as his heart rate sped up. This wasn’t knowledge he could easily take back.

It was telling in the way that the other officers on-deck kept their attentions on their stations and not on the general lying prone on the floor. His secret was thoroughly exposed, even if the crew willfully ignored the spectacle as Mitaka personally fussed. He didn’t know if the crew were doing it for his benefit or his dignity, but the shock of their general effectively passing-out on-duty would have been cause for the exact opposite of focus on their jobs. That they weren’t gawking told him plenty.

The thought made Hux flush deeper.

“You collapsed, sir,” Mitaka informed in a gentle, respectful tone. “Until the medical team gets here...” his eyes darted to Hux’s belly in concerned meaning as he trailed off, still not touching the other man but gesturing for him to remain where he was.

Hux realized with gratitude that Mitaka was trying even now to be discreet, but as it was abundantly clear that the entire bridge now knew that someone had bred their general, not mentioning his belly for what it was was a practice in well-meaning futility. “I’m fine, Lieutenant.”

“But sir, your--”

He wanted to snap at the other man for defying him, but it was clear in the way Mitaka’s eyes continued to bounce back to his belly that the other omega was just worried about his pup. Maybe it was hormones, or just stress, but Hux appreciated the concern deeply. He bitterly thought it was nice that someone else cared about the pup, let alone knew of its existence, and also thought that that person should be Kylo.

The alpha was still hell-bent on waging his one-man wars on minor Resistance outposts than sharing Hux’s bed, though.

He reminded himself he’d chosen this, and that he’d have to step up his plans perhaps a bit sooner.

“Nothing feels wrong,” Hux informed as he managed himself to his knees, eyes scanning defensively over the crew as he possessively touched over his belly with both hands. Thanisson politely looked away; Mitaka awaited instructions. “Help me to my feet, Lieutenant.”

Mitaka stood, uncertain about how or where to touch the general, but Hux just extended a gloved hand to the other man, more than capable of still hauling himself around, albeit a bit cumbered. He pulled himself to his feet with Mitaka’s forearm.

“...Sir?”

Hux felt nauseous, a little dizzy, but the adrenaline of that slight humiliation would be plenty to get him back to his quarters and between sheets that had lost Ren’s scent some time ago. He gave the other omega a look before gratefully removing his gloved hand from the man’s arm. “I shall retire to my quarters for the remainder of the shift. You may send a medical droid there. I leave the bridge to you.”

A look passed between Thanisson and Mitaka, but neither pressed the general on an escort. Their concern was palpable, but the last thing Hux wanted was an audience as he effectively retreated from the bridge. He wouldn’t faint twice if he had any say in the matter, and it was with that focus that his feet brought him without incident to his door, and he deposited himself in bed.

The medical unit that entered his quarters gave him a vitamin-drip and beeped out that he was anemic and overworked, but that his pup was okay. Nothing he frankly didn’t already know or suspect. He’d limited his own caf intake significantly since finding out about the pup, and he hadn’t used a stim in ages. The strain of working without stimulants had simply caught up with him.

It didn’t help that even with all his plans in motion, his hormones craved the alpha that had put him in this state; even as he was sure that Kylo wouldn’t be interested in it. Rather traipse across the galaxy in search of sith relics after snuffing out Resistance cells than spend his time chasing after Hux. Far too busy to indulge in a pregnant omega who was supposed to be his second-in-command with his first priority to the fleet.

He wrapped his arms over his belly reassuringly. He didn’t need Kylo. He didn’t want him. He could manage this all on his own. He could prove he could still keep the Order running as he always had, pregnant belly or no.

Hux considered wiping this incident-- and the record of the pregnancy- from his medical file once the droid was done with him, but considered it an act in futility. Too many eyes had seen what he’d been hiding, reinforcing what they must’ve suspected for months now. Whether it got around the ship or not could be deterred with the threat of reconditioning. Kylo never checked medical records anyway, and the pup would be here in a few short months besides.

He complied with the droid’s orders for rest, but his sleep was plagued with dreams of an uncertain future for his pup; a future both with and without Kylo in it.

Hux tossed in his sleep, waking from nightmares only to hunker down into the pillows defiantly. He placed a warm palm over his belly as if to soothe the pup from his own dreams.

It would be okay. It would all be okay.

Second chapter will be found on the ao3 post for this fic :)

kofi | ao3

#kylux fanfic #kylux #omegaverse #armitage hux #kylo ren #omega hux #alpha kylo ren #fanfic #my fic #all tags detailed on the ao3 post :)#mpreg #im still taking kylux and gingerpilot prompts btw :)#trying to get some short stuff done for funsies :D

41 notes · View notes

clansayeed · 4 years

Text

Bound by Choice ― I.ii. Dictator Inmortalis

PAIRING: OC x OC x OC (Valdas x Isseya x Cynbel) RATING: Mature (reader discretion advised)

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Choice ⥽

Before there were Clans and Councils, before the fate of the world rested in certain hands, before the rise and fall of a Shadow King ― there was the Trinity. Three souls intertwined in the early hands of the universe who came to define the concept of eternity together. Because that was how they began and how they hoped to end; together. For over 2,000 years Valdas, Cynbel, and Isseya have walked through histories both mortal and supernatural. But in the early years of the 20th century something happened―something terrible. Their story has a beginning, and this is the end.

Bound by Choice and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the Bloodbound series. Find out more [HERE].

Note: Choice is the only book in the series not based on an existing Choices story. It is set in the Bloodbound universe and features many canon characters.

*Let me know if you would like to be added to the Choice/series tag list!

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

Isseya demands an apology.

WARNING: this chapter contains mature sexual content

[READ IT ON AO3]

The sun takes her sweet time setting even when the lectica returns; keeps Cynbel, Isseya, and their now semi-permanent fixture of Kamilah in the shrouded doorway rather than out to greet their Makers.

Isseya finally releases her breath; the same one she holds any time their Beloved leaves in the daylight — however protected. He’s the only one who dares to be so bold as to venture out from the estate and always promises to return to them. Promises, they know, not even death could keep him from breaking.

On a handful of occasions has Isseya come upon Cynbel with a touch of the same madness; each time the same as the last when she moves to his side faster than the servants can blink and wrenches his outstretched hand from the scant sunlight that sets the courtyard aglow.

“Madmen, the pair of you,” she would scold, cradling his blistering skin with a furrowed brow of concern as rare as Cynbel’s mercy, “inherited of the blood I bet.”

And as always he would smile and reply “And you — immune,” with a roll of his eyes, would shake his head and let her dote. She dotes so little but in moments like these… one could never doubt her love for them is just as fierce; just as possessive. She wishes them alive so they may continue to be her treasures. And they continue to let her own every inch of them.

Even now, thick midnight wool pushed aside and the sizable distance crossed by Valdas and Gaius both in a single bound, she is the first to him. Cradles his strong jaw in both hands, lets her nails dig white crescents into his flesh to turn it this way and that.

She almost seems frustrated that there are no wounds upon which she can scold him for. He loves her all the same.

“Satisfied, my sweet?”

Behind them their lover snorts in amusement. “Stupid questions garner stupid answers.” Because, as they both know full well Isseya is never satisfied.

On the edges of his sight stands Kamilah; expression curved something strange before she is swept into the Godmaker’s arms for a passionate exchange. Odd that he’s never seen such intimacy from them before. Or maybe not that odd at all.

Kamilah rests her hand against Gaius’ breastplate when they part. “I take it the Senate gathering was fruitful, then.”

“Oh very much so, my Queen,” so then why does Valdas not share his enthusiasm, Cynbel wonders, “have you ever heard him speak? There is passion there, yes, but so rarely does the power belong to one able to wield it with proper potential. I daresay I was inspired after mere hours in his presence.”

