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ashesandhackles · 1 year

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Fic recs

Other Women and of Purer Blood by @saintsenara

Summary: Narcissa is adrift, rattling around Malfoy Manor, when an equally lonely man comes into her lonely life.

Thoughts: I have been wanting a story that contextualises the sexual charge and familiarity we see between Snape and Narcissa in Spinner's End for ages (canon compliant, that is) and this story is a lovely backstory to that. It also captures Snape in transition: Snape still ironing out his northern accent, how his movements are still spider-like. He is in the process of becoming the adult Snape we see in canon: whose speeches are a performance, and how he irons out the awkwardness of his movements in adulthood.

Excerpt:

Snape looks completely wrong in the flowery bower where Dobby has set out tea. His sallow awkwardness seems to repel the summer, even though Narcissa suspects he must be baking in his layers of shabby black robes.

He doesn’t have the fine manners of the sort of person who normally comes to tea with the Malfoys. He eats quickly, and slurps his tea, and looks at the cakes with the greedy eyes of a boy who isn’t used to treats. Lucius would be disgusted, to have a greasy half-blood at his table spraying crumbs everywhere. She imagines the expression of horrified confusion on his pointy face and giggles.

Snape immediately goes scarlet and puts down his tea-cup.

In Infinite Remorse of Soul by @perverse-idyll

Summary: Albus Dumbledore never makes the same mistake twice. Certainly not in love.

Thoughts: My very first Snumbledore, which is a frightening meditation on the very vast power dynamics between Snape and Dumbledore from the hilltop scene in Deathly Hallows and expanding the very personal reaction Dumbledore had towards the wayward young Death Eater. Perverse Idyll is among the best writers in the fandom, brimming with words and fantastic imagery that just stays with you.

Excerpt:

"My boy," Albus says almost kindly, because kindness is something that mystifies his young servant. Severus' eyes dart upwards, apprehensive, accusing, and Albus can see the darkness inside the boy clawing to reach him. Guilt calling to guilt.

The moment quivers and thins until he judges that Severus has had enough and is about to rebel. A harsh rasp draws his attention. He looks down at the bruised, blackened fingernail scraping across stone.

"My boy," he sighs. "You never fail to disgust me."

The ritual word strikes Severus down. His obstinate body shrinks, wings of hair flapping forward to shut his scowling face from view.

To Build A Home by @mblematic

Summary: 1978-1981: Sirius stumbles on something in the woods, Sirius and Remus stumble into each other, everyone stumbles into the war.

Thoughts: First War hijinks, dysfunctional Wolfstar - I was fed! I cannot rave enough about the gorgeous, subtle writing of relationships (the author really captures this raw, visceral vulnerability between two friends who are attracted to each other and how it explodes in heightened tension of war) and there is some fantastic world building and mirroring. Excerpt: Later, Sirius would remember almost everything from this night with crystal clarity except the sky, which in reality was clouded but in his memory would be open, star-studded, expansive and unknowable as the future. He’d remember, correctly, that the wolf was different than it had been at Hogwarts. He’d remember the restless, brutal, snarling fury, all of it undercut with a fear so intense it had its own meaty weight. The night took Sirius by surprise and he spent the whole long stretch of it trying to put himself back on track, trying to reacquaint himself with the wolf, and trying to convince them both that they remembered each other. At one point he found himself literally between Remus’ jaws, helpless and pliant, mewling like a supplicant. This, too, he would remember for the rest of his life.

Second Life by Cassandra, nwhiker Summary: What happens when two men are given a second chance.

Thoughts: I finally got around to reading one of the most recommended Snirius fics out there. Beautiful, understated, deeply emotional - the authors take you on a journey with the two of them post war. It also feels....old?? As in, the kind of perspective this fic has is the perspective of someone in late 30s (which both Snape and Sirius are in this fic, post war). There is a fragile, "who else will understand what our generation went through?" running through the vein of this fic.

Excerpt:

It was like walking into a tiny garden in the tropics, and he was reminded of some of the places he'd visited while on the run after his escape from Azkaban. There were hundreds of plants, most of them unfamiliar, and a large table was filled with orchids. There was a tree, which turned out to be a frangipani, its white flowers soft and sweet. A delicate white flower with an exquisite fragrance that Snape said was bouvardia. Along one wall were plants Sirius recognised from Potions classes, wolfsbane and asphodel, wormwood and sopohorous, a shrivelfig tree, and others he'd seen but didn't know the names of.

"I'm not supposed to have them," Snape said.

Sirius turned to him. Snape was staring down an orchid, brushing planting mix from the edge of its pot.

Al Aaraaf by eldritcher

Summary: There is a place between heaven and hell.

Thoughts: An unsettling, poetic horror fic featuring a grieving Walburga Black. The whole fic is structured like a poem, with rhythm and repetition and metaphor shining through.

Excerpt:

He had her face. He had her scowl. He had her loathsome, loathing heart that mourned and loved. Hell dwelled in him, as a warm and heartful thing calved of mother.

The last of earth's make she held was son. His hands were placed in prayerful clasp over her belly.

The lamb in her was of Tartary, born of son fed and killed with milk and honey, birthed of widow's mourning.

"It is all right," Sirius said, and held her to him as if she weren't damned.

Runaway Boys by Delphi

Summary: Severus dreams of pirates, and Lily closes the nursery window. Thoughts: I'm not sure if I have recommended this fic before, but I am recommending it again, just in case. This is a wonderfully strange coming of age, a tale of puberty told in dreams/ fantasies featuring Snape and Captain Hook. Excerpt:

"Severus S—" He cuts himself off and then tentatively amends: "Prince. Severus Prince."

It's a better name, he's decided. His new friends at school know the Princes, but they've never heard of any Snapes.

"That is a fine name, Mr. Prince," the man says. "As for me, I am Captain James Hook."

A large hand extends into the branches, and after a moment, Severus carefully leans down and shakes it.

"Pleased to meet you," Severus says.

"Are those friends of yours?" the captain asks, nodding towards the neighbouring island, where the boys are now riding wild ponies bareback, jousting with each other using lances made of hollow reeds.

Severus shrugs. Of course, he thinks, the man would rather know them.

Note: Please check the pairings and tags in each of these fics and keep in mind your own triggers :)

#hp fic recs #hp fics #since i am in my reading phase #largely snape-centric recs #but some other content also sneaks through #severus snape #narcissa malfoy #snarcissa #snumbledore #snirius #sirius black #remus lupin #wolfstar #walburga black #alastor moody

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thefangirlofhp · 2 years

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21. o’ my rage (“Think! For once!”) requested by anon

The fragility of anger left many things to be feared in its wake, and as it unfolds its poisonous branches to curl around them. For some, an easy emotion to manage, but when tempers flare and patience is lost, it leaves much delicate handling to be required because, fragile as thin ice, just as frightening in its unknown consequences–to risk the break or not step another?–anger of the powerful is veangeful, and egos are harder to deflate than they are to blow up.

An angry man was frightening for the might of his fist, an angry High Lord, on the other hand. And a stubborn, defiant shadowsinger of unknown origins and an unelaborated arsenal?

Feyre can scarcely breathe, for fear of escalating the situation where it cannot be saved. Her hands tremble as she holds them out, wracking her mind for the suitable words to say. She’s never seen her mate this enraged–it’s a different sort of anger, purely conceited and personal, and it is not something she knows how to manage.

Not with Rhys holding Azriel against the wall, fists tight on the collar of his shirt, and teeth bared in a tense snarl that warns of letting the beast within come out from his skin.

“I fucking warned you.”

Azriel’s hands are loose at his side, and his calmness is what offers Feyre’s mind a novel kind of fear to be felt. Where does it snap? Where does he put his hands on the male he swore an oath to?

“Rhys,” is what she can manage, with her dry throat, though she forces the words to come out stronger and more confident than she feels. “Taking it out on him won’t change a thing.”

“Yes it fucking will,” Rhys hisses, his chest heaving as his body comes down from the explosive anger that had splattered itself over the walls. Sometimes Feyre wishes his rage wasn’t so visceral and deadly, it’s an exhausting thing to have around. Though she never feared his temper, it’s one of those things she wishes he’d leave behind–just as easily as kindness and forgiveness comes to him, so does venomous deadly intent.

“Beron’s already declared the duel,” Feyre tries to keep a level head. “Losing your temper on Az will only make us lose.”

“WE LOSE EITHER WAY!” Rhys roars, smashing Azriel into the wall, and she flinches, clenching her hands tight in the air. His eyes are wide, hair disfigured and her only wish is that they’d received the news while Azriel was not in the vicinity. Or at least while they had Cassian around–she’s not sure she can subdue Rhys, blind with anger, or even if she wants to.

“Whatever Luc means to us, I’ll remind you that nowhere does he equal Azriel’s importance. To the court, to us, to you.”

“But that’s the thing, Feyre,” Azriel softly breathes, staring his brother down his nose with a vacant expression that only hints at a taunt. “I never was important, never a priority.”

“You’ve crossed the line,” Rhys shoots back. She just wishes he’ll step away, and keep some distance between them because she’s a hair’s width away from a heartattack. Especially when Azriel’s eyes flash and her stomach sinks.

“I fucking what?” his voice drops low.

“You crossed the line,” Rhys iterates again, slowly and loudly. “I’ve had it with your entitled bullshit. Your fucked up sense that the world somehow owes you shit. The world does not, in any version, remotely concern itself with you.”

“Haven’t you made that clear?”

“Not clear enough!” her mate shouts. “I ORDERED YOU TO STAY AWAY. I ORDERED YOU. YOU DEFIED ME.”

“Rhys, please calm down.”

“What do you want me to do?!” Her mate shouts, finally releasing Azriel to round up on her, his eyes wild with black temper.

“Calm down enough that doesn’t make me fear the possibility of you killing him,” she shoots back. “Control yourself, damn it.”

His chest heaves. His face gaunt and pale and drawn. He seems to have aged thousands of years in the span of the ten minutes.

“I resign.”

“What?!” she splutters, her mind malfunctioning as she whips around to glare at Azriel.

“I no longer wish to serve a male who wouldn’t return me the courtesy of taking my side.”

“You forget yourself,” Rhys answers.

“I’ve had it with you,” Azriel lands blow after blow and she wonders then if Rhys’s spluttering anger and haphazardly thrown words are not more merciful. Azriel lands his words knowing exactly where they will land, and how hard they will hit. “You’ve made it plain how little you care for me, and I no longer wish to torture my conscious serving you when you’re not worth the blood I spill. You started a war because of her, and somehow when I do nothing to act on the feelings I try so hard to fight, I cross the fucking line, Rhys?”

“You don’t just serve him, you serve me and the court, Azriel, remember that,” Feyre tries to placate him but how does one change a narrative brewing darkly where she cannot reach?

“I don’t care,” the shadowsinger says simply, emptily, carelessly. “I don’t care about politics. Emissaries. Dreams of a better world. A united people. Fuck it all.”

“Azriel–”

“Why would I toil and work hard when all I’m seen as is a mad dog to be unleashed on those who cross the mighty High Lord?” Azriel holds out his hands to the sides. “I expected your respect, your grace, because you had mine. No longer.”

“Over a woman?” Rhys demands, his face twisted with disgust. “You’re going to throw away centuries of work, your livelihood, because Elain, what? Smiles pretty? Is the last sister? Didn’t run away screaming at the sight of you?”

“All I ever wanted was to call myself beloved, to feel myself loved,” Azriel breathes quietly. “Everything I ever did was for you, and Cassian. And then the others. Never, once, in my forsaken life have I ever given an iota of shit about the cause you fight hard for. I’m not built that way. But I no longer care, and I have little love for you, if any, left. So I’d rather spend my time with whoever next will give a shit about me. I’d thought, falsely supported by the five hundred centuries and twenty years of brotherhood we share, that somewhere along the line you’ll think about me for once. I was wrong.”

“Think, for once in your damned life!” Rhys yells, anger touching him like a madness. “Why else would I want to stop the Duel from happening?! Don’t you dare accuse me of not giving a damn about your sorry life, or I’ll flay you alive–!”

“You want me to lose to Vanserra.”

“LISTEN TO YOURSELF!”

“Azriel, be reasonable.”

“You find it easier in you to mourn a fallen brother than one who turned away from you,” Azriel breathes in deeply. “But I won’t make it easier for you.”

“Everyone needs to calm down, immediately,” she declares. “No one is resigning, no one is flaying anyone alive, and no one is going to do something unreasonable like leaving. We need to face the facts, plain and simple. We can’t change what happened, or what didn’t happen. I don’t give a shit if Azriel’s at fault or not. Beron was waiting all along for an excuse, he doesn’t give a shit about Lucien or his bond. He wants to get to us, which he’s frighteningly succeeding at. Now both of you sit down while I call the others for a meeting to deal with the Blood Duel.”

Rhys’s jaw clenches so tight that she fears it shattering under the pressure.

Come quick, please, Rhys is a second away from killing Azriel, she speaks to every one of the Inner Circle.

“I’m leaving regardless,” Azriel shrugs.

“Like Hell,” snarls Rhys. “You fuck this mess, you clean it up.”

“Beron wants me to answer a Duel, he’ll find me himself,” Azriel makes to walk past them and leave, when the room darkens, and Rhys stops him with an arm.

“Azriel don’t provoke him,” Feyre warns. “Hold your tongue.”

“You’re not going anywhere.”

“I’d like to see you try and stop me.”

“I can. I will.”

“Boys,” she pipes up.

Azriel leans close to Rhys, his face frustratingly empty and devoid of any emotion, it is purposefully triggering in its uncaring regard. “Careful now, Rhys, don’t want to embarrass yourself in front of your mate.”

“No one walks away from me,” Rhys’s voice quiets.

Azriel tilts his head a little, calculatingly regarding him with those dead, dull eyes. “I am.”

“You disobeyed me.”

“Rhys–”

“You persistently defy your High Lord. You refuse to follow his orders. You insult both him and the High Lady. Azriel of Ilyria–”

“Rhys shut up–!”

“As High Lord of the Night Court, I charge you with treason–”

“Rhysand!”

“And conspiring against the crown, disobeying orders, and foresaking your oath. I sentence you an eternity in the Prison.”

She thinks, sometime later, that not even Azriel had anticipated an outcome as that, and she wonders if Rhys himself had any idea what he was doing when his temper got the better of him. Feyre sometimes wonders if she should have done something to stop it, but Azriel himself was aggravating in his coldness, and Rhys gets mad with worry and fear when his family is on the line which what was happening, Azriel himself being family and all.

But to watch Rhys’s magic coil around Azriel’s limbs and elbows, stifle the blue glow of his siphons, and tug him into a blackness of space at his back which swallows him whole, and takes him away–it tattoos itself in Feyre’s memory, mostly the broken look finally visible on Azriel’s face as family imprisons him in yet another cell, one with real monsters he’s locked away himself. Only this is permanent, and not even Rhys can bring him out. She doesn’t think about the fact, heartbreaking, that even in anger, Azriel had not retaliated or counteracted Rhys’s magic, or put up a fight, because the chance of harming him stopped him. She doesn’t think.

Cassian barges in too late. Amren runs in too late. Everyone comes too late.

“What happened?” Cassian heaves.

It’s all Feyre can do, sink to her knees on the floor, staring wide-eyed at the spot Azriel stood a second ago.

#rhysand #azriel #feyre pov #in which i choose violence today #i concede the outcome is highly unlikely but it’s not called fiction for nothing #acotar

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voidpacifist · 9 months

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the following is an excerpt from the sticky notes rewrite, which is still in its first draft. this is easily some of my best writing, so I wanted to share it with you. as a treat :)

content warnings for implied and overt ableism, though it is fairly brief

October, traveling south on I-81

The wind was whipping at his mother’s hair through the passenger window. Steve could feel it in his ears, warm and fast and unrelenting as the vehicle growled beneath his bare feet. It was autumn now, an unusually hot day, and he was twelve years old, and the year was 1979. In his head, he could see the individual numbers, the one of his pointing finger, the nine of his index and thumb tapping twice, the seven of his fourth finger following the same motion, and the nine again. It was easy this way, to pretend it was just a year, just a fraction of his life that he was withstanding.

Easy, and merciful, but ultimately dishonest to himself. It was 1979, which meant the beast of change had shown up to barrel through him. They were in New York not one hour ago, but soon enough, they’d be someplace new.

He wanted to hate it, the way he hated a lot of things that had happened in his short span of existence, but he couldn’t bring himself to. It wasn’t something he could judge as a good or a bad change, it was just…a change, really. The things he’d grown used to had ultimately not stood the test of time, because something about the last month had turned his mother into someone restless, and his father restless with her. The two of them stopped talking with their hands as much in conversations he was present for, and he sensed it long before they told him that they would be moving states.