“And as I told you on the journey home, Augustine; such power cannot abide in mortal minds and hands.” Valdas’ counter is the perfect weight of balanced respect and critique, something even Cynbel would argue as insolence.

Yet the way the Godmaker looks at his divine creation — the true expression of inspiration in the eyes of his lovers but seemingly none else — one could assume he offered only the greatest of insults.

“Did I not tell you I would hear no more on the matter? Or are you just being purposefully petulant in front of your little disciples?”

All words have meaning but the ones he throws at Valdas he does so with purpose. Knows they will hit his progeny like arrowheads across the space of them, separated. Even Kamilah’s newborn senses are strong enough — enough that Isseya’s intent to act and both of her lovers’ intent to detain her happen within mere hairs of one another.

It isn’t the first time those words have crossed the chasm of God and Godmaker; that much is obvious. And isn’t he lucky they’ve never heard such before…

Cynbel has a feeling that, for once, he and Kamilah are of the same mind: restrain your lover before things turn sour. Yet that doesn’t deign it enough to make them act.

Tension viscous about the five of them, then —

Valdas, their Beloved One, their Lord, their Immutable Divinity, bows his head in the presence of his Maker.

“Forgive me, my King.”

Cynbel watches the world as if in the slow slumber of a dream; sees Isseya’s open palm collide harsh with their god’s shaved cheek before she leaves in a whirl of her silken stola.

The curses on her lips are ones so rarely spoken he had nearly forgotten the tongue they came from. Close in blood to Cynbel’s own with a thinner lilt to the tongue.

In the distance — the sounds of crumbling stone and glass clatters to marble tiles. Would bring upon them both a mutual worry for what she would do when the tantrum would turn—inevitably—to their unbreakable bones.

Instead the Godmaker throws his head back and laughs; takes delight in her rage and display. He neither forgives nor disparages Valdas’ behavior. In fact it seems almost as though he’s forgotten the matter entirely. Who knows, maybe he has. Maybe one has that luxury at Gaius’ age.

But at this Cynbel’s current age he has no such thing. He has enough of himself not to follow Isseya’s outburst but only because he refuses to leave his lover with the cruel demon that made him. Now more than ever before.

When he offers it Kamilah takes his hand with ease. Allows herself to be taken along into the depths of the estate. The moon will be full tonight; a beautiful sight among Valdas’ carefully-selected display of flowers from near and far.

Something to enjoy with a lover. If you take the time away from being an absolute mule’s cock to do so. Doubtfully does Gaius do so.

Only now they’re alone — they both hear the cubiculum doors close moments after.

And oh yes, he certainly is just as angry but somehow finds himself even more so as he watches how Valdas rubs at his brow and mutters his frustrations to his feet.

“Foolish… foolish foolish wraith she is. And now of all hours…”

“Tell me I’m not hearing this.”

The elder vampire looks almost surprised; like he’d forgotten Cynbel was even there. “Now is not the time for arguments, love of mine.”

“I think based on that —” —jabbing a finger in the direction of their flesh-bound Discordia’s path of havoc— “— now might be the best time. Because I need you to explain that to me.”

“Cynbel…”

“No, no no no. I may not have tried to bring this place down around us but be assured, Beloved One, I am just as angry.”

They recognized no kings, no pharaohs, none so-named dictator perpetua. All ties of blood from mortal miseries and bonds forged had been cleansed in death-into-rebirth.

All these things done for Him. Done because their god had asked it of them, because that was part of the price of his love. And nothing had been asked that did not make their transition into this new and better life an easier one.

Yet there he stands, an affront to everything Cynbel has taken into himself before now. He stands and calls this thing which has uprooted their lives more than the disease it is.

He stands and calls him my King like he isn’t divine at all.

Why? “Why?”

“Because I am bound to him!” shouts the Made-God, “Because I must!”

“Forgive me if I find that hard to take in after generations otherwise.”

“And you wondered why I kept him from you, why I kept anything he even so much as touched as far from the pair of you as I could? This is why!”

“You still have not explained this, whatever it is!”

His Maker sucks in a breath at the ready. For each of their tender moments these, too, are familiar to them. Moments when Cynbel “shines too bright,” so his lover says. Bright enough to burn them all alive.

But he doesn’t. Banishes his anger in one long exhale, instead, and the dutiful priest that he is Cynbel takes it into himself as penance.

It hurts. All the more with Nona’s wavering warning in the back of his mind. This is nothing new. This is insignificant in comparison to every other part of them.

He reaches out because his body knows better for him than his mind. Feels his hands clasped in the other’s and lets it be the answer that it is.

“You are bound to no one which does not call you what you are. Let him make you but we—we, Valdemaras—have named you. I name you the blood-god Valdemaras. He who can make believers of even the least faithful. Why would you stand here and say you are less than that?”

“To spare you,” to the depths of their villa, “to spare the both of you the indignity of a god chained to a higher power.”

“We do not need to be spared.” Cynbel says — and on behalf of them both.

Before Valdas can speak he presses a long finger to aged lips. Ones he knows better than any other.

“We do not need to be spared,” he repeats, “but we do need to understand. Will you give us that gift? We have more than earned it.”

As if Isseya was going to do anything less than torture it out of their Divine lover, if she must. She’s grown so demanding in the last century… have they spoiled her too much?

Likely.

After a long silence Valdas nods.

“Perhaps when I have finished… I will have earned your forgiveness.”

Less likely.

He coaxes their Beloved to make good on his word. To ask her forgiveness not with words but with flesh.

At first Isseya looks at the pair of them with contempt and mangled rage. “Don’t you dare touch me, don’t you dare —” That she pulls away from him is a greater wound than any the Godmaker could give, though, and even through her anger Isseya can see it.

And Cynbel, never looked to for the voice of reason, finds her broken trust in an endless puzzle of shards across their shared bed; scattered on the floor and in his worst nightmares carried along the open window on the breeze.

He takes up an abandoned glass of wine, can’t remember who left it there or when. Settles himself across the room from them because he must and not because he wants to. Resisting them like this — in the prime of passions both violent and heartbreaking — will make a true madman of him yet.

“Make him apologize on an altar of his own design. Then… then we will make him explain.”

There’s a brief flicker behind her wounded eyes, there and gone in a heartbeat. Acceptance shown when she eases herself upon the edge of the bed with a fistful of her stola gathered at the knee.

Their god falls to his knees in supplication before her. Does not touch until he is allowed. Does not look upon her face until she deigns it so.

He watches her hike up the remaining silk and take no ceremony in how she pulls him forward between her thighs. She tries to hold out, really she does, but when just enough time has passed for her sated pride Isseya allows herself the gift of a drawn-out moan.

Cynbel doesn’t need preternatural hearing to catch every wet, muffled movement of Valdas’ mouth. He’s seen it enough times — done it enough times himself — to know exactly what is moving where. Especially when her grip tightens on their Maker’s dark head of hair; when she urges him further.

She watches him sit — so far, too far, come to me, come to us — but makes no move to bring him to them. Knows there is a pleasure in taking them in as a spectator, too. And of course he finds the mere sight of them beautiful—ethereal, godly, holy—but the last thing on Cynbel’s mind is pleasure.

Can he be blamed?

When the same wicked tongue that whispered to them promises of immortality and a love just as undying moves just so Isseya gives in; gives herself over gracelessly falling to the bed with tanned legs locked around Valdas’ broad shoulders.

If he could he would capture this moment; immortalize it somehow. Though that would mean allowing others the sight of them and that… that is not something he is yet to share. For now they, like stories told on mosaics and across the rounds of vases, are just as permanent.

And that is more than enough.

She finishes; they drink in the beauty of her together if apart. But rather than pull his lovers to the sanctuary of the sheets Valdas instead turns and rests himself on the floor, licks slick and shine from the edges of his mouth but himself seems less than satisfied. Good, a small part of Cynbel thinks.

Then Isseya joins them in their silent reverie. Doesn’t care that she’s exposed, as if they haven’t seen it all before, and gathers their Beloved between her legs to stroke his head gentle and even.

The silence stretches on. Any further, though, and it will surely break.

“My Maker is not the beginning of our kind. But to my knowledge he is the closest thing living. As my blood runs in your veins, his too does the same.”

When he speaks it is thick as if from a deep slumber. The words within, the knowledge for good or ill they carry, awakened in this inopportune hour because it must be. Because they demand it of him. “How many times in all of our years together have you tried to defy me — either of you, truly?”

Isseya ponders the thought. Cynbel, though — he’s had more than enough time to think about what it means to defy his god. “The feeling is there at times. But it never… becomes.”

She nods in agreement. “As soon as the urge rises, it was never there to begin with.”

Given their anger at him Valdas looks more smug than he should. Pride always his personal vice.

“There is a reason for that. A reason beyond our love for one another.” And looking not like himself at all, looking almost mortal, he finally explains.

It takes so very little to hold their attention. Endless fonts are they and this knowledge above all has an importance beyond that of the temporary. Undeniably awe-some, equally fearsome.

Really, he might be asking too much of them this time. He asks them to believe in a higher power other than himself which, by definition, they simply cannot. He asks them to believe in the blood that runs through all of their kind, that connects them to those such as Kamilah — “Who, by virtue of purity, holds a strength over you both. Why do you think I have not enforced her place as my younger?”

Where all blood flows freely in streams from open veins he asks them to understand; not to agree to it, not to follow doctrine on it, but to accept it as fact that the Godmaker controls their will. And they have no choice in the matter.

When his words catch in his throat Valdas looks up to Isseya; a muse. Cynbel watches her bend down, offering guidance in a slow kiss. All of the terrible things churning in the chaos of his mind but this — this he wants to savor. A port in a storm.

“Then answer me this,” leaning forward, elbows on his knees and he wants to crawl on them to his god’s feet, to assuage his worries only revealed to them now because… because why?

“You, us, this — would not have happened had his hold on you been irrefutable. You have broken from him before — why not do so again?”

In the waning sunrise a shadow crosses Valdas’ face — its name Augustine.

“For many years it was naught but Gaius and I. Why he kept us moving, why he immersed himself in developing empires, that was never explained. But I had severed all ties to my mortal life.”

“As we had done,” their darling whispers; and he nods.

“And when I found the opportunity to see myself — all of myself; every passing year in mine own eyes — I realized I had no ties in this new life, either. So in my mind there was no risk in resisting his pull. Looking back on what transpired, now I wonder if he saw no use in keeping me at his side. Maybe what he had done was a freedom for us both.”

His lovers wait — sluggish in that they both realize something holds him back. They exchange looks with furrowed brows like a reflective pool.

He sees the fear in her. Does she see it, too, in him? “Valdas.”

“Hm?”

“Answer my question.”

Their love for him is unconditional, this he knows. Still the words are a struggle to speak. The power of them enough to bring about the end of days.

“No longer is defiance an act without consequence. On a whim Augustine could take everything from me. On a whim.”

Everything, he says. But they understand.

Them, he means. Gaius could take them from him.

It’s a knowledge that brings Cynbel back to Kamilah in the alley. Regardless of their conviction, their valiance, their devotion; in the end it would be a useless effort to fight him.

It would mean their end. And there is nothing in the religion of him they carry about what happens when forever comes to a close.

But Valdas’ momentary fractures have already healed. He is, of course, still a god — can heal beyond mortal means. In the mind, too?

“So I will see his work done. Then, and only then, has he given me his word that we are free of him.”

A pucker twists Isseya’s gilded face into something wrathful. “For how long? Until he wills it? Until he has need of you again?”

“Yes.”

“No! Refuse!”

He whirls to face her, to take her hands in his and bring them to his face as though from there she can reach deeper. “To refuse him would be to lose you!” Then to Cynbel who catches an unfamiliar misty look in his Lord’s glare. “And you! I would not survive it. I would not… I would not survive it. I would not. Do not ask it of me. I would not.”

They only hesitate because they are uncertain. Uncertain of what exactly has happened tonight, of what has changed here between them and in the space they occupy as a whole. Their faith is shaken; their god weeping at even the idea of losing them. Their belief is renewed; who else upon the earth could say they were worshiped back?

And when that uncertainty fades both Cynbel and Isseya are on their knees with divinity in their embrace. Lips given, taken; shared.

“Do not ask it of me,” pleads their love, their light.

And they reply together — as one.

“We will not.”

When their guests deign to grace the three with their presence some sunset the following day Cynbel finds his patience truly tested. Is forced to watch as the Godmaker and the little lotus behave unchanged; like nothing had happened.

Like their god wasn’t practically forced down on bended knee.

Were he not so well-fucked and with his pleasure taking its sweet time to leave him, he’d take it as the unspoken challenge it is.

Instead he removes himself from temptation, stands from his klinai and plucks from the bottomless pools of his lovers’ affections a kiss from each.

“Leaving so soon?” The Godmaker goads him with a syrupy smile as he reclines and is immediately beset upon by the staff.

He has faced wild beasts thrice his size with less effort than what it takes for him to smile back.

“My apologies, Godmaker. But I have an engagement I simply cannot miss.”

Isseya, when she knows her face is concealed from Gaius’ eyes by a body offering grapes, mouths to him; “take me with you.”

Has him grinning with a one-shouldered apology but ready to depart—

If not for the youngling vampire that stops him in the doorway.

“If you would.” Cynbel waves two fingers aside. Can feel three sets of eyes upon the scene they make.

“I would accompany you.”

“Unnecessary.” You know the dangerous roads I am off to tread. “This is an appointment in confidence.”

“In the same confidence as my first night in Rome?”

Until now he’s been able to brush off the well-meant concern his lovers have shown for his trips to the city. But they are still so freshly unraveled from one another. He can feel the strange looks they give at his back.

“I suppose the lectica can indeed carry two.” Said through gritted teeth — the glow of victory casting the shadows of the growing night from her face.

One last look back in farewell and he can see the question hovering just there, on the tip of Isseya’s tongue. Hopefully when Cynbel shakes his head she knows it for what it is; that only present company delays him.

Because he had always intended to explain Nona and her mysterium to his lovers. Rather it come up naturally than be pestered with questions of how the two came into one another’s paths…

Any answer to them he must first have himself; and that he simply does not have.

In a show of understanding Valdas reaches over the arm of his klinai to wind a finger around a stray curl at their darling’s temple.

Their love is not a scale upon which to tip affections and favors as weight — but sometimes it is nice to have the man on his side as it were.

Any haughtiness on Kamilah’s part is dashed away the moment they are out of earshot. A hard thing to do in their case; finds them a few steps short of the lectica awaiting them.

“Whatever your Maker has demanded you learn from me, I will not have it. Fuck off to Herculaneum if you please but you will not be accompanying me.”

Yet Kamilah remains impassive; bored, even. Raises a brow at him before daring to step aside of him and continue on to their vehicle. “Are you quite finished?”

“Take it! I’ve no need for —”

“You will have to extend apologies to your seer child upon your next engagement with her.”

Cynbel’s brain screeches to a halt. “What? Why?”

“Because I have need of a guide of the city. And of the three of you, you seem to meander the streets the most.”