He didn’t like the suddenness of it. But his mother, rock solid in much of her ways, had an underlying vigilance his whole life that couldn’t be quelled. He supposed now that this was just part of it.

A sign passed by his window that read in great, white letters the names of different cities. Scranton 20 was all he needed to read, dead center on the list, to know that his home state was out of sight now, passed by some time ago when he wasn’t paying attention. The thought stung — his chance to say goodbye had been snatched from him by the density of his own brain and everything passing through it. He felt like a black hole, not so much his mind destroying anything not related to moving states, but rather pressing them smaller until he forgot they existed.

He didn’t understand it. His mother adored the house they’d lived in for the past nine years, and told him often and at length about how much she loved it when his father had surprised her with the place. Once, she’d said to him, eyes alight in fond memory, the paint on the walls had been so bright it felt like stepping into a vacuum of color, rather than a colored room. If he thought back to his early childhood, to the ages of four and five and six, he swore he could snag glimpses of the same colors that captured his mother’s happiness in such visceral ways.

His mother, who painted on a smile and kept her head high for the drive across the country, but couldn’t meet his eyes when she spoke, fidgeted with the buckles on her purse, looked so frightened when she thought Steve wasn’t paying attention. Or maybe she did know he was — maybe it was just her looking for moments where she truly felt tethered enough to display what weighed most on her.

He pulled his school bag off of the floor of the car, unzipping the top and fishing out a notepad. His father had given him a new one each year since his sixth birthday, along with a new, shiny pen for writing with. At first, Steve had been puzzled by them, and a little bit bruised by it. The kids in his classes and at the park and at church never wanted to talk to him anyway, never wanted to face him when they did because they were afraid of what he sounded like.

He’d yelled at Ronan Harrington about it once on a Sunday afternoon, screaming what surely sounded like nonsense except in his head. Empty empty empty, he’d shrieked at him until his throat felt torn up by grains of sand.

His father, remarkable and extraordinarily calm even while Steve’s ire rained on him, let him do so, took the sting of his own son’s rebuke because he would never need paper and ink for others to talk to him and he would never experience the humiliation of people wrinkling their noses at how he sounded and he would never know fully what it felt like, to keep giving and giving and giving more of himself without getting anything back to fill the holes. His father let the tirade continue for an hour, until Steve could do nothing with the energy he’d siphoned out of himself except collapse to a tearful heap on the floor.

It will be filled, he’d said when Steve was calm enough to see his hands through his moist vision. You will meet people, and it will be filled.

The one he had in his hands now was hardly used, but enough by the few people he’d been acquainted with who got on with him that a few pages were sparsely covered. Looking over the four different fonts left his guts feeling like jelly, like his resolve could be felt waning bit by bit. The further away from the maybe-friends he’d made that he became, the less grounded he felt.

He scribbled where are we? in his scratchy, fresh-seventh-grader font, before tapping his mother on the shoulder. She turned and faced him, the underside of her eyes pink in a way that meant he should pretend not to notice. He offered her the notebook, along with a painted smile of his own, small enough that it didn’t feel fake. Taking the pen from his hand, she jotted down her answer, and he received it back in her loopy cursive. North Pennsylvania.

Having it in writing felt fiercely and wholly undoing of his first conclusion — this wasn’t just a change the way a change in and of itself was new and different and jarring. This was the awful kind, the kind that left him grieving for the months he could have had if they’d stayed. The same grief ping-ponged between himself and his mother in seconds, and he leaned over to kiss him on the head.

O-K? she asked him. She didn’t have to, because she could see the real answer in his face the way he could see it in hers.

O-K, he parrotted back to her. She couldn’t look him in the eye before turning back around, and the wind continued whipping in her hair as the outside world blurred beyond the car windows.

#steve harrington #steve harrington drabble #wip #fanfic wip #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things wip #sticky notes rewrite #to be edited #steddie fanfic #steddie

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camellia-thea · 10 months

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13, 41, and 42 for preferably both Taralin and Dove but can be just one

thank you. more musings than narratives here.

13. what does their handwriting look like?

i have samples of them both which will be uploaded when i have my ipad, and when i can take a photo of dove's journal.

dove's is written quickly, it's almost a scrawl, specifically because of her history with note taking in meetings. she writes fast, and her handwriting declines because of it.

taralin's is considered, and almost completely cursive. she was taught by her mother to always have a tidy hand -- who wants their spell book, or lore book in taralin's case, to be illegible?

please remind me to upload those images later tonight

41. are they good at controlling their emotions?

taralin bites her tongue, the blood pools in her mouth. a residue from too sharp teeth, even in this human form. she's angry and frightened, but for now, she is controlled. she will not snap, and so for now, she smiles with bloody teeth. a threat and a promise in one.

she will fight, or she will run, but for now, she will freeze.

---

dove is a storm inside, beast rattling at its cage in her mind. it growls cruelty in her sire's voice. she doesn't ignore it, she stokes the flames. the violence will come, and when it does, the world around her should be ready.

she is fire and ice and lightning, shadows in her blood, writhing behind her teeth. but, she's patient enough, she can hold that explosive anger back until it is time to unleash it on all who would harm her, and hers.

---

taralin is an animal, a monster masquerading as something human. her instincts are to fight, to flee, and the beast always wins eventually.

dove has accepted her rage, her hatred, her inadequacy. it just makes her stronger, in the end. she'll win. she knows it. she doesn't make bad choices. she always wins.

---

notes:

dove and taralin are very similar in regard to emotions. both are frightened, and angry, and hold a lot of visceral violence within them.

taralin's rage is contained until they can no longer hold it, until it explodes out of them in a monstrous act of violence. when they hit that point, they stop caring. can't care anymore. the fragile remains of the morals they are desperately trying to rebuild falter, and all they are is their rage, their hatred, and their fear.

dove, on the other hand, is a maelstrom, contained only by the fact that she wants to unleash it all at the right moment. objectively, her control is better than taralin's, and her violence is intentional. she is fascinated by her capacity for horrific acts, and she does not have the same qualms about morality before or afterwards.

another key difference between them is their guilt.

taralin is guilty always, but dove is rather apathetic to it all. again, she doesn't make bad choices. the only times she'll be frustrated with her decisions is if they are caused entirely by what little morals linger within her, or when they impede her progress on projects.

taralin is buried in guilt, buried in his past actions, buried in the actions they might've taken. buried by the morals they had to let go of with the morrigan.

dove's rage feels righteous. taralin's rage feels monstrous. that should tell you a lot about the pair.

42. how similar is your character to you?

... dove and taralin are my own perceived worst qualities to the max.

taralin is a paranoid, self-isolating coward. full of self hatred.

dove is also self-isolating, but she's taken the people pleaser route to protect herself. she's very proud, but tries to hide it.

both lost their morals in the process of becoming who they are.

they are me if i was worse, basically. just different aspects. navi also has this.

don't worry about me. i am fine.

#feather speaks #taralin #''dove'' [redacted]#ask game #feather answers #here you go

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ascendandt · 2 years

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hm actually i just wanna talk about my imaginary alive moritz feelings. read if u want idc

so like... in this . this uh world? dont wanna call it an au really but whatever. in this au moritz at the last minute goes with ilse, they like go to her artists colony. and while he does have this emotional lifeline now, hes been belittled and repressed for so long that his distress builds up til he cant take it anymore. he really wants to be able to express himself but it just doesnt happen ya know. very stressful. and on some level its because ilse doesnt... get him? she is so deeply sympathetic to what happened to him in canon but once they get to the artists colony after a few days (waiting for that guy who threatened to murder her to .. calm down) moritz is deeply uncomfortable by the way him and ilse are treated as models right. he doesnt really have words for it and neither does ilse, but she has experienced the predatory shit her whole life and just thinks its normal! so while she sees moritz's continuing anguish she doesnt understand it. nor can they have a conversation an understanding about it bc theyre both repressed traumatized kids!!!!

and like due to unimportant plot reasons all 4 (melchi wendla moritz an ilse) live together and try to act like friends again. and ilse wants melchi to be DEAD for various reasons about half of which are justified, moritz is torn. at first hes just sososo happy to see his bestie right as u would be. but when he learns about the Events in The Hayloft.. things get complicated. bc he is viscerally sympathetic to the loss of agency wendla experienced . hes a bit frightened by the fact that melchior could do something like that honestly. but at the same time moritz is 1. in gay love with melchi 2. desperate to maintain the cohesion of their friendgroup. so he is far more willing to see the hugelarge way the aftermath (wendla abortion + death scare x2 combo) affected him. (aside: i think melchior is genuinely freaked the fuck out by the consequences of what he did and it changes him as person. hopefully for the better but he still sleeps on the table of the shared flat) but due to that whole new set of baggage aquired melchi an moritzs relationship is ... strained now. which makes both of them really upset but again its not like they have the ability to articulate ANY kf this shit at all!!

#spoilers for the writing i will never do for this concept

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nothingunrealistic · 7 months

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text translated from french by google:

The actress Eva Victor, revealed by the series Billions, divides her time between big productions and indie works. She came to visit us during her last stay in Paris.

In the series, you often play young people from Gen Z who question their environment. Are you as committed as the characters you play? Eva Victor: I had the chance to play roles of people who try to do good. I like the idea that my generation wants the world to be better, that they at least have this hope. As I can be quite pessimistic, it's inspiring for me to play them.

You are on strike right now. Yes, in support of the Writers' Guild of America (WGA). I feel lucky to do it with the other members of my union, SAG, knowing that we are acting for those who are doing least well: many do not even earn enough to be entitled to health insurance (the threshold being set at $27,000 per year). This is insane.

Negotiations are moving slowly. Yes, because studios and streaming platforms want to continue making billions at our expense. They are not ready to give up what they have acquired on our backs. Right now, they want the right to our image forever by using Artificial Intelligence to eliminate our jobs. It's frightening. They don't want to recognize the value that we artists bring to the world. This is senseless, and devastating. There, they want to drag things out so that we end up giving up. We have to hold on.

You are also an author, with texts published in the New Yorker. If I couldn't write, I don't know what I would do. I'm so grateful that it was a job, that I was able to make money from my writing. People sometimes think that writing or acting are dream jobs, and therefore they don't deserve to be really paid. No, it’s work, daily, solitary, complex… It must be valued!

You were born in Paris. How did you move from France to Los Angeles? Yes, I was born here, in the 1990s. My mother lived here for around ten years, she was an architect. And about a year and a half after I was born, she moved to San Francisco where she met the man who raised me with her.

How did you start acting? I knew I wanted to be an actress when I was 18. I studied theater in college, then I moved to New York and I was like, “This has to work!” I started auditioning, I acted in a few plays, I made my own little videos that I put online. I did that for about two years, it put me on the map. And I was on the set of a film for the first time and I understood that this was what I wanted to do.

On your social media bio, you put the pronouns “she” and “they”. I feel pretty fluid, and I think that attitude translates into everything we do. I wouldn't call myself an actress, for example, I just do what I want to do, when I can. Here you have "iel", but it's less common, right?

Yes, it remains within a restricted group of people. I love when people use “they” or “she” interchangeably, because it reminds me of my fluidity. And I like it when it confuses people. I think we live in such a binary world that this stuff deserves to explode and go beyond the binary.

Are you viscerally New Yorker? I love this city. But now, I left New York and traveled a lot for two years. Every time I go back, I tell myself that it is a magnificent city, like Paris, with its particular magic. You can walk, the streets are lively... It's difficult to feel alone there.

Unlike Los Angeles? I'm from Northern California. I spent a lot of time there last year to see my family and enjoy the nature which is more easily accessible there than in New York. There's something truly beautiful about being in a cabin, alone, in the California wilderness.

Do you need solitude? I need a lot of time to think. So yes!

Are your stays in Paris a kind of pilgrimage? I try to come back here once a year. To recharge my batteries, to visit the place where my mother gave birth to me. You imagine? It's the 1990s. This woman is pregnant, alone, American. I think what if she gave birth to a baby in the middle of the night in Paris, in a city where she didn't speak the language very well, and in a hospital surrounded by French nurses smoking cigarettes while she gave birth, I can do everything!

When you are in Paris, do you feel connected to her? Everytime! We each have the same tattoo of Île Saint-Louis on our arms. When my mom got the tattoo, she almost fainted, but it was really cute. One day, we will come and settle here to grow old together. A day.

note that the word translated as “actress” in the lead section of the article is different than the word eva uses when they say they wouldn’t call themself an actress. though the latter is the same as the word used to describe eva in the headline 😒

#you had one job!#eva victor #billions

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seijorhi · 4 years

Text

The Fall

Somebody said Devil Kuroo and I have not recovered since. Anyway, enjoy my first offering for the Spooktober event!

Kuroo Tetsurou x Female Reader

TW Dub/non-con, blood, gore, minor character death, religious themes, nsfw, mild smut

It’s subtle, the shift in the air as two polished black shoes cross the threshold. The candles on the altar spit and sputter, and a shiver trickles down your spine.

You wonder if the humans scattered along the pews can sense it too, if they can taste the bitter, metallic tang in the air, feel the same prickling sensation at the nape of their necks as tiny hairs stand on end. The woman seated two rows in front of you stiffens, her breath catching between her sobbed prayers, but she doesn’t turn and neither do you.

Do they have any idea the evil that’s trespassing on holy ground? The danger that they’re all in - the danger that you’ve inadvertently brought upon them?

This is all your fault.

His footsteps, slow and measured echo mockingly throughout the nave, but you’re rooted in place. It’s instinctual, you think; the fear that sinks its claws into your heart, seeping into your veins like ice.

There is nowhere left for you to run.

You have no more aces hidden up your sleeves.

The wards that protected you, kept you safe and hidden for years are broken, and your friends-

Blood slicked floors, body parts strewn across your apartment. A howling scream pierces the air around you, and it takes a moment to realise that it belongs to you. You fall to your knees, bile rising in your throat as you stare in wide eyed horror at the grisly mess he’d left in his wake.

He could have killed them with a snap of his fingers, but he’d taken his time, hurt them, ripped the spines from their bodies slowly, keeping them alive as they screamed and begged through tears and snot and blood and vomit…

He’d left them for you to find like a gruesome homecoming gift. Punishment, you think, for daring to hide you from him.

It’s late, well past midnight. The only people in the crumbling, dilapidated church at this hour are those with nowhere else to go. Vagrants, the helpless, those lost to grief and addiction seeking the barest semblance of comfort amongst the burning incense, high ceilings and grimy, stained glass windows.

And you.

Though you suppose you fit into the former. Where else could hope to hide now that your sanctuary has been torn to pieces? This is the last place you’d choose to go, even now the long healed scars on your shoulder blades sting and burn, a painful and persistent reminder that you no longer belong amongst these hallowed halls.

Foolishly, you’d still come. Consecrated ground was supposed to protect you, however temporarily.

He shouldn’t be here. He can’t be here, it’s not possible, but-

Dressed in a crisp black suit with a blood red tie, the handsome figure settles himself down on the pew beside you. A smirk curls at his lips as he stretches long legs, crossing his ankles and leisurely fixing the sleeves of his jacket as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.

You don’t dare draw breath. Sitting stiff and ramrod straight, you stare at your trembling hands curled into fists on your lap, the ancient golden pendant lying broken in your palm. There’s dried blood smeared across the back of your hands, flecks and splatters hidden among the dark fabric of your skirt. The sight of it makes your stomach churn.

His chin tilts, golden, cat-like pupils settling on you. You fight the urge to fidget, to flee, fingernails biting into the soft, delicate skin of your palm as he studies you.

“Hey, angel,” he purrs, his voice like warm honey. “It’s been a while.”

Finally you tear your eyes away from your lap, meeting his smirk with an icy glare. “Don’t call me that,” you snap bitterly.

He laughs, stretching back to drape his arm over the wooden backrest of the pew, his fingers just barely grazing your shoulders. “But I like calling you angel, and I’ve missed you.” The last part is growled, a low and rumbling timbre, too deep, too rich to be mistaken for anything close to human. It makes your hackles rise and your stomach clench uneasily. Unbidden, memories flash to your mind- his teeth at your neck, his sweat slicked body moving atop yours. Unbearable, searing heat flooding your core, large hands encircling yours to hold you down as his hips eagerly rut up against your ass, “Give into me, angel, you know you want to.”

His grin widens, and you know that it’s deliberate.

You don’t have the luxury of anger, not when the fear so visceral it threatens to choke you demands attention. He’s smiling amiably, but you’re not so naive as to believe that he’s not furious with you, that there won’t be punishments that await you for your escape.

One hundred and twenty years might pass in the blink of an eye for him, but it wouldn’t make a difference if it were only one, or even a single month, a day. You ran from him, and for every moment you were not at his side he would make you suffer - excruciating pain inflicted with pleasure until your mind broke and you couldn’t distinguish the two, until you were a babbling, beautiful mess begging for mercy.

Until you regretted ever even considering leaving his side after all that he’d done to keep you there.

He’d promised you as much a long time ago, hissing the threat into your ear as he forced you to ride his cock.

You’d fled anyway. And now, you’re trapped with nowhere left to run, and he knows it just as well as you do. But it’s not yourself that you’re scared for.

There will be plenty of time for that later.

Six innocent, oblivious humans dot the derelict pews, and the Father you’d watched tend to the burning candles and incense at the altar, meeting your stricken gaze for just a moment before returning to the task at hand.

It is for their sakes that you are afraid.

“A church, angel?” he sounds amused. “You know, I expected you to run after you found the dead witch and her partner, but here?” he tuts, shaking his head with a sigh. Pain, raw and visceral stabs at your heart and your shoulders shake with barely concealed anger, hands clenched so tight that blood seeps from the crescent shaped cuts in your palm. He eyes the gold pendant flecked with crimson in your grip, and for the first moment since he arrived, you watch that cavalier facade slip - a flicker of something dark and jealous twisting at his features. “They were the ones who kicked you out, don’t you remember? They ripped those lovely wings-”

“You tricked me, Kuroo! You lied!” the words spill from your tongue before you can hope to stop them. His golden eyes widen for a split second, surprised by your outburst, but it only lasts a moment before he’s smirking indulgently at you once more. Too late you realise your slip. The devil has a thousand names, but Kuroo was the one he gave when he first came to you.

You haven’t uttered that name in almost two hundred years.

“Did you think that the grace of God would protect you here, angel?” He slides closer, long, nimble fingers plucking the cross from your hands only to cast it aside. The faint metallic clinking as it falls and clatters across the marble floors makes you flinch, but he pays it no mind. “Did you truly believe that there is an ounce of anything holy left in this crumbling, decrepit shithole? And even if there were,” he pauses, leaning down to whisper in your ear as a warm palm slides up your thigh, “did you really think that would be enough to keep me from you?”

“K-Kuroo,” you gasp as he leans down to nuzzle into the crook of your neck, his mouth laving wet, hot, open mouthed kisses against the delicate skin there. His fingers delve under the hem of your skirt and it’s pure, unadulterated fear that hits you like a tidal wave, compelling you against your better instincts to claw at his wrist, halting him in his tracks.

He stills, warm breath fanning across your skin as he exhales sharply, leaving goosebumps in its wake. The flames from the candles on the altar sputter once more before they swell with frightening intensity, surging as the temperature in the chapel spikes.

“Angel,” he purrs lowly, the barest hint of an underlying threat lacing the endearment, and it feels as though there’s an invisible hand inside of your chest, clenching around your frantically beating heart. It’s a mistake, you know that even as his other hand reaches for your chin, gripping it tightly as he forces you to meet his molten gaze. “If you keep denying me what I want, I will raze this fucking church to the ground and let them all burn.”

This time you don’t so much as flinch when he tugs your panties to the side, rough fingertips brushing teasingly along your slit. “You’re going to let me defile you, sweet thing. You’re going to remember why you fell for me.”

His eyes are blown wide, dark pupils almost swallowing the gilded irises. Gone is the perfectly crafted human facade - this is the beast that lurks beneath, and you have run from him for long enough. Your heart hammers against your ribs, your tongue darting out to wet your lips, fighting back a shiver as he tracks the movement with predatory focus. You know as well as he does that the games are over, and you have lost.

Every cell in your body is screaming at you to run, but you cannot move.

His breath is ragged, a flush of pink dusting at his cheek as he stares at you, an unholy desire burning in those bottomless depths.

One beat passes, and then another-

He closes the gap between you two, crashing his lips against yours. The kiss isn’t sweet. It isn’t tender, but it sets you alight nonetheless. Without warning his fingers plunge into your plush, velvet walls and you gasp for him, clutching at his jacket sleeve.

“And when I take you, fuck you on these floors until you sing for me, angel, you’re going to love every second of it,” he snarls.

#yandere haikyuu #yandere kuroo #yandere kuroo x reader #yandere kuroo tetsurou #yandere kuroo tetsuro x reader #Devil!Kuroo #supernatural AU #spooktober #tw non con #tw dub con #tw blood #tw gore #tw minor character death #religious themes #sacreligious #just a little #religious symbolism #slight smut #pls don't let this flop or i'll cry :)

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firstfullmoon · 4 years

Note

what are some quotes that are so visceral they feel like a gut punch to you?

“A man's heart is a wretched, wretched thing. It isn't like a mother's womb. It won't bleed. It won't stretch to make room for you.”

— Khaled Hosseini, A Thousand Splendid Suns

“At the trial of God, we will ask: why did you allow all this? And the answer will be an echo: why did you allow all this?”

— Ilya Kaminsky, “A City Like a Guillotine Shivers on Its Way to the Neck”

“I want someone to tell me what to wear in the morning. I want someone to tell me what to wear every morning. I want someone to tell me what to eat, what to like, what to hate, what to rage about, what to listen to, what band to like, what to buy tickets for, what to joke about, what not to joke about. I want someone to tell me what to believe in, who to vote for, and who to love, and how to tell them. I just think I want someone to tell me how to live my life, Father, because so far I think I’ve been getting it wrong.”

— Phoebe Waller-Bridge, from Fleabag

“Les femmes de notre famille, nous sommes engluées dans la colère J’ai été en colère contre ma mère Tout comme tu es en colère contre moi Et tout comme ma mère fut en colère contre sa mère Il faut casser le fil.”

(The women in our family are all stuck in anger I have been angry at my mother As you are angry with me And as my mother was angry at her mother The thread must be broken.)

— Wajdi Mouawad, Incendies

“I know what I want: an ugly, clean woman with large breasts, who tells me: what’s all this about making things up? I won’t have any dramas, come here immediately!—And she gives me a warm bath, dresses me in a white linen nightdress, braids my hair and puts me to bed, very cross, saying: well what do you want? you run wild, eating at odd times, you could get sick, stop making up tragedies, you think you’re such a big deal, drink this mug of hot broth. She lifts my head up with her hand, covers me with a big sheet, brushes a few strands of hair off my forehead, already white and fresh, and tells me before I fall asleep warmly: you’ll see how in no time your face is going to fill out, forget those harebrained ideas and be a good girl. Someone who takes me in like a humble dog, who opens the door for me, brushes me, feeds me, loves me severely like a dog, that’s all I want, like a dog, a child.”

“I can feel myself holding a child, thought Joana. Sleep, my child, sleep, I tell you. The child is warm and I am sad. But it is the sadness of happiness, this appeasement and sufficiency that leave the face placid, faraway. And when my child touches me he doesn’t rob me of my thoughts as others do. But later, when I give him milk with these fragile, beautiful breasts, my child will grow from my force and crush me with his life. He will distance himself from me and I will be the useless old mother. I won’t feel cheated. But defeated merely and I will say: I don’t know a thing, I am able to give birth to a child and I don’t know a thing. God will receive my humility and will say: I was able to give birth to the universe and I don’t know a thing.”

— Clarice Lispector, Near to the Wild Heart

“I know that my phrases are crude, I write them with too much love, and that love makes up for their faults, but too much love is bad for the work.”

“I’m restless and harsh and despairing. Although I do have love inside me. I just don’t know how to use love. Sometimes it tears at my flesh.”

“But when winter comes I give and give and give. The excess of me starts to hurt and when I’m excessive I have to give of myself.”

— Clarice Lispector, Água Viva

“And that was what I felt when reading your book: that solitude.” “Imagine the solitude of the person who wrote it.”

— Clarice Lispector, from an interview

“suppose the body did this to us, made us afraid of love—”

— Louise Glück, “Crater Lake”

“When I put my hands on your body, on your flesh, I feel the history of that body. Not just the beginning of its forming in that distant lake, but all the way beyond its ending. I feel the warmth and texture and simultaneously I see the flesh unwrap from the layers of fat and disappear. I see the fat disappear from the muscle. I see the muscle disappearing from around the organs and detaching itself from the bones. I see the organs gradually fade into transparency, leaving a gleaming skeleton, gleaming like ivory that slowly resolves until it becomes dust. I am consumed in the sense of your weight, the way your flesh occupies momentary space, the fullness of it beneath my palms. I am amazed at how perfectly your body fits to the curves of my hands. If I could attach our blood vessels so we could become each other I would. If I could attach our blood vessels in order to anchor you to the earth, to this present time, I would. If I could open up your body and slip inside your skin and look out your eyes and forever have my lips fused with yours, I would. It makes me weep to feel the history of your flesh beneath my hands in a time of so much loss. It makes me weep to feel the movement of your flesh beneath my palms as you twist and turn over to one side to create a series of gestures, to reach up around my neck, to draw me nearer. All these memories will be lost in time like tears in the rain.”

— David Wojnarowicz, from The Half-Life

“A child weaned on poison considers harm a comfort.”

— Gillian Flynn, Sharp Objects

“and cain said, There’s an idea I can’t get out of my head, What’s that, said abraham, There must have been innocent people in sodom and in the other cities that were burned, If so, the lord would have kept the promise he made to make to save their lives, What about the children, said cain, surely the children were innocent, Oh my god, murmured abraham and his voice was like a groan, Yes, your god perhaps, but not theirs.”

— José Saramago, Cain

“I’d like to jet-ski / straight out of this life because right now I am / way attached to real things like for instance / people how they are all so tender how they / love to just go walk around and someof them are / wearing pink now and it hurts me and they / bathe their dogs”

— Heather Christle, “This Is Not The Body I Asked For”

“The idea of deserving love. And then watching love being given to people who did nothing to deserve it.”

— Anaïs Nin, from her journal

“And he cries and cries, cries for everything he has been, for everything he might have been, for every old hurt, for every old happiness, cries for the shame and joy of finally getting to be a child, with all of a child’s whims and wants and insecurities, for the privilege of behaving badly and being forgiven, for the luxury of tendernesses, of fondnesses, of being served a meal and being made to eat it, for the ability, at last, at last, of believing a parent’s reassurances, of believing that to someone he is special despite all his mistakes and hatefulness, because of all his mistakes and hatefulness.”

— Hanya Yanagihara, A Little Life

“The veals are the children of cows, are calves. They are locked in boxes the size of themselves. A body-box, like a coffin, but alive, like a home. The children, the veal, they stand very still because tenderness depends of how little the world touches you. To stay tender, the weight of your life cannot lean on your bones.”

“Sometimes being offered tenderness feels like the very proof that you've been ruined.”

— Ocean Vuong, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous

“I know we’ve just met but I feel like maybe / you’d feed me and tuck me into your big bed / and only touch me as you covered me with the comforter.”

— Kim Addonizio, “Party”

“The body has no thoughts. The body soaks up love like a paper towel

and is still dry.”

— Kim Addonizio, “Body And Soul”

“I don’t know how God can bear / seeing everything at once: the falling bodies, the monuments and burnings, / the lovers pacing the floors of how many locked hearts.”

— Kim Addonizio, “The Numbers”

“I keep wishing for you, keep shutting up my eyes and looking toward the sky, asking with all my might for you, and yet you do not come. I thought of you, until the world grew rounder than it sometimes is, and I broke several dishes.”

— Emily Dickinson, from a letter to Minnie Holland

“The unknowness of my needs frightens me. I do not know how huge they are, or how high they are, I only know that they are not being met.”

— Jeanette Winterson, Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit

“I used to be a hopeless romantic. I am still a hopeless romantic. I used to believe that love was the highest value. I still believe that love is the highest value. I don’t expect to be happy. I don’t imagine that I will find love, whatever that means, or that if I do find it, it will make me happy. I don’t think of love as the answer or the solution. I think of love as a force of nature - as strong as the sun, as necessary, as impersonal, as gigantic, as impossible, as scorching as it is warming, as drought-making as it is life-giving. And when it burns out, the planet dies.”

“As for myself, I am splintered by great waves. I am coloured glass from a church window long since shattered. I find pieces of myself everywhere, and I cut myself handling them.”

— Jeanette Winterson, Lighthousekeeping

“I SAID I LOVED YOU AND I WANTED GENOCIDE TO STOP I SAID I LOVED YOU AND I WANTED AFFIRMATIVE ACTION AND REACTION I SAID I LOVED YOU AND I WANTED MUSIC OUT THE WINDOWS I SAID I LOVED YOU AND I WANTED NOBODY THIRST AND NOBODY NOBODY COLD I SAID I LOVED YOU AND I WANTED I WANTED JUSTICE UNDER MY NOSE”

— June Jordan, “Intifada Incantation: Poem 38 for b.b.L.”

“Maybe when I wake up in the middle of the night I should go downstairs dump the refrigerator contents on the floor and stand there in the middle of the spilled milk and the wasted butter spread beneath my dirty feet writing poems writing poems maybe I just need to love myself myself and anyway I’m working on it”

— June Jordan, “Free Flight”

“It’s not that I gave away my keys. / The problem is nobody wants to steal me or my / house.”

— June Jordan, “Onesided Dialog”

“What reconciles me to my own death more than anything else is the image of a place: a place where your bones and mine are buried, thrown, uncovered, together. They are strewn there pell-mell. One of your ribs leans against my skull. A metacarpal of my left hand lies inside your pelvis. (Against my broken ribs your breast like a flower.) The hundred bones of our feet are scattered like gravel. It is strange that this image of our proximity, concerning as it does mere phosphate of calcium, should bestow a sense of peace. Yet it does. With you I can imagine a place where to be phosphate of calcium is enough.”

— John Berger, And Our Faces, My Heart, Brief As Photos

“I wept and wept. I had come to believe that if I really wanted something badly enough, the very act of my wanting it was an assurance that I would not get it.”

— Audre Lorde, from “Zami: A New Spelling of my Name”

“You kiss the back of my legs and I want to cry. / Only the sun has come this close, only the sun.”

— Shauna Barbosa, “GPS”

“It has to be perfect. It has to be irreproachable in every way. (...) To make up for it. To make up for the fact that it’s me.”

— Suzanne Rivecca

“I hope it’s love. I’m trying really hard to make it love. I said no more severity. I said it severely and slept through all my appointments. I clawed my way into the light but the light is just as scary. I’d rather quit. I’d rather be sad.”

— Richard Siken, Self-Portrait Against Red Wallpaper

“We have not touched the stars, nor are we forgiven, which brings us back to the hero's shoulders and the gentleness that comes, not from the absence of violence, but despite the abundance of it.”

— Richard Siken, “Snow And Dirty Rain”

“Love, for you, / is larger than the usual romantic love. It's like a religion. It's / terrifying. No one / will ever want to sleep with you.”

— Richard Siken, “Litany In Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out”

“The hardest thing still remains. It remains the hardest, to bear all the tenderness and only to gaze on.”

— Ilse Achinger, “Mirrorstory”

“i killed a plant once because i gave it too much water. lord, i worry that love is violence.”

— José Olivarez, “Getting Ready to Say I Love You to My Dad, It Rains”

“Mother says there are locked rooms inside all women; kitchen of lust, bedroom of grief, bathroom of apathy. Sometimes the men - they come with keys, and sometimes, the men - they come with hammers.”

— Warsan Shire, “The House”

“I’ll take care of you. / It’s rotten work. / Not to me. Not if it’s you.”

— Euripides, Orestes, tr. Anne Carson

“We have this deep sadness between us and it spells so habitual I can’t tell it from love.”

— Anne Carson, The Beauty of the Husband

“There is no question I am someone starving. There is no question I am making this journey to find out what that appetite is.”

— Anne Carson, Plainwater: Essays

“I wish I could peel all my sadness in one long strip off my skin & toss it in a bucket. No one would have to carry it. It would just sit there & be punished. It would just sit there & think about everything it’s done.”

— Chen Chen, “Elegy For My Sadness”

“There is too much or not enough room in my stomach for everything we will do to each other.“

— Adriana Cloud, “Bento Body”

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dragonblobz · 3 years

Text

I'm on my bullshit again. No lemons. Just Shinigami goodness. Wrote this to In Keeping Secrets of Silent Earth 3 by Coheed and Cambria.

Ryuk has been around for such a long time. Ever since she had found that notebook sitting on that tree stump years ago. Cover soft looking and beaded with dew. It had looked as if it had been there some time. And, although the pages looked weathered and yellow, there was no mold or outward damage.