“And why exactly —” when she turns her back on him, Cynbel only calls out louder; damn if they are heard now, “— why exactly are you in need of a guide to Rome, little lotus?”

Kamilah despises the affection of the false name. That much is clear in the force with which she yanks aside the privacy curtain to glare out upon him.

Where Cynbel, in full view, crosses his arms over his chest. Where he shall not be moved and where he tries again.

“Where are you looking to go?”

In her eyes petulance bleeds into determination — still the same creature of strange ways and silent observation she has proven herself to be… but now more of what lies buried beneath is beginning to come up from the sand.

“You will take me to the home of your revered Caesar. To my cousin.”

If the Godmaker has declared it dangerous to entertain such notions, and especially if it may bring his unknown plans to ruin, then Cynbel is more than happy to comply.

Even if it means indulging Kamilah’s whims — forceful outside the villa and growing moreso with every passing hour.

But they are close, now. He had only received invitation to Caesar’s domus once, following the public celebration of the Gauls’ defeat. For Cynbel and Isseya it was the last time for them to bid farewell to memories of ghosts — to take in the sights soon to be eclipsed by the Roman Empire.

Safe to say it was not an easy night to wash from the mind. Even with the pleasures their god had given them. Innumerable though they had been…

“Provide me this clarity,” the first time he’s spoken to her since their departure, “as I was under the impression the Godmaker forbade you from seeing Cleopatra.”

Imagine his surprise when she can only answer him while gazing out upon Rome’s streets.

“Forbade is… a complicated word.”

“How so?”

“You could say that it does not translate well to my birth tongue. And, as I’m sure you’re aware, my Latin is still a work in progress.”

The urge to call her out on her shit is vanished under the moon’s glow. In its place grows something different; unfamiliar to him. Respect, perhaps? Or dare he dabble in the idea of hope in such a position they have been chained to.

She defies him in the face of her own wishes.

Here before him; proof it can be done. Lounging in unblemished skin and exotic garb; it exists.

Lucky for Cynbel it is enough to bring at least a mildly pleased look about him. Showing up unannounced and without invitation to the home of the most powerful man in the world scowling at the memory of his ghoulish murder campaign probably would have gotten them turned away.

As it is guards beset them the moment they are spotted.

Really and truly he tries his best not to laugh. The Roman Army really took anyone, didn’t they.

Orders followed to the letter, saying the same as they would say to any other; “Leave,” and that is no suggestion, “or you will be shown away.” But to get this far and be left unfulfilled simply will not do.

The honey-flavored words on Kamilah’s tongue remain there as Cynbel coaxes the man forward — grabs him by the jaw and pulls him headfirst against the opening of the lectica. Oh, how I wish I could have faced you and your little army in my primal days, says the look in his eyes.

“You would do well not to deny me.” Say his lips instead. Not a compulsion, per se, nor a threat. Simply something that ignites in mortal kind a fear they cannot fathom; for to do so is beyond their limited and fragile minds. Something that stirs the prey within to understand, to obey.

For the sake of their feeble skins on fragile bones.

When the soldier is released he is a different man. The fear in his eyes brightened by the moonlight. He turns and orders his companions to be still and allow them entry. They abide his one rule: to do so on their own two feet.

Halfway up the long walk to the ostium he finally gives Kamilah the answer to her unspoken curiosity; the burning of which he can feel licking at his heels even with the space between them kept only for propriety’s sakes.

“My gifts lie in the physical, while it is my other who is skilled in the art of the malleable human mind.”

“I have seen such prowess from Gaius.”

“They may be the best of them, but it would be well for you to remember, little lotus, that humans are mere animals. Smart ones, but subject to the same laws of the animal kingdom as any other.”

To prove his point Cynbel fixates on their guide’s back; at the point where the spine curves up into the neck. A vulnerability in most armors often ignored in favor of protecting the fleshy middle.

The world continues on around them. Seconds passing… until…

The soldier whirls around, hand on the scabbard of his blade on an impulse even he does not understand. The scent of fear lies heavy at his brow and under his arms; hairs on their backs standing on alert. They scream in a language he does not know. Be afraid, watch your back!

The vampire’s face melts easily into a placating smile, the barest raise of his eyebrows in questioning. “Something the matter?” he asks, and it is shame that turns the soldier’s head back to lead. To regain some semblance of power over them.

Power he does not have; has never had and will never hold.

Cynbel grins in amusement — feels it grow at the sight of a smirk on the lips of his temporary apprentice.

“The lion does not have the intelligence to know why it stalks its prey, but we do.”

“Why, then?” asks Kamilah.

“Because even the most meager of meals is made succulent with the taste of fear.”

And they, hedonistic creatures that they are, delight in the richer things in immortal life.

The soldier leads them through into the atrium. Demands patience of them both while a servant is dispatched to summon the master of the house.

He had hoped, before they were welcomed, for a chance to ask of the woman why the need to meet with her cousin had compelled her this of all nights.

As if he should be so lucky.

The resemblance between them is an impossible coincidence, perhaps one only he can notice, as he sees them both as they are and without reflection. Were they dressed in the same fashion Cynbel may have even faulted one for the other.

But as the Pharaoh Cleopatra comes into the light he falls silent. Takes in the length of her body in sheer wrappings, teasing flashes like a seductive performance each time she passes a torch. The way she walks — lithe, catlike in fluidity and intensity — he would almost confuse her for one of their own. Yet the blood that flows through her is not so easily missed even by the creature which has eaten more than its fill.

Kamilah bows. He follows her lead not out of respect but because they must. Because this world works in such strange ways.

The mortal queen’s eyes roam between them with a marbled expression. Credit where credit is due — not a flicker of emotion betrays her until she desires it. Until she fixates on Kamilah.

Does some part of her know? Fascinating, if so. That the bonds of blood born are so strong even now.

“Bold of you to demand audience at such an hour,” Latin sliding skillfully from her tongue, Cleopatra takes up the lip of the closest impluvium; another of the foreign treasures on display around them.

Cynbel keeps his eyes forward purposefully. Kamilah, however, finds the Pharaoh to be the most valuable of them all.

“It is not Caesar whom I seek.”

“Who then, child?”

“Who else?”

Obviously the trait of questions answering questions is a familial one.

“A long journey to be made for audience with us, then.”

“Yet I assure you, Your Grace, any journey made is one worthwhile.”

Silent and expectant Kamilah waits. Until Cleopatra’s natural curiosity seems to overflow; gestures in some allowance to be approached and Kamilah wastes no time in doing so. Takes to her side on bended knee and the sight of it sets him uneasy. Like something of an intruder.

The wealth and success of Rome is shown in every stone and tile of Caesar’s domus. Why wouldn’t it be? Had they the ability to keep all which they have taken in victory no doubt the halls of Cynbel and his beloveds would be the exact same. A testament to their years, to their conquests.

A testament to their devotion to their god and to one another.

He clings to the shadows of the peristylium. Keeps a faint ear out for the conversation between Kamilah and Cleopatra — now spoken on their shared tongue with which he is admittedly less fluent.

When at first he hears the sound of sandal-clad footsteps he assumes — that is his first mistake. No, not his first.

His first was agreeing to bring the Godmaker’s child here in the first place. It risked not only the wrath of Gaius upon his beloved, but everything within Rome they had built.

“Bold is the man who wanders stranger’s halls as his own.”

Not a servant at all then. Cynbel withdraws his curious touch from a withered fern but keeps his back turned, folds his hands behind him to assure the approaching Caesar that he carries no weapons and means no ills.

For men such as them, men of battle and blood, actions mean far more than words ever could.

“Bold,” he repeats, “or perhaps foolish. Which is the man before me, I wonder?”

He looks down upon Julius Caesar as he does all men. Across the shallow pool to where the human’s heart thunders in his breast. What he doesn’t expect is the recognition that carves itself on the man’s expression.

“I would hope to say neither,” answers Cynbel warily, “though Caesar may say otherwise.”

“May he indeed.”

“Imperator,” he finally greets, one hand at his front in a low bow; only done for the sake of mortal pride. Pride that shines in the eyes of the man as he approaches.

“Indeed,” Caesar continues, “the man before me may be neither bold nor foolish, but cunning above measure. An assassin, perhaps?”

Cynbel’s tongue gets the better of him. “Were I an assassin Caesar would be none the wiser.”

“I should hope not. Lest he find himself in need of a profession to which he is better suited.”

“Then let Caesar sleep soundly that he will wake come morning light, and that Death does not yet come for him.”

He straddles a dangerous edge, threatening the most powerful man in Rome as flippantly as he does now. Yet there’s a foreign strand in the rope tense between them; one that winds around the columns surrounding them in a complicated array that dances, seemingly alive, with each tug of the knot wrapped around their fists.

Caesar throws his head back and laughs; gives Cynbel tie to school the surprise away from his features. Not that he finds it difficult — any man who has stared down the end of a blade has made peace with death in some form or another. Why should Caesar be any different?

Because, whispers a voice in the back of his mind, he sounds not at peace, but looks down his nose in victory.

“Laugh at your leisure,” said through gritted teeth; not yet sharp but inching closer with each breath, “for Death is not as kindly a picture as the poets paint.”

“And how is Death then, hm? From one who has seen it with his own eyes.”

“Hungry.”

But if at first he thought the word a victory in their war of wits, Cynbel soon realizes the trap he has allowed to ensnare him. Words are pretty things and the Golden Son of Valdemaras was never led astray by them before. When words fail, the educator is left vulnerable. But the soldier can always fall back on his fists if needed.

Though he has a feeling punching Caesar may not have the same effect.

The man before him now is more than one of wit — he knows. Damn him to Hades should he know how but he would only be playing blind to say otherwise.

“Interesting, very interesting.”

Enough of this.

Cynbel should know to run — in the moment that he crosses the width of the courtyard, brings his full height to measure against such a feeble and mortal title as Imperator, and sees that very same mortal give naught so much as a flinch at the display. He should run, lectica abandoned, and gather his lovers in his arms while there is still night to cover them as they flee. Away from Rome. Away from the Godmaker and his Queen.

Away from Julius Caesar; who knows there are creatures beyond mortal that walk among him and is not afraid.

But it is for those same lovers that he stands his ground. Bares blood-red eyes and fangs that have felled more than Caesar’s sword ever could.

“You think this the first time such impossible things have come across me?” And to his horror Caesar’s hand comes up and strokes across the swell of his cheek; thumbs at his fangs and delights in how easily his flesh yields to them. At the noise it evokes when blood falls on the vampire’s tongue.

“I have seen things that would make even creatures such as you cower in fright. I have weathered them all as a mortal Caesar, though not for long.”

His words leave Cynbel speechless; bring about him a feeling of uncertainty he had thought abandoned with his mortality. Thoughts impossible to count whirling through his mind — thoughts of the last time he darkened the commander’s doorstep; that time not alone. And even the idea of exposure, of putting them at risk…

But no, no it cannot be. Surely an ego such as this would not have allowed him to let them leave; not if they could provide for him something as rare as true immortality.

Something had changed. But what?

Did it matter, though? He looks down at Caesar and sees a man on the cusp of something great. But not yet there. Still mortal underneath his breast and all the way within. No matter what aspirations Caesar carried in the darkness of his heart they were still merely that; aspirations.

“They have a warning for men like Caesar.”

“There are no men such as I.”

“Wrong. They name your kind Icarus.”

It makes the man sneer. “Yet my aspirations are easily within my grasp. I would take your head for your insolence but find myself merciful only in that the creature before me is a true vision as to what I will become.”

What I will become.

There is no room for misinterpretation. Gone are the painted words for they no longer have use.

Dictator Perpeuto, no longer. He has set greedy eyes on a higher calling.

Dictator Inmortalis.

When Cynbel bats the hand away from his face he makes no effort to pretend to be anything other than his truth. Hears the pop of Caesar’s shoulder against the force of him and revels even briefly in the satisfaction it brings.

“Know this,” snarls Valdemaras’ firstborn; the Golden Son bathed in blood who captured the heart of the spirit of death and never truly let it from his grasp, “Death comes for all mortal men, and mortality reeks upon Caesar foul and filth. And in that moment he should come to know his victories, his armies, all the land underfoot of him mean nothing.

“I look forward to seeing Caesar’s end — and know it will be a permanent one.”

Cynbel feels the weight of Caesar’s eyes at his back as he departs in rage barely tempered. Good. Let him see what he is unworthy of.

“Sayeed!”

His voice echoes across the marble walls and threatens with Jupiter’s wrath to bring them down. That the whelp child of Augustine does not come running only surges his anger forward unchecked.

“Sayeed! You will leave with me or be left behind!”

He rounds back into the atrium where Kamilah and Cleopatra both stand, both take in the swelling fury of him each with different eyes. Kamilah, uncertain.

“Cynbel, what is the meaning of —”

“I doubt you hard of hearing. We leave this wretched place now, or I will leave you behind.”

The younger vampire looks hastily between her kind and her kin, words with no time to be said hanging on the edges of her lips. Unbidden the Pharaoh’s hand snatches her wrist and holds it tight. A strange and curious understanding coming over her.

“He names you Sayeed?”

“It is —”

“I know that name. How do I know that na —”

By the time realization dawns in her kohl-rimmed eyes Kamilah and Cynbel are gone, vanished from that wretched place as though they were never there to start.

definitions:

ostium: the entrance to the domus (home)

cubiculum: the bedroom

Discordia: Roman Goddess of Chaos

stola: traditional garment worn by women

klinai: lounging furniture common in Roman homes

impluvium: a small marble-lined pool to collect rainwater

peristylium: outdoor porch around a courtyard

#bloodbound #bloodbound fic #playchoices #gaius augustine #kamilah sayeed #oc: cynbel #oc: valdas #oc: isseya #oblv: bound by choice #oblv: new chapter #; my fics

3 notes · View notes

lifeofresulullah · 4 years

Text

The Life of The Prophet Muhammad: First Migration, the Year of Sorrow, the Splitting of the Moon

The Spread of Islam and the Divine Warning to the Prophet: Part 2

Death of the Male Children of the Prophet

Sad events followed the happiness that came with the lifting of the boycott. The first chain of a series of saddening events was the death of our Holy Prophet’s four-year-old son, Qasim.

Our Holy Prophet’s (PBUH) heart, which was a fountain of compassion, was greatly saddened by his oldest son’s death. As he was walking to his beloved child’s funeral in a deep woeful state, he said to the Kuaykian Mountain that stood upright before him, “O Mountain! If what has befallen upon me had befallen upon you then you would not have been able to bear it and would have crumbled.”

Another painful event occurred while our Holy Prophet was still in deep mourning over his eldest son’s death: the death of his other son, Abdullah.

The Master of the Universe (PBUH), who is the ultimate example of what it means to submit to the will of Allah, was unable to hold back his tears.

Hazrat Khadijah asked about her beloved children whom she had rendered to Allah, “Oh Allah’s Apostle! Where are they now?”

Allah’s Apostle (PBUH) answered, “They are in heaven.”