Surprising given its location in the middle of the woods. She’d only even seen it because she’d stopped and knelt to retie her shoe. Just an alien black square looking sharp and unreal sitting on that stump just off the jogging trail.

She can remember how the thing had felt when she’d picked it up. Soft in texture. Like careworn leather.

The words “Death Note" emblazoned on the cover had made her feel a little unsettled. Eerie out here in the predawn misty quiet.

A silent voice inside her mind had whispered that maybe she should put it right back down on that stump and keep running. As far and as fast as she could.

Another voice, vapid and cunning, had laughed at the absurdity of such a book, with such a title, being left out here in the middle of nowhere.

She hadn’t left it there. Without opening it, she’d tucked it under her arm and continued on her morning run.

She performed all the menial tasks of her daily life, forgetting all about that Death Note leaving dew marks on her dining room table.

Breakfast was bland. Work was tedious. No different than any other day. Even when she’d reentered her home and plopped her work bag next to the thing, her eyes really didn’t focus on it.

It was the tall bony Shinigami standing in her kitchen that finally arrested her fuzzy mind from the blandness of living.

He hadn’t even been looking at her. Instead, the spinous processes of his vertebrae pressed onto the dark material upon his long back as he leaned over her counter. Observing a bowl of fruit as if it were a still life masterpiece.

She hadn’t moved. Was utterly frozen. Just watching this creature as it looked at her food.

“What’s all this junk? Taking up room that could be used for perfectly good apples.” It’s voice, low and yet raspy, grated on her eardrums as it lifted a hand and poked a claw into the ripe flesh of an orange. The movement causing several pieces of fruit to fall out of the over filled bowl entirely.

With a deft movement, the creature caught the only apple which had exited the bowl. Rubbed it with the pad of it’s thumb as it finally lifted it’s face to look at her.

It’s face………

Cadaverous. Eyes beady and large and yellow. Nose squashed. Like a mummy who’d decided to affix it’s hair for a punk rock concert. It was even sporting a dangling silver earring on one of it’s little ears.

At her gawping expression, it had smiled. Wide thin dark mouth sporting a row of razor teeth appearing aged and yellow.

“No screaming, eh? Hiya, Y/N.”

She hadn’t bothered to question how this thing knew her name.

“Um…….. hi?” Her own voice sounded dry and distant in her ears. “And you are?”

It bit into that apple, it’s eyes closing. As if savoring the fruit. A stray drop of the juice dribbled down onto it’s chin.

It said a word. But muffled thru a mouthful of apple, it nearly sounded like a retch.

“Ex….Excuse me? I didn’t…… I didn’t quite understand that.”

“Not a good listener tho. Ah well. Nobody is perfect.” It’s long tongue snaked out to swipe at that bead of juice as the creature had studied her.

Raising it’s free hand, it extended a long bony finger. She noticed now the rings glinting on his hands.

“I. Am. Ryuk.” He said it very slowly. As if she might have been a child who might not understand. But there wasn’t a trace of sarcasm or ill temper in it’s behavior.

“So….. Ryuk…… why…… um…. What……. What do you want?”

At this, it’s smile had widened.

“I’m just here Y/N. YOU are the one that picked up the Death Note.”

Imagery of that notebook popped up in her head.

“I….. I did……”

“Yes. You did. And I’ll be with you until you die now. Or I do.” It was leering now. “Whichever comes first.”

“I see….” She didn’t really see. Turned from him and went into the dining room to pick up that notebook. Opening it. Reading the first thing written on the inside of the cover out loud.

“The human whose name is written in this note shall die.”

It had been frightening in retrospect. Not those words. Not that Death Note. Not even the monster standing in the doorway happily crunching it’s way thru a second apple and watching her.

What had been utterly terrifying was that she had not blanched. Had not set this note down and backed away. Had not told that creature to take it and go.

Instead, she’d stood there. Continuing to read. A name and face already coming to mind.

A face belonging to a monster who’d put that apple eating shark mouthed monster to utter shame. The man who’d killed someone she had loved.

Without looking away from the Death Note, she’d reached over and started rummaging thru her work bag. Fingers shaking and fumbling at keys and change.

“Never can find what you’re looking for if your bag is too full, Y/N.” Ryuk looked vastly amused. “You’re not even going to question the validity of the Note? That’s what you humans usually do.”

She hadn’t answered. Simply gasped as her fingers had clutched onto a great fistful of bullshit in her bag. Lifting the whole mess out to drop carelessly on the table. Chapstick and a tampon scattering across the surface.

And there, rolling and coming to rest against an old broken key chain, had been a blue ink pen.

She’d looked up at Ryuk. Eyes wide, almost manic.

“Any person?”

He smiled again. Repeated her words.

“Any living person.”

There had been no eloquence. No artfulness nor ritualistic care taken in that first death. She had scratched the name onto the paper. And a way to die. Almost stabbing it in. Breathing coming out in ragged desperate gasping.

After the deed had been done, the pen clattered to the floor as she’d wept. Fingers numb.

It hadn’t occurred to her that there would be no way to instantly verify this death. Not until that moment. And so, with a frustrated cry, she’d slapped the Death Note onto the table and fled into her bedroom. Right over to the dark corner to collapse, wrap her arms around her knees, stuff her face into her knees, and cry as a child. Ryuk following her, tilting his head quizzically at this suffering.

“Why are you crying? You couldn’t have liked that human if you wanted them to die.”

“Please…… please go.”

But he didn’t. Simply had sank down. Knobby knees on either side of his ghastly face as he sat across from her.

“I told you. I’m here till you die, Y/N.” There was no camaraderie or sympathy in his voice. It had been matter of fact. “But this surely will get boring very soon, won’t it?”

“When will I know if he died?”

Ryuk smiled again. Leering.

“My my. Impatient aren’t you. Actually that’s a quality I like about you humans. As for your question, I guess you’ll just have to find out for yourself.” His eyes glint as his smile turns wicked. “You could always write a name belonging to someone closer. If you’re seeking validation, of course.”

“There isn’t anyone else I wanna kill.”

“Then this is going to get very boring very quickly, Y/N.”

She hadn’t had to wait long. Two days later, she’d received correspondence that her presence would no longer be required at a hearing. The defendant was dead.

A quick Google search verified that the person had died just as she’d written.

Setting the phone down, fingers numb, she'd simply looked up at her Shinigami.

She knew that’s what he was now. She’d been peppering him with questions about himself and his kind. And about the Death Note. He hadn’t answered many of them. At least, not until she’d given him an angelic grin and revealed a bag of bright green apples.

“Your apples can be green???” He'd looked absolutely delighted. And had been far more forthcoming.

“He’s dead. He’s really……. Gone…….”

Ryuk merely grunted in visceral enjoyment as he popped the core of that Granny Smith into his maw.

Without warning, she’d reached forward, patting at another errant drop of juice on his chin with a Kleenex she’d just snatched from the box. The action was mainly impulsive. And she’d laughed.

“You’re so messy.”

The Shinigami had frozen. Utterly motionless. He didn’t breathe himself. Statue still. Simply looking at her.

The years passed by like this. The shock and relief provided by this first killing soon giving way to an almost comfortable routine. She didn’t go on a wholesale slaughter. And often targeted those who hurt children. The pain of such cases resonating with the events of her own life.

And there were so. Many. Apples. Loads of them. Ryuk loved all kinds. Although he did seem preferential to Honey Crisp. She never once could get him to try another fruit. And she DID try. Not even a damn orange.

“It’s yummy. Ya know, for somebody that says he gets bored easily, you sure are picky.” She waggled the bright fruit.

“I’ve watched you peel one of those things. What sort of food makes you work so hard? Now THIS……” He'd held up his half eaten apple. “THIS is the pinnacle of crisp and juicy. Now leave that orange wherever you found it, if you please.”

Time was littered with conversations as simple as these, intermingled with serious discussions in which he was as non informative as ever.

It was one of these more serious conversations which followed an observation on her part.

She’d noticed changes in him. Very slight. But she was simply around him so much that she could see them. His movements had become slower. More careful. His speech slowed as well. As if he might be thinking more carefully. Or even forgetting things. She never once pointed this out.

Not until, one day, after clearing 6 entire apples, he’d actually groaned as he’d flopped upon her couch. Long booted feet hanging over one of the arms.

She plops next to him. Poking at one of the skulls on his belt. He’d long since stopped being surprised by her impulsive touches and nearness. Her humanness. Simply tolerating it.

“Are you hurting, Ryuk?”

“Why are you asking?”

“Oh. No reason.”

“I’m dying, Y/N.”

For once, it is she who freezes.

“I thought Shinigami lived a long time.”

“We do. My time is simply running out.” He’s just watching her.

“You’d said….. you’d said that you guys get more years by taking ours.”

“We do.”

She stops toying with that skull entirely. Turns her body so that she’s facing him directly.

“Is it time, then?” She’s oddly unafraid.

“Time for what?”

“For you to….. ya know…… write my name in YOUR Death Note?”

At this, he chuckles.

“I’m not going to write your name.”

She looks confused.

“But….. why not?”

Now he’s actually laughing.

“Do you WANT me to write your name in my Death Note?”

She chews on her bottom lip. Reaching out to pat his chest. Once again, he doesn’t react.

“I don’t want you to die.”

He laughs again. But there is no more true mirth in the sound.

“Why?”

She counters.

“Why won’t you write my name?”

“I am not entirely sure, Y/N.” The slight confusion in his voice gives credence to this answer.

“Well. I am sure.” She’s staring intently at him. “Everything ends, Ryuk. Nobody ever stays. Nothing is constant. I’ve never had a single person ever remain in my life. Except….. except you.”

He sighs. Patiently repeating himself.

“I will be with you until you die.”

“I don’t care if it’s because you have to be here. You’re still HERE……. Will it be soon?”

That same, toothy leer.

“You know I won’t tell you your lifespan, Y/N.”

“I don’t mean me.”

He just looks at her. She’s never seen his face so expressionless. Then repeats yet again.

“I will be with you until you die. Or until I do.”

“I will write my own name then. Will that do it?”

“Stop being foolish. Be a dear and get me another apple won’t you?”

“Yeah….. I will. But I’m not done.”

“I’m sure you’re not.” He chuckles.

It is as if this conversation opens a chasm in this inevitable process. Everything about Ryuk is changing. And so quickly.

Already emaciated and pale, even his dark lips turn papery and light grey. His hair grays too. Yellow eyes growing filmy where they had been so keen before. As if, when the aging process actually begins in a Shinigami, it is accelerated.

It is barely 2 weeks after this conversation that he gives a defeated grunt, sprawled on her bed as she’s on her laptop.

“I can’t get up.” He barks out a laugh. As if this is genuinely funny to him.

She closes her laptop and rises from her chair. Turning and walking over to the bed to flop next to him. Staring at the ceiling just as he is.

“You want another apple?”

“Thank you, Y/N. But I do not.”

“That close, huh.”

“I believe so, yes.”

“Will the Death Note still work? When you’re gone I mean.”

“Yes.”

Her voice is oddly cold.

“Do death gods go to hell? I cant go to heaven or hell. What about you?”

He doesn’t answer for several minutes. She doesn’t speak either. Finally…

“I suppose we will end up in the same place, Y/N.”

“I'm glad.” She turns her face to look at him. “I’ll need something before you go.”

“Oh? And what is that?”

“The Shinigami eyes.”

At this, Ryuk turns his face as well. And they just stare at each other.

“Clever greedy impatient girl.” The insult is almost affectionate. “Are you truly that afraid to die alone?”

“Nobody should die alone. And this way, neither of us will half to. Half my lifespan for the Shinigami eyes. We’ll die at the same time.” She looks back up at the ceiling. He does too.

When he feels her fingers intertwining with his, as always, he doesn’t react.

“I never actually made that offer to you. Merely spoke of it.”

“I don’t care. I want the Shinigami eyes.”

He turns his face to her.

“Who am I to turn down such a lucrative deal?”

She sees his hand coming towards her face. Closes her eyes.

When she opens them again, the picture of her and some old friends on the wall is noticeably different. One face, the face of the friend who’d committed suicide years before, is clear and unblemished. The other faces each have a name and numbers above them.

And when she looks back at Ryuk, she sees that his hair is once again jet black. Eyes just as clear and sharp as she remembers. He leers at her. Squeezes her hand as she’s squeezing his.

“I’ll take that apple as well. If the offer is still there.”

She grins.

“You got a new lease on life and you STILL won’t try an orange?”

He scoffs.

#death note #ryuk #fem reader #ryuk x reader #tw suicide reference #my writing

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rotworld · 3 years

Text

The Truth in Masquerade

usurpers part 7. previous | next

derek gives in. izsák reaps the rewards.

->derek/oc. explicit; contains d/s dynamics, degradation, biting/blood drinking, descriptions of violence and torture, and the usual derek things.

It takes less than a week for curiosity to eat through Derek’s resolve completely. Izsák speeds things along by bringing up weird shit every chance he gets and then waiting, perfectly poised, for a shift in Derek’s expression. It’s always some off-handed mention when it’s just the two of them. Izsák will help him prepare for another guest appearance at another dreadful party, presenting him with a fresh towel after a shower, tying his tie, and then he’ll sigh in a wistful way and say, “You never have liked these little soirees. It was much easier when Ferenc was here, wasn’t it? He bore the burden of public scrutiny with such ease.”

And what the fuck is Derek supposed to do? Not ask questions? Not think about why Izsák will stare, studying his face expectantly, and then suddenly laugh and mutter, “Pay me no mind, sir.” He tells himself it’s just Izsák being his usual freaky self, but has he always been so strangely in tune with Derek? Did he always stand so close and act so concerned over every little thing? Fussing over him when he bangs his knee on a table, or after a particularly public breakup? It’s fucking weird. Derek tells him it’s weird, and Izsák just smiles peaceably and goes about his business.

Three days after the museum, Izsák is drinking tea at the kitchen table while Derek eats lunch. His father is out with Clarice and the house is blissfully quiet. Derek is texting Emilia, who is hysterical and wants to break up with him again over some new bullshit that Derek can’t remember and doesn’t care to figure out from the vague hints she’s dropping. He’s sure he can talk her into a night out and a quick fuck with the right combination of sweet talking and apology gifts. He wouldn’t bother, but his father chewed him out about how it looks when he brings a new girl to every social function. People notice, his father claimed, and people talk. Derek rolls his eyes just thinking about it. His father keeps a girlfriend for a few months and now he thinks he’s some kind of fucking expert on monogamy.

And then, out of nowhere, Izsák breaks him out of his thoughts. “Are you feeling restless, sir? I had something in mind, if you are interested.”

“Unless it’s something to get Emilia to calm the fuck down, I’m not interested,” Derek says. He only looks up from his phone when he hears the scrape of Izsák’s chair across the table and sees him coming closer. He stands behind Derek, rests a hand on his shoulder, and leans in to peer at the phone screen. His touch, light, weightless, totally innocent, makes Derek burn with desire.

“I see. She’s upset that you have taken other partners.”

Derek rolls his eyes. Of course it’s that. Nobody can keep a goddamn secret anymore. He wonders which one of them couldn’t keep their mouths shut. Regina? Francine? Couldn’t have been Laney, because Laney...

Derek swallows hard at the thought, the memory. Standing here in the kitchen when Emilia called him sobbing, saying her two-faced bitch of a friend was comatose in the hospital. Car accident. She never woke up. Izsák had looked up from organizing his father’s day and watched as Derek took in the news. There was something knowing in his eyes, and Derek remembered suddenly how Izsák had uncorked a vial of chicken blood and flicked it after Laney.

There’s no way. Derek repeated that in his head like a mantra whenever he caught himself starting to believe it. The blood of a black-feathered hen. No fucking way. He looks over his shoulder at Izsák, at the eyes gazing back at him and awaiting—something.

“You got a spell for this?” Derek says. He’s perturbed when Izsák smiles, like he’s delighted to be asked.

“Of course, sir,” he says. He retrieves his tea and strides quickly to the kitchen sink, dumping the rest of it down the drain. Derek watches him pluck the damp bag of herbs out of the cup, shaking the rest of the water out, and setting it on a plate. “You may watch if you’d like,” Izsák says.

“I don’t care,” Derek says. And he shouldn’t. But his gaze is drawn back when he sees Izsák pull a lighter from his pocket and flick it until a little wavering flame appears. It looks like he’s trying to light the tea bag on fire, but it’s too damp to catch. Some foul-smelling smoke sizzles to the ceiling. Izsák whispers something, not in English, and Derek just stares.

That’s when Emilia messages him back after a solid ten minutes of the silent treatment. She says she can’t stay mad at him and asks to meet up later that night. Derek stares at the text in disbelief, then looks up and finds Izsák standing there, watching him. Smiling.

“You may ask me questions, if you have any,” Izsák says. “I wonder if you remember this one.”

“Where exactly am I supposed to remember it from? I’ve never seen that shit before.”

Izsák answers automatically, like he’s been waiting for this. “Csejte, 1578. I performed this spell for you for the first time.”

Derek doesn’t know how to react, so he doesn’t. “You did not.”

“I did,” Izsák insists.

“You fucking didn’t. That doesn’t make sense.” Izsák frowns, opening his mouth to disagree, but Derek gets up, leaves the table, and goes out to the pool to soak his feet and avoid whatever it is that’s happening. Izsák knows better than to pursue him and gives him space, but it’s too late. Derek is thinking about chicken blood. He’s thinking about headless girls encased in ice. Which is weird because he’s never seen that before, but something about the statue at the museum, about the things Izsák said, put a distinct image in his head. He’s hungry. He wants to taste somebody’s blood. He feels himself salivating when he remembers biting Izsák’s neck and he wants to feel skin give beneath his teeth.

“What the fuck,” he mutters to nobody. He kicks at the water until dusk, until his erection is gone and his father comes home with Clarice and Izsák is busy with other things so Derek can avoid his eyes and that look that knows too much.

Four days after the art museum, Derek wakes up and his dick is so hard it hurts. The dream snaps out of place and tries slipping away before he can remember it, but he holds tight to everything that’s left;

A castle. Stained glass windows. Stone archways. The snow-covered courtyard with its frozen women like grotesque, grasping trees. Long corridors and echoing screams. He stood eclipsed by flickering candlelight and writhing shadow, walking barefoot through puddles of blood. There were bodies dangling from the dungeon ceiling, hung from meathooks and impaled in iron cages. Slit throats. Dangling entrails. They wept and moaned above him, and their blood rained on his skin. These were his kills. He hunted them himself, hung them like trophies. He reveled in their pain. Silhouettes played across the walls, human and beastly shapes that grew and warped and twined together in obscene dance. Derek felt these shades watching, but he didn’t fear their gazes. There was no need to perform for them.

And Izsák was there, smiling gently. He wore nothing. He was deathly pale, unmarked as though the blood couldn’t touch him. Derek was possessed by the need to dirty him. He reached desperately, his grasp leaving bruises, dragging Izsák through red rain and filth. He was tainted slowly, a splatter across his shoulder, a rivulet dripping down from his scalp. It fell in heavy clots in his lashes. Derek pressed him against the cold stone wall, his wandering hands smearing abstract shapes over Izsák’s skin, and then he licked it off of him with long, slow drags of his tongue.

It was so fucking stupid. He’d never do that in real life. But just thinking about it gets him even harder. Derek palms himself through silk pajama pants, shivering, leaning back against the headboard. He’d never be so tender and gentle. But in the dream, Izsák looked at him with this passion, this reverence, like Derek was God and that castle dungeon was their private, depraved heaven. It was so vivid. The musk of all that flesh and blood was heady and visceral. He slips his hand beneath the waistband of his clothes. It’s pathetic. Jacking off has never been so disappointing. He can see it when he closes his eyes, dreamlike and hazy; bodies and darkness. Izsák beneath him, his hands framing Derek’s face, his eyes glazed with wanting. He twists his palm around the head of his cock and imagines it’s Izsák doing it, Izsák between his legs and covered in blood.

It’s not the first time he’s fantasized about Izsák, but it was always different before. More impersonal. Izsák’s mouth around his cock. Izsák’s hips moving against his. The way Izsák’s back arches and his muscles all go taut while Derek fucks him raw over his father’s desk. But this is so much more heated and detailed. It’s not just the sensation or the view, it’s how Izsák looks at him, how he talks to him. It’s how he knows Derek in intimate and frightening ways, and doesn’t expect anything more of him.

In the dream, Izsák worshiped him. He got to his knees and the sight of Derek’s body, his apparent desire, the hard cock swollen against his abdomen, seemed to mesmerize him. He looked up at Derek as he pressed a kiss to the head of his cock, drool and precum on his lips. His tongue caressed Derek’s length from base to tip and his hands smoothed along his thighs. He moaned shamelessly, the sound vibrating against Derek’s flesh as he suckled on the sensitive underside. He mumbled something, unwilling to pull away and cease pleasuring Derek for even a moment, but Derek understood somehow. He knew what he was trying to say; I’m yours.

Derek bites his lip so hard it bleeds, desperately fucking his fist. It’s too hot. He has to throw off the sheets and pull his pants down around his thighs but he’s still sweating, his head pounding. He still feels the stagnant dungeon air, the blood drying to his skin. He remembers the way Izsák bobbed his head, the hot slide of his lips and his tongue at the base of Derek’s cock when he started to deepthroat him. Izsák gagged and squirmed but he didn’t pull off, didn’t even try. Derek wasn’t holding him still because he didn’t have to. They didn’t speak to each other, but he understood in that moment the depths of Izsák’s devotion to him. He knew Izsák would do anything for him. Would kill for him. Would give his own blood, his own body, if it would satisfy Derek.

“I’m gonna cum,” he says, panting. Izsák is too hot and wet and perfect around his cock. He thrusts deep, feels his balls slap Izsák’s chin and he grinds against the back of his throat, and Izsák chokes on a moan. His worship becomes even more fervent. His hands grip the back of Derek’s thighs, squeezing his ass, spurring him into more violent movements and keeping them locked together. He wants everything Derek has to give him. He accepts it all, the hunger and brutality, his every whim and desire. When Derek cums down his throat, Izsák gags on it, his hands tightening on Derek’s legs, but he stays. He looks up at Derek through hazy eyes and swallows obediently. He lets Derek soften in his throat, sucking gently as though to milk him of the last of his climax.

Derek lays there, dazed and confused, realizing he’s alone and his sheets are soiled. It takes time to catch his breath. He lies in his own mess, eyes closed. He’s still there, in the castle dungeon. The dreamfog begins to clear. He isn’t standing anymore. He’s reclining, encased in liquid warmth. When he moves his hands, red swirls around them. He licks it off his fingers. It’s hot, metallic, and sickly sweet. It’s so clear, so detailed and real, that Derek is startled to open his eyes to the dark ceiling of his own room again.

Just a dream, he tells himself. His heart is still racing.

Five days after the art museum, Derek’s determination to ignore all the strangeness is shot. Pretending that everything is fine and he isn’t turning into a fucking vampire goes from a chore to a battle of epic proportions against his own body. He’s hungry all the time, his libido is out of control, and he has to bite the inside of his mouth to keep himself from sinking his teeth into anyone else. He takes Emilia out to see a movie and he can’t focus on anything but her neck. The way the light plays across it, the moving shadows, the outline of her muscles every time she swallows or laughs. He imagines himself biting her, his jaw clamping down on her throat like a wild animal. He tells her he has to use the bathroom halfway through and jacks off in a stall fantasizing about tasting her carotid artery.

Asking Izsák is out of the question. His pride won’t allow it. Izsák is already smug as fuck about all of this, sneaking up on Derek constantly and asking very pointed questions about how he’s feeling or whether he’s had enough to drink, all with that fucking smile on his face. He retreats to his room in his father’s house, blessed with a rare moment of privacy, and gets online. The tentative approach doesn’t get him far; a quick online diagnosis gives him two types of cancer. In desperation, he starts trying the things he’s heard Izsák casually mention, names he can’t remember right and places he can’t spell.

Inevitably, he finds her. Frozen in time, she gazes back at him from her lofty position atop a webpage detailing her atrocities. One hand rests daintily upon a faded red tablecloth, the other holding an embroidered handkerchief. She isn’t smiling and there’s a weariness to her regality, a thinly veiled disdain in her eyes. Derek feels that he knows her, that he recognizes that quiet sneer. He’s seen it in the mirror before. A strange, twisting feeling knots up his stomach, and he doesn’t fully understand it, doesn’t know what all of this means, but he knows something has happened to him. Some change has taken root.

He skims the page absently, the words washing over him both exhilarating and deeply familiar. Torture. Mutilation. Bloodbaths. The stories are fantastical, too incredible to be true, and yet there is no shortage of them. Derek searches further, needing to find her, needing to know exactly who she was. Elizabeth, Erzsébet, the Bloody Countess—no matter what she’s called, Derek finds kinship in the morbid details. Born into wealth and excess, thrust into the noble’s spotlight, and utterly disinterested in it all. She was on a quest for timelessness, to escape the mundane world. She performed as Derek does, marrying, attending to her courtly duties, wearing the mask of contented civility, but she also indulged and hunted, relishing in the viciousness of it all. Derek looks at her portrait with newfound emotion, something heavy yet freeing.

He almost isn’t surprised when Izsák speaks as though suddenly materialized behind his chair, “Your father sent me, sir. I am to prepare you for this evening.” Derek turns and examines Izsák, searching for things he hasn’t noticed before, or things he didn’t want to notice. His easy, eager submission. His smile. His eyes that know Derek, know what he wants, what he needs before Derek himself is even aware. Eyes that have seen centuries.

“Which one?” Derek asks.

Izsák tilts his head, silently seeking clarification. He’s smiling very slightly. Did the Blood Countess see this same smile? Did it greet her before grand balls, assuring her of the safety of her secrets? Did it welcome her to the dungeon, her private sanctuary?

“She had accomplices,” Derek says. “Servants who helped her keep things quiet. Some of them were questioned at the trial.” He doesn’t clarify; doesn’t have to. Izsák listens patiently, his smile widening as though this is precisely what he’s been waiting for. How long has he waited? Derek wonders. How much longer was he willing to wait? “There was one man who helped her torture her victims, but the rest were women. One was her old wetnurse, and one was one of her personal servants. The other two were witches or something. Right?” Dorottya and Darvulia. He didn’t bother to learn the rest of the names, but he memorized those. One of them was important. One of them mattered more than all the rest.

Izsák hums thoughtfully. “That is what many people say, yes.”

Derek stands up and hits him. It’s sudden, impulsive, happening so quickly that he doesn’t realize he’s done it until his hand starts to sting. Izsák touches his reddened cheek with soft, uncertain strokes, as though he’s just as surprised. The way he looks at Derek is wrong. Not disdain. Not disappointment. Elation. The joy of a long-awaited reunion.

“Which one are you?” Derek asks.

Just like in the dream, Izsák sinks to his knees before Derek. The movement is slow and graceful, as though he’s done it a thousand times before. He takes one of Derek’s hands in his and holds it as though it’s something precious. “I am the one who did not betray you,” he says, pressing his lips to the back of Derek’s hand. The gesture is gentle and intimate, stirring something violent within him. He wants to hurt Izsák. He wants to dirty him. He wants to thank him for coming back after all this time, saving him from suffocating in his own constant performance, but he only knows how to lie about gratitude, not show it for real.

The one who didn’t betray him. Derek turns the words over in his mind to admire like precious stones. He remembers—did he read it somewhere, or does the knowledge come from somewhere else?—that the countess’ servants were called to stand trial. Each one confessed to the atrocities, the beatings, the bloodletting. The man. The wetnurse. The servant. Even Dorottya broke her vow of silence and servitude to testify against her mistress. They all betrayed her.

All but loyal Darvulia, her devotion unending. She wasn’t there that day. Already dead, some stories say. It doesn’t matter. Derek knows what became of her now. He threads his fingers through Izsák’s hair.

“I don’t get it,” he admits. “I don’t get how it works. But I believe you. I see pictures of her, and I know we’re the same.”

Izsák nuzzles against Derek’s palm like an animal, a pet seeking affection. It’s intoxicating, the power he holds, the total submission Izsák gives him, unchanged by the centuries. It feels right. It makes sense the way a dream does in the midst of it. “I couldn’t save you,” Izsák murmurs. “I was not strong enough then. This time will be different.”

Derek is too caught up in the thick need in Izsák’s voice, the curve of his spine as he leans into Derek’s touch, to understand the words right away. “Save me from what?” he asks, but Izsák is already standing, stepping away from him. Derek isn’t done with him. He yanks him back by the forearm and bites him without warning, leaving the shape of his teeth in his earlobe. “Save. Me. From. What,” Derek growls, each word punctuated with a nip to Izsák’s delicate skin. He bruises so easily.

“From your family,” Izsák gasps. He holds onto Derek, moves against him shamelessly. Derek feels how hard Izsák is and smirks against the fluttering flesh of his throat. He slides his thigh between Izsák’s legs, giving him the privilege of rutting against it. Izsák is so needy, so desperate to serve and explain as he chases his own pleasure, his words coming in breathless pants and whines. “Just as it was before, your own blood plots against you. Your father, he—oh, sir, please!”

Derek can’t pay attention to whatever Izsák is trying to tell him. It doesn’t matter. Nothing is more important right now than getting inside of Izsák and tasting him. “On the bed,” he demands, and Izsák obeys without question. They’re all over each other. Derek savors the roaming worship of Izsák’s hands down his biceps and across his chest. It feels good. It feels right. He can’t get undressed fast enough, still shedding clothes as he nips and licks at Izsák’s tempting neck, and Izsák is so good and obedient, turning his head to give Derek better access. “You really are mine,” Derek says.

“All yours, sir,” Izsák says. Derek has barely touched him and he looks blissed out already, eyes glazed, a delirious smile on his face as though just being in Derek’s presence is the greatest of pleasures. He unbuttons his shirt further, exposing a tantalizing flash of his collarbones and old, faded marks Derek left days ago. “Take me. Drink from me. Do with me whatever pleases you.” Izsák’s nails sink into his shoulders as he pulls himself up enough to whisper against Derek’s ear, “Please, master. I’ve waited for you.”

The final, worn string of Derek’s self-control snaps. He bites into Izsák like he’s meat. He hears skin and tissue give beneath his teeth, splitting, squelching open, tastes the tangy burst of Izsák’s lifeblood on his tongue. He ruts against Izsák’s hard, twitching cock, trapped between their bodies, and Izsák’s head falls back in ecstasy. Derek sucks at the wound and tastes Izsák’s tenderness, the sharp sweetness of him. It’s so good, so right and familiar. Izsák was born for this, born for him. He would never belong to anyone the way he belonged to Derek, would never know anyone as deeply, would never want anyone as wholly. Somehow, arched and gasping, Izsák moves himself, grinds slowly against Derek’s achingly hard cock. He reaches between them and guides Derek to his twitching, anticipating hole. Derek slams inside of his welcoming, tight heat and his eyes roll back in his head. Nothing has ever felt so good.

“You’re mine. My loyal little toy. My cockslut,” Derek hisses, unclamping his jaws from Izsák’s neck just to find a new, fresh spot to taste. Izsák shudders around him, beneath him. His legs open wider. Derek hooks Izsák’s ankles over his shoulders and bends him in half. It’s new, doing it like this. He’s fucked Izsák while looking at him a couple times but never staring like this, never pressed chest to chest and sharing breath. Izsák’s lips are right there and he moves without thinking, swooping in, crushing their mouths together. So soft and tender. His teeth crunch through Izsák’s lower lip and blood gushes into his mouth, heady and intoxicating. “Can’t get enough of you,” he moans into Izsák’s mouth.

Izsák’s nails rake down his back hard enough to draw blood. Derek lets him. It’s better that way, more raw, more wonderful. He pulls back to admire the blood and saliva smeared across Izsák’s lips, dripping down his chin. It feels like the desert in his room, the heat, the intensity, a soft body surrendering beneath him. He slams his cock into Izsák’s helpless body over and over again, relishing the sensations, the sounds, the desperate raggedness of Izsák’s breathing. He crushes Izsák against the bed and this time he kisses him. He should’ve done it earlier. Izsák’s mouth is so hot, so soft and slutty and wanting him. He sucks on Izsák’s tongue as he fucks him into the mattress, hips pistoning, cock drilling into his pliant, shaking body.

Izsák has been wanton and shameless before, but this is more than that. This is devotion, Derek thinks. This is what he’s always deserved. Izsák’s thighs quiver as Derek pounds into him, so hard and fast his own legs are straining but he can’t bring himself to stop. The pleasure is blinding, a liquid heat in the pit of his stomach. He’s kissing Izsák in filthy, hungry ways that he’s never done with any of his girlfriends, licking into him, tangling their tongues together, sucking on the bite he left for every bead of blood that bubbles to the surface. He’s going to cum. He’s going to claim Izsák so thoroughly, so completely, that he’ll never be satisfied by anyone else ever again. He’ll worship Derek’s cock just like this with his whole body. He’ll beg for it. He’ll beg for a chance to suck his dick under the table at dinner parties. He’ll thank Derek when he cums down his throat and swallow every drop.