Due to these painful circumstances, our Holy Prophet’s (PBUH) heart was mournful and his eyes were continuously filled with tears. The Muslims also shared his sadness while the polytheists were elated. They did not pay any condolences nor exhibit any sense of human integrity as they tried to further upset our Holy Prophet (PBUH) in whatever way they could. Savages like As bin wail and Abu Jahl took their cruelty to a whole other level by arrogantly saying, “Muhammad is now abtar, his progeny has been cut off. He does not have any songs left to continue his lineage. When he dies, his name and fame will be forgotten.”

Allah, Who never refrained from helping and consoling His beloved, revealed Surah al-Kawthar, which consoled our Holy Prophet (PBUH) and caused the polytheists to gag:

“Verily, We have granted you Al-Kawthar (9) (a river in Paradise). Therefore turn in prayer to your Lord and sacrifice (to Him only). For he who hates you (O Muhammad) he will be cut off.”

Yes, in reality the Abu Jahls and Abu Lahabs were the ones whose names and fame fell from grace whereas our Holy Prophet’s (PBUH) name and cause have continued to prevail for centuries and will continue to wave like a flag in the believers’ hearts till the Day of Judgment.

Abu Talib’s Death

The Muslims were immensely happy after having been rescued from this harsh boycott, which lasted three years. A common feeling of happiness spread across Mecca. However, this joy did not last long. Other painful events and tribulations occurred within a very short time.

Abu Talib fell sick and passed away during the tenth year of our Holy Prophet’s (PBUH) Prophethood. Our Holy Prophet (PBUH) was immensely saddened by the death of his beloved uncle who had embraced him at a young age, who compassionately took him under his wing and raised him, and risked all sorts of dangers in order to protect our Holy Prophet (PBUH.) At the same time, the Master of the Universe (PBUH) sincerely yearned for Abu Talib to become a Muslim so that his uncle could attain eternal happiness.

As time passed, Abu Talib’s illness had gotten worse. The polytheists noticed this and again decided to appeal to Abu Talib to surrender his nephew to them. Utba bin Abi Rabia, Shayba bin Rabia, Abu Jahl, Umayya bin Khalaf, Abu Sufyan, and many others came to him and said: Oh Abu Talib, you are one of our elders. We are now worried seeing that you have fallen on your death bed. You know what has happened between us and your brother’s son. Call him and be a judge amongst us. Have him separate from us and we will separate from him. Let us not struggle with one another. Have him not interfere with our faith and we will not interfere with his.”

Abu Talib sent for our Magnificent Holy Prophet (PBUH).

Allah’s Apostle (PBUH) came and sat amid his uncle and those who were present.

Abu Talib addressed the Master of the Universe (PBUH), “Oh my Brother’ Son. These are the leading figures of the tribe. They came here to discuss your matter. They are going to give you what they offer to give and will take what they want to take.”

Our Holy Prophet (PBUH) answered, “Alright, my Uncle. I have one word that I want them to take and accept from me. With that one word, they can rule over all the Arabs and non-Arabs.”

Abu Talib was amazed, “only one word?”

“Yes, only one word” replied our Holy Prophet (PBUH).

Everyone was curious; what could this word be?

Abu Jahl came forth and arrogantly said, “Tell us what that one word is so we can add ten more words to it.”

The Master of the Universe (PBUH) announced the one word that everyone was so curious to hear:

“Say La ilaha illallah and throw away all the idols that you worship!”

The polytheists all clapped their hands and said, “Oh Muhammad, do you want to make all these gods just one God? We are surprised.” Afterward, they spoke amongst themselves: “By God, this man is not going to give us what we want. Let us go, until God issues His judgment, let us firmly follow the religion of our forefathers.”

Allah notifies us of their action in the Holy Quran as follows:

"Has he made the gods (all) into one God? Truly this is a wonderful thing! And the leaders among them go away (impatiently), (saying) "Walk ye away, and remain constant to your gods! For this is truly a thing designed (against you)!

Our Holy Prophet (PBUH) Invites His Uncle to Islam

Following the discussion they had with the polytheists, Abu Talib said to our Holy Prophet (PBUH), “By God, my brother’s son, I do not see your request as being far from the truth.”

When he heard this, our Holy Prophet (PBUH) was happy and hopeful that his uncle whom he dearly loved and respected would become a Muslim, “O Uncle! Say ‘La ilaha illalah’ so I can intercede for you on the Day of Judgment.”

Unfortunately, the Uncle of the Master of the Universe (PBUH) did not provide a joyous answer:

“Oh my nephew, I swear by Allah that if I was not afraid of them claiming that my conversion was due to having been afflicted with dementia at an old age and of them continuously mentioning this to you and the sons of your forefathers after my departure from this world, then I would say what it is that you want me to say and would submit to you; The Quraysh is going to think that I uttered those words because I fear death; that is why I am not going to say them.”

However, despite this, our Holy Prophet (PBUH) did not refrain from encouraging his uncle to convert to Islam. His holy heart was pounding with the fear of the frightful aftermath that his beloved uncle would face in the event that he did not convert. Therefore, he continuously said, “Oh Uncle, say La ‘ilaha illallah’ so I can intercede for you in the hereafter.”

On some other occasion, while our Holy Prophet was (PBUH) inviting Abu Talib to testify to faith, Abu Jahil and Abdullah bin Abi Umayya were present. They both said, “Oh Abu Talib! Are you going to turn away from Abdulmuttalib’s people and his religion?”

Our Holy Prophet (PBUH) did not pay attention to their words and persisted in inviting his uncle to recite the shahada (testimony of faith.) They also continued to repeat their own words in the same manner. At last, Abu Talib said (by referring to himself) “he was a follower of Abumuttalib’s faith.

Despite this, our Holy Prophet’s (PBUH) holy heart was greatly distressed with the fear that his uncle, who loved him dearly, would share the same frightful fate as the polytheists who had subjected our Beloved Prophet (PBUH) to all sorts of insults and cruelty. He said, “O Uncle, know that that I will continue to ask for you to be forgiven until Allah takes your soul.”

Eventually, Abu Talib died at the age of 87 without attaining an acceptable belief.

Upon this, Allah revealed a verse that addressed our Holy Prophet (PBUH) and the Muslims at the same time:

“It is true thou wilt not be able to guide every one whom thou lovest: but Allah guides those whom He will and He knows best those who receive guidance.”

Our Holy Prophet’s (PBUH) holy and delicate heart was immensely saddened by his uncle’s death. His eyes were filled with tears and he said,

“May Allah forgive his sins and offer His benevolence.”

At the time of Abu Talib’s death, Hazrat Abbas was at his brother’s bedside. When Abu Talib was dying, Hazrat Abbas saw his lips moving and heard him say, “La ilaha illalllah.” He turned to our Holy Prophet (PBUH) and said, “O my Brother’s Son! By God, I heard my brother Abu Talib utter the testimony that you had wanted him to say.”

Amid his tears our Holy Prophet (PBUH) said, “I did not hear it.”

We should state that Hazrat Abbas was not a Muslim, then.

At his uncle’s funeral, our Holy Prophet (PBUH), who was greatly saddened and whose heart was a trove of compassion for all of humanity, prayed for him, “May Allah bring you to the presence of His compassion and reward you with benevolence.”

During this time a verse related to this matter was revealed, providing the Muslims with an unchangeable measure:

“It is not fitting, for the prophet and those who believe, that they should pray for forgiveness for pagans, even though they be of kin after it is clear to them that they are companions of the Fire.”

The death of his uncle both saddened our Holy Prophet (PBUH) and caused him to think deeply. He was the one who had been our Holy Prophet’s (PBUH) guardian in the physical sense and had tried to protect his nephew from the dangers posed by the polytheists. He never refrained from safeguarding his nephew under the most difficult and harshest conditions and continued to risk facing harsh enmity from his relatives. Due to this protection, the polytheists were unable to fully interfere with our Holy Prophet’s (PBUH) work.