Izsák is his. He might be Derek’s father’s assistant on paper, he might spread his legs for him sometimes, but he’s Derek’s. He’s been Derek’s across centuries, across continents. He’s come all this way just to get on his knees before Derek, where he belongs. Derek squeezes Izsák’s ass, digs his nails in. This is mine, he thinks. This body, this mind, this entire being. He stops kissing Izsák to nose against the other side of his neck, licking and teasing the unbroken skin.

Derek smirks against Izsák’s hammering pulse. He’s close. He’s going to cum. He fucks Izsák deep, grinds against him, feels his balls roll over Izsák’s smooth skin. “Beg me to bite you,” he purrs.

Izsák clings even more tightly, begs even more sweetly. “Please, give me your bite,” Izsák cries for him. “I need it. I was born to receive it. Please use me, make me yours. I should always belong to you, master.”

Derek cums hard, buried deep inside of Izsák. Everything whites out, sight and sound and understanding consumed by orgasm. There’s a sharp stinging sensation somewhere on his body, a pain that crests with the pleasure, intermingled too tightly to process on its own. Izsák writhes and whimpers through his own orgasm, his own cum splattering across his chest and Derek fills him. It feels like the aftershocks last forever, heat rushing through him, waves and pulses.

Derek is trembling when he pulls out of Izsák, watching Izsák’s hole clench obscenely around emptiness as cum leaks out of him. Neither of them speaks for some time, basking in the completion of it all. Derek feels the world swaying as though he’s riding a metronome, the call of sleep smothering and irresistible. He can’t believe how hard he came. There’s still blood on his mouth and he licks his lips, humming at the taste. He feels someone touch him; Izsák, gentle and reverent. Tracing his muscles. Caressing his chest. He doesn’t cuddle, but when he’s this tired, teetering on the edge of oblivion, he can’t complain.

He wonders if they did this before. If Countess Bathory laid with sweet, loyal Darvulia, cuddled like lovers. Just this once, he thinks, he’ll let Izsák get away with it. For old times’ sake.

—murmurs. Someone calling him. Calling his name. Softly and distantly, then loud. Close. Not Izsák. Not respectful enough.

“Derek. Get up.”

A rustling sound, the scrape of curtains rising. Blinding, burning light assaults Derek’s eyes and he groans, rolling over. God, what time is it? Sleep clings stubbornly to his mind, clouding his thoughts. He’s sore, mostly in his legs and back. Right, it’s coming back to him. He and Izsák fucked last night. Izsák, Darvulia, hundred year old Hungarian witch, whatever. It was some of the best sex of his life. But usually, it’d be Izsák who comes and gets him in the morning, so why is his father here, looming over Derek’s bed and refusing to leave?

“What?” he says, groggy. His father is frowning in that tense, disappointed way that turns Derek’s stomach. He sees it directed at other people mostly, former business partners, overambitious rivals, people who really, really fuck up. Derek’s mouth goes dry. “What?” he says again, struggling to sit up straight. What happened? What did he do? He can’t be mad about Izsák, right, it’s not like they were being subtle. Did he forget something?

Derek looks at the window and fuck, it’s late,he must’ve slept through an event he was supposed to go to or some shit. He rubs his eyes, pushing himself to remember. He thinks, maybe, there was some kind of afternoon social he was supposed to make an appearance at, but the details are foggy. Why is his head pounding like that? It’s like having a hangover. He feels like he slept for decades.

His father paces halfway across the room. Derek follows the movement with his eyes and spots something at the foot of the bed. Is that blood? Dirt? Some kind of ugly stain on the sheets. They really got carried away last night, he thinks, but then he sees an arm.

Just an arm.

Not Izsák’s. He’s not sure why his mind goes there immediately, but it’s not, he knows it isn’t. Izsák doesn’t wear flaking pink nail enamel with glitter. He just knows there’s a severed human arm on his bed and a bunch of stains around it. Definitely dried blood, but there’s dirt, too, like someone dug up a grave, and.

That’s cum. That’s definitely a cum stain. Derek’s eyes slowly trail up to meet his father’s. His father looks down at him and doesn’t say a word. Derek swallows hard and tries to think of something, anything, that he can say. Nothing comes to mind.

“I’ve had concerns,” his father says. Derek can barely hold his gaze. That judgment, that cold scrutiny—he works tirelessly to escape it, to put on the most convincing performance he can. “You don’t know the first thing about discretion. That’s one thing. It’s another that you think I’ll clean up all of your messes for you.”

Derek glances at the arm, sprawled grotesquely over his sheets. “I don’t know what that is,” he says hoarsely. Obviously he knows what it is, but he doesn’t know how it got there.

“I’ve been lenient,” his father goes on, as if Derek never spoke. “Too lenient. I’ve turned a blind eye to most of your deviancy. But this? This crosses the line. I should have listened to Izsák sooner.”

Derek’s blood goes cold in his veins. “What does that mean?” he demands. His father turns his back on him. Derek throws himself out of bed, rushing after him. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means you’re cut off,” his father says. He doesn’t even look at him when he speaks. “I want your things out of here by tonight, but don’t go too far. The police want to speak with you. Something about graverobbing and desecration of a corpse.”

Derek stands there numbly, watching his father walk out and the door slam shut behind him. No. He didn’t do it. He didn’t do any of this. He looks back at the arm hatefully. What the fuck is it doing there, ruining his life? Heat rises to his face, shame, humiliation. Maybe he was getting a little arrogant, brazenly packing his bags for his desert outings, leaving things lying around in plain sight, but it was always so easy to explain away. He’s good at his performance. No one suspected anything. If he’s going to get caught, it’s not going to be for some bullshit he didn’t even do. He wipes angry, helpless tears out of his eyes and storms downstairs. Izsák. He needs to find Izsák.

He runs into other housekeepers who pale and dart out of his way. Derek ignores them. He doesn’t care about any of them, his gaze lingering only if they’re the right height, wearing the right uniform. No sign of Izsák in any of the usual places. No one in the kitchen. Not a soul out by the pool. He scares a gardener when he comes storming through but finds nobody else. His father has retreated elsewhere in the house and Derek finds his office abandoned, paperwork strewn across his desk. Derek sees several financial forms and summaries, land deeds, company assets, stocks and bonds. A copy of his father’s will sits in the corner and Derek’s heart stops.

Under the section for inheritors, his name isn’t listed. Neither are any of his siblings or cousins. Not even Clarice shows up anywhere. But one name does appear, getting absolutely everything his father could possibly leave behind.

Izsák Varga.

There is one moment of silence. A lack of comprehension. Derek reads the name several times before it makes sense. Then comes the storm building, the fire and venom churning inside of him, a tight, clenching pain in his chest. Disbelief. Bitter humor. A hatred so powerful it makes him lightheaded and hot in the face. He goes through the stages of grief in the span of a millisecond, mourning something he didn’t realize he even wanted, and a crazed smile stretches across his face.

Calmly and quietly, he goes upstairs and begins going through his things. He shoves his dresser out of the way and pushes aside a false wall panel concealing a large, musty-smelling duffel bag. He unzips it, checks the contents. Grains of sand trickle from an open compartment. Good. Everything he needs. He’s angry. He can’t remember the last time he was this angry, his hands shaking, his whole body seeming to vibrate with the need to stab and strangle. But there’s an excited edge to it, the sort of anticipation that comes with his vacations.

I’m going to fucking kill him, he thinks. I’m going to make him beg for death.

He’s smiling too big, too honestly. He feels giddy and he can’t hide it. A woman dusting in the hall gives him a wide berth when he passes, plastering herself against the wall. He’s a predator passing, a wolf with better things to do and bigger prey in mind. He licks his lips. His mask fails him. He doesn’t even try to pretend anymore.

#rotpeach writes #usurpers #tpof #derek #izsak #i feel like i should apologize in advance lol brace yourself for this one #i'll do my best not to make you guys wait another year for the followup lmfao

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kuroopaisen · 4 years

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dawn. (sakusa kiyoomi)

➵ even monsters should have someone to bring them flowers.

wc: 3k

warnings: gn!reader, vampire!sakusa, visceral depiction of raw meat?

a/n: the biggest of thank yous to ren, as usual :( she doesn’t even like fantasy aus and yet she’s beta’d a fair chunk of them. as always, her advice is invaluable, and she helped polish this into something worthwhile.

A note on the table.

The only sign you’d been here. That, and your lingering scent – warm, golden, comforting.

He was almost sad that he’d missed you.

But the words in your letter would have to tide him over until your next conversation.

“Good morning! I hope you are well-rested this evening. I have left this meat here as requested. I couldn’t help but wonder what dishes you make with it. Are you much of a cook? If not, I am happy to try and prepare something for you. I cannot guarantee that it will be to your taste, but I will try my best!”

He let his eyes linger on it for a moment. He wondered how his chest might feel, if he was fully alive. Tight, maybe. Fuzzy.

Now, the thrum of emotions just made his senses sharper.

And that made him uncomfortable.

He turned his eyes to the parcel sitting to the side of your note.

He unwrapped the paper packaging with a trembling gloved hand.

The ripest cut of the belly. It sat in a pool of its own liquids, a crimson slab marbled with white. He knew that there wasn’t a sufficient amount of blood in it – but it’s all he could handle. All he could stomach.

He took a deep breath. The air in his lungs did nothing for him, but some habits were harder to break than others, even if it had been a couple hundred years.

He picked up the meat with both hands, holding it just shy of his mouth. His face crinkled as the scent filled his nose, putrid, offensive, intoxicating.

It’s disgusting. But it’s what he had to do.

He sunk his fangs into the meat, the damp flesh pressing against his chin. He could feel the juices running down his chin, and he shivered. His eyes fluttered shut, perhaps in some attempt to steel himself.

It’s not blood. It wouldn’t sustain him.

Instead, it would just make him sick.

This meat, this scant amount of blood threaded throughout it, wasn’t enough to sustain him. But he’d rather go hungry than go out for a hunt, either for animal or human.

The thought was absolutely abhorrent, both in its ethicality and hygiene.

This meat was not enough to sustain him. But it would stave off the hunger, at least for a few days. At least until the next slab of meat, when he would feel this all again.

He’s trembling as he drank, hoping, wishing that it would be over soon.

A loud gasp sliced through the kitchen.

Sakusa tore his fangs out of the meat, his head whipping around.

You were stood in the doorway, eyes wide and hands clamped over your mouth.

At your feet laid a bunch of sunflowers.

You stared at each other for a long moment.

What was he supposed to do? To say?

He knew what he looked like. Sharp fangs poking through his lips, red staining his chin, the veins running along his jaw dark beneath his skin as he fed.

“Sakusa, sir…” There was a tremble in your voice. He despised the sound.

“Get out.”

“Sir—”

“Get out.”

You knew now. You knew that he was a monster. That he was disgusting. You’d seen it with your own eyes – eyes full of terror. Eyes he’d never wanted to look at him like that.

You waited for just a moment. And then you were gone.

Sakusa let the meat fall out of his hands and plop onto the wrapping. His appetite had entirely disappeared despite the fact he wasn’t nourished. He closed his eyes, trying to round up his whirling thoughts.

You’d seen him. You’d seen him in all his disgrace. You’d seen him as the monster he was.

He swallowed roughly, turning his gaze to the doorway.

The sunflowers were where you’d dropped them, scattered across the floor.

Were they why you’d come back? You shouldn’t have been here. You should’ve left after finishing your jobs.

But it was just like you to bring him flowers on a whim.

He sighed, stalking over to them and picking them up with a grimace. The least he could do was to give them some water.

✧ ✧

Vampires didn’t need sleep, but Sakusa liked to pretend he did anyway.

He always had. He just did his best to quiet his mind, lying under his covers as he waited for the hours to ebb by. He couldn’t leave the house during the day; if he tried, he would simply shrivel up and crumble in the sun.

He’d tried facing the sun, once. The burn had been unlike any pain he’d felt before.

And yet sometimes he'd leave the curtains open, just a crack. And he'd lie on the couch, watching the light filter in. Sometimes, he'd even let himself remember what the sun felt like.

But every evening, he had to ‘wake’ as the sun set, watching the light shrink away from him.

That evening though, something was different. Something shook him from his self-induced slumber with an abrupt shock.

That scent. Blood.

He shot to his feet, head whipping around in the direction of the smell. It was heavy, oppressive, so thick that he couldn’t think of anything else.

He stumbled into the kitchen, hoping, begging that he might find some relief.

In the middle of the kitchen table sat a bucket. Sakusa took a series of slow, laboured steps towards it, gripped by some half-conscious fear.

A letter laid next to it, written in a familiar scrawl.

“Sir, I admit that I am confused as to how to comprehend what I saw yesterday, but if my suspicions are correct, then I believe this will do you more good than a simple cut of meat. If my imagination has gotten away from me, then simply ignore this – my father told me that mixing this into the dirt makes for a fantastic fertiliser.”

Had you really brought him a whole bucket of blood? There was more than enough here to sustain him for a week – maybe even two. How had you gotten your hands on it? How had you snuck it into his house? How had you felt, lugging this foul liquid all the way to his estate?

He closed his eyes, trying to quell the thoughts tearing through his mind.

He looked into the bucket. A dark shadow stared back.

He’d forgotten what he looked like. He’d forgotten how his dark, curly hair framed his face, how two dark moles crowned his forehead, how dark and deep his eyes were.

This was the monster you’d seen savaging a slab of meat in the kitchen. This was the monster that you’d somehow gotten your hands on a bucket of blood for. This was the monster you’d given a reprieve.

On the other side of the bucket sat a vase of sunflowers; the ones he had arranged the other day. He could swear they looked fresher than yesterday.

✧ ✧

That awful, intoxicating scent.

He had awoken to that small three times this week. But on that Monday morning, he wanted to see you. To ask you the questions that had been hounding him through his days.

He stood at the far end of the kitchen, arms crossed over his chest as he slouched against the wall.

You were humming to yourself as you walked in, your knuckles blanching as they gripped onto the handle of a deep bucket.

You flinched as you caught sight of him, your eyes wide and owlish. The jolt caused the blood to slosh around in the bucket. Sakusa feared, for a moment, that it would splash on the floor.

You placed the bucket on the floor and bowed sharply.

“Where did you get that?” Sakusa asked, his voice low and sharp. He suspected that you would interpret his tone as an angry one. In truth, he was frightened more than anything. Frightened of how this conversation could go.

You straightened up, fixing your eyes on him. They were still wide, still afraid. It almost looked like they’d pop out of your skull. “The butcher… they drain the caracsses before, you know…”

Ah. Your body language, your scent. It all screamed of discomfort. Distress, even. Of course you would feel that way, talking of such things. You were much too sweet for such talk.

This was his fault.

But you continued.

“So, when I saw you in the kitchen that day, I thought that…” You finally dropped your gaze. He was grateful.

“I know,” he murmured. “I read your note.”

You looked up at him again, a new expression on your face. He realised, not without some surprise, that it wasn’t fear. Perhaps something closer to hesitation.

“You were quick to make such an assumption,” he muttered, looking up at the ceiling. Sakusa wouldn’t lie to you; not when you’d gone through all this effort for him. Though, perhaps he should tell you that it was safe for you to leave his employ, if you wished.

“Well, it didn’t come out of nowhere, did it?” You smiled gently, tilting your head at him.

His head snapped around as he raised an eyebrow at you.

You giggled. It didn’t sound intentional, and you cut it off quickly. But he was glad to have heard it.

“You’re most active at night, you seem to actively avoid the sunlight, you’ve always kept a distance between us…” There was a hum in your voice. A pleasant sound, but an out-of-place one.

He frowned. Your last piece of evidence had little to do with his affliction, but he wasn’t about to point that out. He would’ve kept that distance regardless; perhaps he would be even more stringent with it, if he was still human. But it was of no matter.

“So, you’ve suspected I was a monster for a while,” Sakusa sighed. “And yet you kept coming back?”

You bit your lip, folding your hands in front of you.

He scoffed. “That was foolish of you.”

“Well, I…” You swallowed, scratching the back of your neck. “I… I thought you seemed lonely.”

Something about those words set his heart aflame. Him? Lonely? What right did you have to say something like that?

“And… and you’ve never tried to hurt me,” you mumbled, interrupting the rage swelling in his chest. “If you wanted to… to drink my blood, or, or…” You took a deep breath, closing your eyes. “Well, you would have done that by now, wouldn’t you?”

You’d been tending to his house for the better part of a year. The longest anyone had.

He just frowned, looking away from you.

But you weren’t done.

“And… well, you wanted me to bring you meat, right? Which means… you probably weren’t hurting anyone else,” you bit your lip, tilting your head at him. “It may be foolish of me, but… I didn’t want to judge you for what you are.”

“For being a monster, you mean?” Sakusa snarled.

He couldn’t stop himself. He hadn’t meant to be so harsh, but he knew he sounded repulsive. He wanted to push you, to stop you from looking any closer. From seeing how horrible he truly was.

You looked at him for a painfully long moment. A moment he wished would shatter.

“You’re not a monster.”

“I’m disgusting.” A hiss. A baring of fangs. Responses made on instinct.

“And yet you won’t feed on humans,” you murmured, eyes scanning his face.

He faltered. Were the fangs not enough to make you turn and run? Was the bucket of blood at your feet not enough to make your stomach churn?

“Would a monster hold back like that?”

Would they? He couldn’t say.

“And besides,” you said, taking a tentative step towards him. When he didn’t move, you picked up the bucket and made your way for the kitchen table. You heaved the bucket onto it with a little grunt.

“Even monsters should have someone to bring them flowers,” you smiled, nodding at the centre of the table. A vase, playing host to a small bunch of sunflowers.

“I see you haven’t brought any today,” he murmured, his eyebrows knitting together.

“I knew I wouldn’t need to,” you replied easily, leaning over to feel one of the petals. “You always look after them so well.”

He finally looked at you. You had the softest of smiles on your face. You didn’t look scared, or appalled, or upset. You were the perfect picture of contentment – just someone admiring the simple beauty of a flower.

A flower he had been responsible for nurturing.

Perhaps, there was still some humanity in him.

The thought was almost as soothing as your smile.

✧ ✧

You were terrified.

There were many whispers about Sakusa, and you’d heard them all. Even before you’d taken over the job of tending to his household, you were well-acquainted with the stories of this strange, pale man who lived alone in an excessively large mansion. A mansion that, except for a handful of peculiarities, was empty.

Previous housekeepers had nothing bad to say about him, but it was obvious they were unsettled by how strange he was. Apparently, he was a stickler for cleanliness. And yet, that wasn’t even the strangest thing about him.

You had almost decided not to take up the job, back when you’d first started. The thought of being in this big house alone with such a strange man had genuinely frightened you – but, as the story always goes, you needed the money.

After meeting Sakusa for the first time, you came to the conclusion that he probably wasn’t dangerous. Shy. Awkward. Intense. But not dangerous.

And maybe that really was foolish of you. That word had snuck back into your mind over and over, always in that harsh tone of his.

But you knew loneliness. It had carved a home inside you, a well so deep it could never overflow.

And in that strange, reticent man, you saw it. The face of a man who sheltered a deep, relentless loneliness; perhaps harsher and heavier than the one you knew. It was like he wanted to reach out, to find that sense of connection and understanding, and yet was too afraid to.

Sakusa had never hurt you. He’d never made any move to seduce you, or trap you, or manipulate you. There were no stories of him having done that to anyone else either.

So, maybe you were being foolish. Maybe this was dangerous.

But you wanted to give him a chance. To extend a hand.

And that was why you had stayed later, with the intent of catching him.

You sat on the couch next to him in a tepid silence. You weren’t quite touching, but it was the closest he’d been to a human in a long, long time. He flinched, but he didn’t move away.

“May I?” You murmured, eyes flicking to the hands clenched in his lap.

Every instinct was screaming, a muddled cacophony of wants and fears.

Sakusa nodded, driven by something he didn’t quite understand. Something, perhaps, that he’d forgotten about long ago.

You gently took his hand in yours, easing the tension in his grip by running your thumb over the back of it.

“How long have you been like this?” You asked, looking right at him. You wanted him to know that you saw him, that you acknowledged him.

“Two hundred and forty-seven years.”

“Have you avoided people all that time?”

He looked away from you. In truth, he had avoided people long before he turned.

You pressed your lips together, running your thumb over his knuckles. “Are there not… others like you?”

“There are,” he murmured. “And I want nothing to do with them.”

You bit back a smile, thoroughly amused by the dismissiveness in his tone. “Why?”

Sakusa frowned. The life of a vampire was invariably a life spent in solitude. As a rule, they weren’t the most social of creatures; and quite frankly, Sakusa was proud to be an outcast. But he wouldn’t bore you with the details.

“They’re all insufferable,” he mumbled.

You giggled. “How so?”

Sakusa pressed his lips together. There were many reasons to avoid covens; anxiety, petty politics, filth. Being around those who were just as disgusting as him – and who didn’t care about that. Who lived openly and freely as the monsters they were. Feeding on humans. Fighting amongst themselves.

Yes, covens sounded hellish.

But some part of him feared that maybe it was because he was afraid of connecting. Of reaching out. Of being seen – seen as the abhorrent creature that he was. To be around other vampires, to partake in their way of life, meant finally, truly facing the fact that he was a monster. That he was so, so far away from the human world.

From your world. You, who was sitting here with your hand wrapped around his.

“Why are you doing this?” He murmured, staring into the fire. The fireplace had been merely decorative until today. But he hoped that it was bringing you some warmth. He couldn’t tell how cold these early hours of the morning were. Everything was cold, to him.

“Doing what?” You asked, tilting your head at him.

He frowned. “Being so… so…”

He couldn’t find the words. Couldn’t shape them.

But you understood. He could tell, from the gentle look in your eyes.

“I want to get to know you,” you hummed, smiling at him.

He wanted to tell you that was foolish. That you were wasting your time. That he didn’t deserve you. But he had a feeling you would refute all of those points. That you’d smile and tell him that none of those things mattered. You were such a strange human.

“And,” you murmured, looking down at your entwined hands with a touch of red on your cheeks, “this might be selfish of me, but… I want to see you smile.”

And you got stranger. Every time you open your mouth, you would say something so odd. But it’s not unwelcomed.

He thought that you were something like the sun.

You gave off a certain warmth; the type that begot growth. It was a warmth that others could flourish in, that would give them the love and care that they needed. Perhaps this was the closest he would ever come to sunlight again.

Maybe he was ready to welcome the sun.

#sakusa x reader #sakusa kiyoomi x reader #sakusa x you #sakusa imagines #sakusa kiyoomi imagines #haikyuu x reader #haikyuucreations #my first sakusa piece fdslfdlkfj #i hope i did alright

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nitrateglow · 3 years

Text

Favorite films discovered in 2020

Well, this year sucked. I did see some good movies though. Some even made after I was born!

Perfect Blue (dir. Satoshi Kon, 1997)

I watch a lot of thrillers and horror movies, but precious few actually unsettle me in any lasting way. This cannot be said of Perfect Blue, which gave me one of the most visceral cinematic experiences of my life. Beyond the brief flashes of bloodletting (you will never look at a screwdriver the same way again), the scariest thing about Perfect Blue might be how the protagonist has both her life and her sense of self threatened by the villains. The movie’s prescience regarding public persona is also incredibly eerie, especially in our age of social media. While anime is seen as a very niche interest (albeit one that has become more mainstream in recent years), I would highly recommend this movie to thriller fans, whether they typically watch anime or not. It’s right up there with the best of Hitchcock or De Palma.

The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly (dir. Sergio Leone, 1966)

Nothing is better than when an iconic movie lives up to the hype. Clint Eastwood, Eli Wallach, and Lee Van Cleef play off of one another perfectly. I was impressed by Wallach as Tuco in particular: his character initially seems like a one-dimensional greedy criminal, but the performance is packed with wonderful moments of humanity. Do I really need to say anything about the direction? Or about the wonderful storyline, which takes on an almost mythic feel in its grandeur? Or that soundtrack?

Die Niebelungen (both movies) (dir. Fritz Lang, 1924)

I did NOT expect to love these movies as much as I did. That they would be dazzlingly gorgeous I never doubted: the medieval world of the story is brought to vivid life through the geometrical mise en scene and detailed costuming. However, the plot itself is so, so riveting, never losing steam over the course of the four hours it takes to watch both movies. The first half is heroic fantasy; the second half involves a revenge plot of almost Shakespearean proportions. This might actually be my favorite silent Fritz Lang movie now.

Muppet Treasure Island (dir. Brian Henson, 1996)

I understand that people have different tastes and all, but how does this movie have such a mixed reception? It’s absolutely hilarious. How could anybody get through the scene with “THA BLACK SPOT AGGHHHHHHH” and not declare this a masterpiece of comedy? And I risk being excommunicated from the Muppet fandom for saying it, but I like this one more than The Great Muppet Caper. It’s probably now my second favorite Muppet movie.

Belle de Jour (dir. Luis Bunuel, 1967)

I confess I’m not terribly fond of “but was it real???” movies. They tend to feel gimmicky more often than not. Belle de Jour is an exception. This is about more than a repressed housewife getting her kicks working as a daytime prostitute. The film delves into victim blaming, trauma, class, and identity-- sure, this sounds academic and dry when I put it that way, but what I’m trying to say is that these are very complicated characters and the blurring of fantasy and reality becomes thought-provoking rather than trite due to that complexity.

Secondhand Lions (dir. Tim McCanlies, 2003)

The term “family movie” is often used as a synonym for “children’s movie.” However, there is an important distinction: children’s movies only appeal to kids, while family movies retain their appeal as one grows up. Secondhand Lions is perhaps a perfect family movie, with a great deal more nuance than one might expect regarding the need for storytelling and its purpose in creating meaning for one’s life. It’s also amazingly cast: Haley Joel Osment is excellent as the juvenile lead, and Michael Caine and Robert Duvall steal the show as Osment’s eccentric uncles.

The Pawnbroker (dir. Sidney Lumet, 1964)

Controversial in its day for depicting frontal nudity, The Pawnbroker shocks today for different reasons. As the top review of the film on IMDB says, we’re used to victims of great atrocities being presented as sympathetic, good people in fiction. Here, Rod Steiger’s Sol Nazerman subverts such a trope: his suffering at the hands of the Nazis has made him a hard, closed-off person, dismissive of his second wife (herself also a survivor of the Holocaust), cold to his friendly assistant, and bitter towards himself. The movie follows Nazerman’s postwar life, vividly presenting his inner pain in a way that is almost too much to bear. Gotta say, Steiger gives one of the best performances I have ever seen in a movie here: he’s so three-dimensional and complex. The emotions on his face are registered with Falconetti-level brilliance.

The Apartment (dir. Billy Wilder, 1960)

While not the most depressing Christmas movie ever, The Apartment certainly puts a good injection of cynicism into the season. I have rarely seen a movie so adept at blending comedy, romance, and satire without feeling tone-deaf. There are a lot of things to praise about The Apartment, but I want to give a special shoutout to the dialogue. “Witty” dialogue that sounds natural is hard to come by-- so often, it just feels smart-assy and strained. Not here.

Anatomy of a Murder (dir. Otto Preminger, 1959)

I’m not big into courtroom dramas, but Anatomy of a Murder is a big exception. Its morally ambiguous characters elevate it from being a mere “whodunit” (or I guess in the case of this movie, “whydunit”), because if there’s something you’re not going to get with this movie, it’s a clear answer as to what happened on the night of the crime. Jimmy Stewart gives one of his least characteristic performances as the cynical lawyer, and is absolutely brilliant.

Oldboy (dir. Park Chan-Wook, 2003)

Oldboy reminded me a great deal of John Webster’s 17th century tragedy The Duchess of Malfi. Both are gruesome, frightening, and heartbreaking works of art, straddling the line between sensationalism and intelligence, proving the two are not mutually exclusive. It’s both entertaining and difficult to watch. The thought of revisiting it terrifies me but I feel there is so much more to appreciate about the sheer craft on display.

Family Plot (dir. Alfred Hitchcock, 1976)

Family Plot is an enjoyable comedy; you guys are just mean. I know in an ideal world, Hitchcock’s swan song would be a great thriller masterpiece in the vein of Vertigo or Psycho. Family Plot is instead a silly send-up of Hitchcock’s favorite tropes, lampooning everything from the dangerous blonde archetype (with not one but two characters) to complicated MacGuffin plots. You’ll probably demand my film buff card be revoked for my opinion, but to hell with it-- this is my favorite of Hitchcock’s post-Psycho movies.

My Best Girl (dir. Sam Taylor, 1927)

Mary Pickford’s farewell to silent film also happens to be among her best movies. It’s a simple, charming romantic comedy starring her future husband, Charles “Buddy” Rogers. Pickford also gets to play an adult character here, rather than the little girl parts her public demanded she essay even well into her thirties. She and Rogers are sweet together without being diabetes-inducing, and the comedy is often laugh out loud funny. It even mocks a few tropes that anyone who watches enough old movies will recognize and probably dislike-- such as “break his heart to save him!!” (my personal most loathed 1920s/1930s trope).

Parasite (dir. Bong Joon-ho, 2019)

This feels like such a zeitgeist movie. It’s about the gap between the rich and the poor, it’s ironic, it’s depressing, it’s unpredictable as hell. I don’t like terms like “modern classic,” because by its very definition, a classic can only be deemed as such after a long passage of time, but I have a good feeling Parasite will be considered one of the definitive films of the 2010s in the years to come.

Indiscreet (dir. Stanley Donen, 1958)

Indiscreet often gets criticized for not being Notorious more or less, which is a shame. It’s not SUPPOSED to be-- it’s cinematic souffle and both Ingrid Bergman and Cary Grant elevate that light material with their perfect chemistry and comedic timing. It’s also refreshing to see a rom-com with characters over 40 as the leads-- and the movie does not try to make them seem younger or less mature, making the zany moments all the more hilarious. It’s worth seeing for Cary Grant’s jig (picture above) alone.

The Taking of Pelham One Two Three (dir. Joseph Sargent, 1974)

This movie embodies so much of what I love about 70s cinema: it’s gritty, irreverent, and hard-hitting. It’s both hilarious and suspenseful-- I was tense all throughout the run time. I heard there was a remake and it just seems... so, so pointless when you already have this gem perfect as it is.

They All Laughed (dir. Peter Bogdonavich, 1981)

Bogdonavich’s lesser known homage to 1930s screwball comedy is also a weirdly autumnal movie. Among the last gasps of the New Hollywood movement, it is also marks the final time Audrey Hepburn would star in a theatrical release. The gentle comedy, excellent ensemble cast (John Ritter is the standout), and the mature but short-lived romance between Hepburn and Ben Gazarra’s characters make this a memorably bittersweet gem.

The Palm Beach Story (dir. Preston Sturges, 1942)

Absolutely hilarious. I was watching this with my parents in the room. My mom tends to like old movies while my dad doesn’t, but both of them were laughing aloud at this one. Not much else to say about it, other than I love Joel McCrea the more movies I see him in-- though it’s weird seeing him in comedies since I’m so used to him as a back-breaking man on the edge in The Most Dangerous Game!

Nothing Sacred (dir. William Wellman, 1937)

I tend to associate William Wellman with the pre-code era, so I’ve tried delving more into his post-code work. Nothing Sacred is easily my favorite of those films thus far, mainly for Carole Lombard but also because the story still feels pretty fresh due to the jabs it takes at celebrity worship and moral hypocrisy. For a satire, it’s still very warm towards its characters, even when they’re misbehaving or deluding themselves, so it’s oddly a feel-good film too.

Applause (dir. Rouben Mamoulian, 1929)

I love watching early sound movies, but my inner history nerd tends to enjoy them more than the part of me that, well, craves good, well-made movies. Most early sound films are pure awkward, but there’s always an exception and Applause is one of them. While the plot’s backstage melodrama is nothing special, the way the story is told is super sophisticated and expressive for this period of cinema history, and Helen Morgan makes the figure of the discarded burlesque queen seem truly human and tragic rather than merely sentimental.

Topaz (dir. Alfred Hitchcock, 1969)

Another late Hitchcock everyone but me seems to hate. After suffering through Torn Curtain, I expected Hitchcock’s other cold war thriller was going to be dull as dishwater, but instead I found an understated espionage movie standing in stark contrast to the more popular spy movies of the period. It’ll never be top Hitchcock, of course-- still it was stylish and enjoyable, with some truly haunting moments. I think it deserves more appreciation than it’s been given.

What were your favorite cinematic discoveries in 2020?

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laurore-stormwitch · 3 years

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Did someone say Zoya and Genya getting ready for a ball? I had this sitting in my computer for a while. I've written it at the same time of the Nikolai/Genya interaction and went for that instead, leaving this unfinished, so that's the reason why they're similar. But even if this is not wildly original I decided to post it, maybe some of you will enjoy it anyway!

together now - AO3

word count: 2661 (cause I can’t write short fics sorry)

______________________________________________________________

“Zoya, if you move again, I’m going to turn your hair purple.”