Now Abu Talib was gone. There was no one left to protect (visibly) our Holy Prophet (PBUH) against the polytheists’ excessive animosity and resentment. However, Allah continued to be His Beloved Messenger’s (PBUH) true protector without leaving the need for a material guard and protector.

The Issue of the Belief of Abu Talib

There are many views regarding Abu Talib’s faith. Scholars from among the Shia believe that he left with faith whereas most Sunni scholars say that he left without having testified. Furthermore, it can be understood from some of his poems that he would frequently praise our Holy Prophet (PBUH) and had testified to him through his heart.

Hazrat Khadijah’s Death

A short while after Abu Talib’s death, about three days later, our Holy Prophet’s beloved wife, Hazrat Khadijah, passed away, at age 65, during the holy month of Ramadan.

Our Holy Prophet (PBUH) led the prayer at her funeral and while they were burying her in the Hajun graveyard, he watched the dark soil that now covered her with tears in his eyes.

These painful events that took place one after the other greatly pained and saddened our Holy Prophet (PBUH.) Hazrat Khadijah was our Holy Prophet’s (PBUH) greatest supporter and sympathizer due to her loyalty, the strength of her faith, compassion, faithfulness, submission, her heart’s tenderness, and virtue. While everyone was an enemy to him, she was the first to testify to his Prophethood. And while everyone distanced themselves from him, she opened her heart to him and had her love deeply buried in her tender heart. She was his only source of comfort during all the times he was most distressed.

Our Holy Prophet’s (PBUH) exceptional love for Hazrat Khadijah undoubtedly and greatly contributed to his immense grief. He never forgot about her after her death and would praise and speak about her with great reverence and love when the situation arose. He would help her relatives and never withheld his compassion and mercy from them, which reflected his love for her.

One day, when he heard the voice of Hazrat Khadijah’s sister, Halah, he mentioned the name of his beloved wife. Hazrat Aisha witnessed this and said, “Allah has given you younger and more beautiful wives.”

Our Holy Prophet (PBUH) made it obvious that he was bothered by her words and mentioned Hazrat Khadijah’s kindness and virtue.

Intending to make up for what she had said, Hazrat Aisha, who was very perceptive, said with the fullest sincerity, “O Allah’s Apostle! I swear by Allah Who has sent you as a Prophet that I will always want you to mention Khadijah’s stories from now on.”

***

We learn that our mother Hazrat Aisha was jealous when our Holy Prophet (PBUH) would continue to frequently praise and mention Hazrat Khadijah with love through her own words:

"I did not feel jealous of any of the wives of the Prophet as much as I did of Khadijah though I did not see her, the Prophet used to mention her very often, and whenever he slaughtered a sheep, he would cut its parts and send them to the women friends of Khadijah. When I sometimes said to him, "(You treat Khadijah in such a way) as if there is no woman on earth except Khadijah," he would say, "Khadijah was such-and-such a woman, and from her I had children."

When our Holy Prophet (PBUH) frequented Hira, our mother Hazrat Khadijah would take food to him.

One day Hazrat Jabrail came and said, “O Allah’s Apostle! The one who comes directly to you from afar is Khadijah. She is carrying a container that holds food. When she comes to you greet her on behalf of her Lord and me! Tell her that a castle in heaven has been made from pearls to be given to her and that it possesses no work and commotion.”

***

Hazrat Ali heard our Holy Prophet (PBUH) say: “Maryam, the daughter of Imran, was the best woman of her time. The best woman in my ummah (community) is Khadijah.”

3 notes · View notes

platypus-quacks-too · 5 years

Note

Hi!!! I'm asking again for another prompt cause I'm a big fan of your work, my prompt is about the new episode, the reason why Amy planted the book is because she is already pregnant and she wanted Sheldon to be ready...

Note: I did not forget about the older prompt from you and others, it’s just this one clicked more with me and I had a better idea. Clearly, fluff is the way here. I am happy I managed to write anyway, but I hope you guys will enjoy it. You can also find it on ff net as The Dreamlike Progeny Revelation.

Amy closes her eyes and tries to put herself to rest. She’s a bit envious of Sheldon, who fell asleep so quickly after their goodnight. She assumes physics is not as good as her worries to keep someone awake. There is so much going on in her mind right now to even hope to sleep anytime soon.

Her hand naturally goes to rest on her belly as she relives the past day. She loved to see Sheldon getting more comfortable around the younger Wolowitz just as she was pleased with the ingenious way she had found to bring him there. On the other hand, her plan had worked only part way through: it didn’t give her the chance to tell her husband about their own progeny currently growing inside her.

Sure, he really did have fun with the little ones today. She almost burst Into tears watching Sheldon rocking Michael to sleep, or melting in a smile because the baby had taken his finger. And while that book was only meant to be a way to reach her goal, she has to admit it has a few very interesting experiments. As a neuroscientist, observing and testing the wonder of the human development was absolutely fascinating, and she had been the first to suggest to Sheldon how their offspring should have the potential to be even so remarkable.

Now everything is different. Only a few inches below her hand there is a baby. Their child. Will she probably think to carry out some test or closely report all of its progresses growing up? Very likely so. But now she mostly sees its bright eyes and tiny hands, and all she can think of is to keep it safe from the world.

She knows Sheldon is going to love their kid immensely. She also knows how her husband works. He had never been comfortable around little humans, so it felt natural to try to have him relating with babies more gradually than hitting him right away with the news of the upcoming parenthood. What better occasion then spending some time with their friends’ little bundles of joy? Sheldon can get used to them first, and maybe stop considering toddlers and infants merely as test subjects that cry and poop.

So far so good, except of course for the fact he still insists about multiplying like rabbits. She squeezes her belly slightly as a funny thought popped into her mind. What if there are actually twins down there? Or maybe triplets? Having one baby is scary and exciting enough. Three? It is way more than she thinks she can handle.

Sheldon mutters something in his sleep. “Professor Einstein, you are forgetting your coat…!” He adds then.

Amy shakes her head before looking down, “Four of you? It sounds fun…!”

She turns toward Sheldon and smiles. “I probably better try to get some sleep now,” she says again to her baby, “We will think of something else tomorrow.”

She moves closer to him and snuggles into him, her face buried in the crook of his neck. The smell of baby powder is already soothing her as she pulls him closer. He seems to be sleeping sound; nevertheless, Amy feels his hands moving on hers and his legs entwining with her own. In no time she slips into sleep, feeling safely enclosed with her little growing family.

Einstein left a while ago, so now Sheldon is wandering around not sure on what to do, or where he is. He has been walking down a long corridor for what it felt a lifetime, until he finally finds something worth mentioning: a pink door with a tiny cartel saying ‘Subject #1’. More intriguing, someone drew a line over the writing.

He decides to enter the room, and it gets… odder. A toddler is sitting right in the middle of it. She looks busy with a bunch of building blocks.

“Hi Daddy,” the baby girl greets him.

“Daddy?”

She doesn’t seem to be bothered by his father’s puzzled tone. “I am your child, Marie,” she informs him, “Don’t you recognize me?”

Sheldon tentatively shakes his head. “I have mama’s eyes, the Cooper’s hair?” She tries, “I am named after your favorite female scientist but you tell grandma it’s after her?”

Sheldon takes a moment to better observe the little girl. Amy’s green eyes sparkle over an angelic face framed by chestnut curls. He doesn’t know many toddlers except of the Wolowitz ones, but definitely he can say she is a very pretty little girl.

He moves closer and it suddenly occurs to him she shouldn’t be talking the way she does.

“How old are you?” He asks abruptly, “You shouldn’t be talking this well already.”

She switches the two blocks she was focusing on over the last minutes before answering, “I am two, and I can properly talk because I am super smart, obviously.”

Sheldon can’t hold a satisfied grin. Too bad Marie contradicts him already, “To be honest, I can talk because this is a dream, and I am just an expression of your subconscious. You didn’t believe I was that smart, did you?”

“Don’t you get sassy with me, little lady,” he scolds her, “I am your father after all. Or the conscious to your subconscious, you name it.”

“I get the sass from mama. You like that in her.”

Sheldon sits with Marie. What better proof it is a dream than the fact he willingly sits on the floor? “I do, but we don’t tell her,” he then admits. She smiles in return, and Sheldon thinks that’s another thing she got from Amy.

They remain silent for a little while. Marie continues to handle her blocks while Sheldon observes her mesmerized.“So, haven’t you figured out it yet?” She finally asks once she has done.

“That you have been writing our super-asymmetry equations with those? Of course I have.”

“I don’t mean this. It doesn’t even take this much imagination to figure it out,” she replies, “I meant something else. Look at that,” she adds, pointing somewhere behind Sheldon. He turns and looks in that direction: a calendar?

November 7, 2021.

“It’s almost three year in the future,” Sheldon observes, “I got it! We are inside a virtual reality simulator! Can I get to the commands?”

Marie sighs. “To be exact, we are two years and eight months from your present, and no, this is not a virtual simulation. C'mon daddy, it is so obvious! Are you sure you are a genius?” She mocks him.

Sheldon is too disappointed to be bothered by the snarky remark. “What else can it be? I can’t think of anything better.”

Marie insists, “For instance, have you noticed anything weird with mom lately? Like stumbling upon a book about experimenting on babies.”

“I realized she did want me to find the book,” Sheldon confesses, “But I know it was only because she didn’t want to admit she wanted to experiment on Halley and Michael. Sometimes people tell us it isn’t really moral to conduct trials on our friends. I know, they are crazy,” he adds once he sees Marie is shaking her head again.

“It wasn’t because of this. Well, it wasn’t only because of this,” Marie concedes. “Think harder: have you noticed mom felt sick almost every morning in the last couple of weeks? Any emotional lability?”

“Oh, what a nice word, lability. You don’t hear it enough.”

She ignores the unrequested parenthesis and continues, “And have you noticed she went missing for most of yesterday…? Do you remember what happened six weeks ago?”

Marie has stressed the last question weirdly. Well, as weird as it can possibly sound for a toddler who is talking like an adult. Trying to focus on her question, Sheldon takes a moment to remember. He quickly turns pale when he realizes what she is hinting at.

“You and mom made love, and you were so into the role of a reckless Gryffindor that-”

“Don’t say it!” Sheldon interrupts her, “I won’t discuss such things with… well, with you.”

“Remember I am not really your daughter, but only your subconscious,” she answers back, “Don’t be shy.”

“I am not shy. It’s just-” It is a bigger deal than discussing coitus with a self projection of himself in the form of his future daughter. What she is implying… No, it can’t be. Even in the robe of a reckless wizard, he knows he has been careful, especially when Amy does her best to bewitch him.

But even admitting he somehow lacked on precautions, has what they are suspecting really happened? Sure, Amy lately complained of some morning sickness and ate a whole bowl of chocolate ice cream in one lump. Yes, she did disappear for whole day and behaved weirdly even since she got back home. But what is weird anyway? She is weird enough to have married him.

“So, you got it?” Marie urges him.

Sheldon takes a deep breath and still hesitates before being able to say that. “Are you saying you- Amy is pregnant? With you?”

Marie casually shrugs. “You are saying that,” she says. Sheldon remained speechless.

“I am hungry,” she adds then, “You should feed me,” she declares standing up and reaching out to Sheldon.

“Feed?”

“You cut some watermelon for me and then let an airplane fly in my mouth. I may be a product of your mind, but I still need to be fed like any other toddler.”

Marie’s big eyes stare at him. She may be talking like a 40 year old, but those puppy eyes are those of a child. His child. Now everything he can think of is landing watermelon cubes into her mouth.

He stands and takes the hand of his little girl. Lord, she is so tiny next to him. He realizes she is looking up at him.

“I can’t wait to meet you, dad.”

It feels bittersweet waking up. He hates to be taken away so abruptly from his girl- um, that marvelous product of his subconscious. On the other hand, he has found himself wrapped in Amy’s arms, who breathes peacefully on his neck and holds him tight in her sleep.

Just as he closes his eyes back to enjoy his wife’s embrace, Marie’s words echo in his mind. What if she is right? All those things he noticed himself but didn’t pay attention to before…

Carefully, he turns around to face her and plants a kiss on her lips.

“Mmm, I like this,” she mutters with a grin, “You should wake me up this way more often. How’s that?”

“I will. I- I had a dream,” Sheldon starts saying, even if he realizes that saying out loud what he is thinking is so scary.

“Marie appeared in my dreams. She was writing the fundamental equations of super-asymmetry with building blocks and made me think about the book we found in the library, and your morning sickness, and that whole bowl of ice-cream you had the other day…”

Amy is pretty sure her heart stopped for a short while. Did he find out…? Also, why Marie Curie is making her husband realize she is pregnant?

“Marie? You mean Marie Curie?” It’s all she can ask back.

“No. I mean, I saw her earlier with Einstein-” he interrupts as soon as Amy raises her eyebrows, “Anyway, it wasn’t her. It was our daughter.”

The very way her eyes widen… oh boy, Marie is right. “Amy… she implied a thing. She suggested that last month, when we made love-”

“She told you the truth.” She doesn’t even know how, but the words just flow out of her. “She- he, whatever… it’s here already.”

Good thing he is lying already or he would have been falling down like a sack of potatoes in no time. Even if a part of him knew it before, her explicit admission is a lot to deal with.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He eventually manages to say.

She can’t help but feeling a little guilty because she hid her pregnancy for two whole days. She kisses him before apologising, “I- I am sorry. It’s just… you always say how sure you are we will have super-smart children, and today you reiterated the idea we will be able to follow their growth on a scientific point of view, and making experiments with them…”

“Maybe they will be super-smart,” she continues, “And the experiments are fun and I can’t wait to redo a couple of the ones we tried today. But before telling you… I needed to be sure you will want to hold our baby in your arms, or feed it, or change the diaper, and love it no matter what.”

Maybe he wasn’t ready for all of these just the same. Maybe he will never be. Or maybe she was wrong the whole time and he just can’t wait to sing Soft Kitty to the little thing currently living in her belly.

“I dreamed she asked me for watermelon and that she wanted me to play the little airplane to land it. Once she asked me- That’s all I wanted to do then.” Sheldon thinks he wants to caress her belly but eventually takes her hand and gently squeezes it, “She also took my hand and I think my heart almost exploded. I didn’t care about her intelligence or any trial I could even try with her. I only wanted to hold her and eat watermelon together.”

This is enough for Amy to dispel all her doubts. Oh, silly Amy. If marrying Sheldon ever taught her something, it is was how full of love her husband is. Today is no exception. He will be a great father, won’t he? Even if there will be a cognitive test from time to time.

He holds Amy closer and kisses her forehead. “Do you think there’s a chance for twins?” He asks hopefully.

Amy sighs. Here he is again…! Of course, she won’t admit to him she had the same thought.

“We won’t have twins because you need a control group,” Amy jokingly scolds him.

“I wasn’t think of that…Well, that’s a positive side effect,” he confirms, “But I mostly want to have many little versions of us… of you.”

“Very good save,” Amy concedes, and Sheldon smiles back proudly.

#The Big Bang Theory #shamy #shamy fanfic #fanfictions #prompts #lu writes

78 notes · View notes