Zoya rolled her eyes. Drama queen. Whoever believed that getting ready for a party with your friends was fun, clearly never had to deal with Genya’s perfectionist and dictatorial tendencies. She purposely shifted in her chair in front of the vanity, making Genya glare at her.

“Do you want me to complete my masterpiece or not?”

No, not really. Nothing about going to Sainkt Nikolai’s ball seemed to be exciting. Dreadful and annoying were the only two terms she could come up with to describe the evening in front of her. Mainly having to do to the fact that she was going to have to watch Nikolai and his future wife simper over courtiers and nobles, with the bride-to-be practically coerced to attend the ball. And she wasn’t even allowed to get drunk; saints forbid someone attempted to murder the king again.

“Do you want your hair up or down?” Asked Genya, moving some strands of her hair over her ears.

“Are you really inquiring for my opinion?” The squaller noted ironically, pouring herself another glass of wine.

“No, of course not. Down is better, they make you seem wilder.”

She winked at her and Zoya huffed again. Genya began braiding some thin locks away from her face, leaving the rest of her mane free on her shoulders. She weaved the fine tresses with silver threads and held them in place with diamonds pins. Zoya relaxed under her delicate touch.

“A bit more practice with breaking Grisha’s orders and I’m going to tailor myself at some point. What are you going to do when the day comes?”

She had meant it as a joke, the tone light. But through the mirror she saw a shadow pass behind Genya’s eyes and immediately regretted her words and lack of tact. They knew only one person who had held as much power as Zoya was wielding now; he was rotting in a cell beneath them, and Genya would forever wear his marks on her skin. Of course her mind would have run to him; she tended to darken whenever they touched the argument surrounding Zoya’s newly acquired abilities.

“I hadn’t meant to make you think about that, Genya. I’m sorry.”

Genya smiled at her, coming back to her delightful self.

“It’s okay. I’m just a bit worried about - well, about everything. How is it going with these powers? I’ve spied on you summoning fire the other day. You were glorious.”

Zoya curled her lips and held up her arm, making the fetter made of dragon scales dangle. Juris rumbled inside her. She had told Genya what happened in the Fold, in broad outline. Zoya knew that even if they didn’t say it, they were all concerned with this. She caught them glancing at her sometimes, as if they were waiting for a ticking bomb to go off. It was unpleasant, but she understood them; after all, she was waiting for herself to go off too.

“I’m managing. I’m still not so sure of what I can or cannot do.”

Genya kept working on her hairstyle thoughtfully, letting the quiet stretch between them. She bit her lower lip before adding something else, voice dropping to a whisper.

“Does it feel good?”

Zoya understood that question too. Power is protection. No matter the cost, it would always hold its appeal for a Grisha. That was the pull they felt towards the Darkling too.

“It feels risky.” She answered after a while, releasing a long breath. It was not like her to betray uncertainty or weakness, but she hadn’t anticipated how both frightening and fascinating it would feel to be in this position. “It’s so much power, Genya. What if I can’t control it?”

“If there’s anyone who can do it, it’s you, Zoya.” There was not hesitation in this answer. Yet, Zoya didn’t feel much reassured. She didn’t have a sense of who – or what – she was becoming.

“What if it’s too much power?” She realized that was not the right question, the one thing she dreaded to come true. She corrected herself. “What if it’s not enough, and I want more?”

At this, Genya paused, avoiding Zoya’s gaze, and fell terribly silent. She looked worried, almost scared. A shiver went through Zoya’s spine at the idea of eliciting something like fear in one of the people she loved most. She felt a stabbing guilt and the sudden realization that she didn’t want to explore this topic more and find out what Genya was thinking. She waved a soothing smile at her friend, hoping to stir this exchange away.

“Enough of this. Don’t you want to show me the dress?”

Genya’s eye lightened up as she was pulled out from her gloom towards a more delightful diversion. She turned to the bed and pulled up Zoya’s gown, handing it to her. As usual, Genya had outdid herself. The gown matched the decor in her hair: Zoya thought of the dark midnight sky over Pachina while looking at it, one of the few memories she held from her childhood. When Genya moved it towards her, a million tiny crystals sparkled like stars against the sheer fabric. Zoya slipped inside it gracefully and turned to her, making the dress shimmer; the red head was gloating.

“I always give you the best dresses. All eyes are going to be stuck on you.”

Zoya doubted it, considering how equally gorgeous the other girl was looking right now, hugged by velvet the colour of blood. Genya made her wirl around on herself while she smoothed the dress; Zoya tried to reach for the wine, but Genya snatched the glass from her hands. She shrugged her shoulders at her outraged look. “What? I’m not going to let you stain this magnificent gown, excuse me.”

“You know, you have David’s adoration all for yourself.” Zoya pointed out, scowling. “Don’t get greedy. Let them admire me instead. If I can’t get drunk, I can at least have a different kind of fun.”

Genya rolled her single eye turning her gaze to Zoya, furrowing a brow at her.

“I do hope that by now you know that you have someone’s adoration all for yourself, too.”

Genya had clearly noticed the subtle shifts in Zoya and Nikolai’s behaviour, since she had been dropping this casual and mildly vague comments for a while now. At first, Zoya just ignored them; but then it occurred to her that denying what was going on was not the way to fight this. That maybe the right angle was to approach it much like a military campaign: know your enemy before you defy it. Which for her, it meant to understand what was happening so that she could crush it. And since feelings were not an area of expertise for Zoya, she had figured Genya could come in handy. So at some point she had just let it become a mutual understanding that this whatever-it-was-thing was out in the open, and she started posing carefully pondered question of her own. Zoya crossed Genya’s eye for an instant, replying with a sceptical click of her tongue.

“Both his adoration and his efforts better be for Ehri, for all our sakes. Much like his gaze better be kept on her all night like she’s the most beautiful creature to ever grace this earth. If he cannot sell it to her, at least he has to sell it for the rest of the world.”

“With you in that dress it’s going to be a challenge to look at anyone else.” Teased Genya, grinning. Zoya glared at her, pushing down the uncomfortable satisfaction this remark brought.

“He seems rather immune to my appearance and my presence.”

A poor and unconvincing objection, to say the least. Genya scoffed, handing her the wine as if she was going to need it to hear what came next. Zoya gladly took the offering.

“You do realize I’m a Corporalki, right?”

“What would that mean, apart from making people faint every now and then?”

“It means he can keep his eyes trained on the ceiling all night for all I care, because I’ll still feel his heartbeat spike up every time you pass beside him.”

Zoya didn’t much like to have this particular piece of information, that stirred some unpleasant feelings in her lungs. She swallowed the rest of the alcohol, her throat burning for something else entirely.

“Do you peer in all your friend’s visceral reaction for fun?”

“Just the two of you. Want to know what happens with you?” Mused Genya, knowing damn well the curiosity that sparkled in Zoya’s eyes and even more well feeling her breath itch. Know your enemy, right? Zoya grunted, not even bothering to try and look unfazed.

“Fine. Rip the band aid off.”

“Your heart usually beats like it’s at war. On the contrary, it slows down when he’s around, like you feel- I don’t know, safer. At home.”

Zoya fell silent, turning the words over in her head. It was always a punch in the gut when she wondered when things have started to turn and understood just how much they had turned. Instead of lingering on this painful realization, she did what she knew best and deflected the conversation again where it hurt most. She had the strange belief that if the heart was indeed a muscle, you had to train it like any other one in your body. The more pressure and blows you would put into it, the less you would feel the pain with time. Yuyeh sesh. Be cruel to your heart.

“How are the preparation for the wedding going?”

“As good as they can be.” Genya’s gaze turned sweet and affectionate, and she went along. “No one would say anything, you know. If you wanted to stay away for a while or get some distance.”

“We both know that a lot of people would say a lot of things.” Zoya held her chin high. “And you know that’s not my way of doing things. This is my place; I’m not going to let anyone take it away.”

I don’t want to live in darkness. She fought and lost and suffered to get to where she was. She was certainly not going to give it up for a bad timed and poorly chosen crush. An idiotic and simple crush. Genya nodded, getting the hint that it was enough for today. She seemed to remember something and got back to her tailoring kit.

“Speaking of Nikolai, there’s one thing missing. He gave them to me before I came here.”

Genya walked towards her and clipped what looked like a pin on her dress. She made her turn around to look herself in the mirror. Zoya felt something warming her from the inside when she looked at it; it was more of a medal than a pin. Ravka’s double eagle was shining on her chest, pleated gold, with Alina’s sun behind it and an Etherealki blue ribbon. It resembled the medals she saw on the supposedly war heroes’ generals that worked with Nikolai, but it was more elegant. She brushed her finger on it, full of pride.

“Me and David have one too.” Genya showed her the other one she was holding before securing it on herself. It was Corporalki red. “David has a Materialki purple ribbon. Nikolai told me people should always know we are his most trusted generals and friends. That we work for Ravka as much as he does, and we are owed the same respect, even at a ball.”

Respect. Recognition. Another time, Nikolai managed to surprise her. Because this wasn’t just a pretty thing, a nice embellishment. And while she had been his general for almost three years, that didn’t mean people had accepted and treated her with the appropriate regard. This was a symbol of the king’s trust, something that would force the nobles and the army to behave accordingly, even at events where it would be so easy to down-play her and treat her like another beautiful hollow courtier. Stupid thoughtful Nikolai. She was torn between wanting to kill him for making her feel like this or kiss him senseless for the same reason. Get a grip, Zoya.

“You’re not going to be like him, Zoya.” Zoya startled at Genya words, confused for a moment. She cleared her throat, shoving the treacherous thoughts she was having away. Genya had moved beside her, taking her hand in her own. Looking at Genya firm and proud gaze, she realized they were not talking about Nikolai anymore, and that she hadn’t dropped the conversation before because she was scared or angry at her. It was because she understood where Zoya’s fears were coming from, and she was facing them head on now.

“The Darkling.” She added to clarify, lingering on his name with a tremor in her voice. “Even with all the power you have, you are nothing like him. You managed to do what he had always claimed he wanted, and he had never done: you are saving Grishas, you are rebuilding the Second Army and you hold a position as the King’s right hand. What drives you is not the hunger for power; is the care you have for Ravka and your people. The Darkling wanted to control them, to own them. You protect them.”

Zoya tightened the hold of her hand, while looking at their reflections in the mirror, in the stunning gowns and the triumvirate’s pins. Two women who had believed in the wrong man and kept paying the price for their ingenuity, who had saved themselves in the end. She sucked in a breath, seeing someone she barely recognized; there was almost nothing left of the scared little girl. With the medal on her chest, diamonds in her hair and a glowing fierce light in her eyes she really looked like the leader she aspired to be. She wondered if she was still pretending, or some of the act was now true.

“Stop me before I can become like him.” Zoya blurted out, the words unsteady and whispered. Genya shook her head, leaning in towards her.

“You are different in every way. And you have something he never had; you have people who love you. Believe me, Nikolai is going to burn down all of Os Alta before he lets anything happen to you. None of us is going to let anything happen to you.”

“I’m not afraid of something happening to me, rather than to others.” What if I hurt Nikolai? What if I hurt anyone of you? Genya lowered her head on her shoulder, still holding her hand.

“We fought our way out of his grip once. We’re not going to let him bring us down. We’re stronger than we were before.”

“And we’re together, now.”

Zoya needed something to anchor herself on; the words felt uncertain, more like a question. Because she knew, deep down she knew she was still somehow living by what he had taught her: love is a weakness. And she knew that while Genya talked of friendship, Zoya herself was distancing from everyone. That she was suffocating her feelings for Nikolai, effectively cutting out the person she had relied on the most. That she didn’t know how to be close to someone. That, like the Darkling, she felt destined to be alone. And yet a part of her still needed to believe that a strand of what she conquered was going to save her, that someone was going to reach for her.

“And we’re together.”

Genya repeated, more firmly. We’re not going to let him bring us down another time. A litany. It was our blood on the skiffs, in the sand, on the rocks of a mountain. I’m nothing like him. An enchantment. And we’re together. He had taught her wrong. One day she would be free of this last cage, too.

#genya and zoya have my heart #i don't know if you can tell but i love genya as much as zoya and nikolai #genya safin #zoya nazyalensky #nikolai lantsov #zoya and nikolai #zoyalai #mainly genya and zoya friendship #rule of wolves #nikolai duology #post kos #my writing #fan fiction #grishaverse

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unpopularwiththepopulace · 3 years

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Here Lies Jenny: Bebe Neuwirth’s under-remembered masterpiece?

While Bebe Neuwirth is often remembered foremost for her presence in worlds like Chicago, Cheers or Fosse, there’s another piece in the tapestry of her work that brings many notable threads together and is equally significant to her.

Here Lies Jenny is the somewhat under-discussed piece of theatre that in fact has connections to all three of these aforementioned things, because of the people she worked herself on creating it with, and deserves to be brought up with slightly more comparable frequency.

A moment then to explore some of the history of this elusive but important show.

Here Lies Jenny, recalled as a “surprise off Broadway hit”, opened at the Zipper Theatre in downtown Manhattan in May 2004 and ran there for five months.

The show was an interpretive revue of the music of German composer, Kurt Weill, born out of an idea Bebe had herself. It was shaped by collaboration with close friends – with its initial genesis assisted by Leslie Stifelman (the show’s pianist, who she’d worked with on Chicago), direction by Roger Rees (who she’d long known and worked with since their time on Cheers together), and choreography by Ann Reinking (who was Bebe’s closest dance companion in the Fosse universe).

Set in a dark and shadowy looking barroom, the piece followed Bebe as the central, amorphous female figure named ‘Jenny’, supported by three male cast members and a pianist, through an evening of carefully selected Weill songs. Alongside Bebe and Leslie on stage were Gregory Butler and Shawn Emamjomeh, as two rough denizens of the bar, and Ed Dixon as the general proprietor.

There was no linear storyline to the show and no spoken dialogue, but Bebe described how the evening unfolded “in a very logical and emotional, fulfilling way.” All of the songs presented “[described] the interaction between these five people there, that make it necessary to sing the next song.” Rather than taking a group of songs by a particular composer and imposing a narrative on them, the songs were interwoven together to create an “impressionistic and realistic painting of this person’s life.”

To give a summary of the show’s arc, Jenny initially descends the wire staircase into the bar, with little more than a frightened expression and a small bag of wordly possessions. Accosted by the two forceful patrons, she’s flattened down both physically and emotionally. The men depart and return throughout, and the emotional core of the piece fluctuates from song to song as each number evokes a different picture and interpretation of a circumstance or feeling. As reviewers put it, “she’s sometimes bold, sometimes reticent, until she leaves…with what seems like a modicum of self-possession and hope,” and “climbs that long staircase on her way into the world again.”

The idea for creating Here Lies Jenny came out of Bebe’s own desire to put together a piece of theatre and an evening of performance of her own. It was a notion intensified by growing external interest, or as she recalled, “people have always said to me ‘Do a show, do a show, do a one woman show!’”

But for a while the form the piece would take was unclear. Bebe knew she “didn’t want to do a revue”, and she didn’t want “the usual cabaret thing… [or] ‘Bebe and Her Boys.’”

“I generally hate one women shows,” she would remark, “unless it’s Elaine Stritch or Chita Rivera or, you know, Patti LuPone.”

According to Bebe, she’s “much more comfortable as a character doing something. I'm not comfortable just being myself and singing in front of people.”

On and off for around two and a half years then, Bebe had been considering how to approach this matter while putting together some music, predominantly that of Kurt Weill, with musician, conductor and friend from Chicago, Leslie Stifelman.

Leslie suggested bringing in a director, so Bebe turned to Roger Rees – a person she regards as “not just a great actor,” but also “a fantastic director”, with a “very interesting creative mind.” Showing Roger the songs, he “realised that they all described women, or aspects of women, or different times in women’s lives.”

Roger thought it would be interesting then to combine all of these varied sentiments and have them channelled through one specific woman, in one specific location, to present a complex but diversely applicable tapestry centred around the emotional interiority of one tangible female force.

The show is “fragmented, prismatic…less narrative than poetic,” according to Roger. It’s not prescriptive. Rather, it evokes strong feelings and allows the audience to interpret them into their own individual and personal narrative for this woman. It poses questions and provokes thoughts. Who is this woman? Why is she here? Why is she here now? Is that a child? Or is that just a wish for a child? What did she have in this life before we meet her and what has she now lost?

It is indeed an unusual entity, and atypical from other more standard revues, cabaret acts, or works of theatre. A “self-described Japanophile”, Bebe explained how it played in the “Japanese aesthetic concept known as wabi sabi.” Of this she would elaborate, “There’s no direct translation, but it’s about the beauty of things as they age, embracing what’s painful in life as well as what’s joyful.”

It is certainly a piece that contains beauty as well as pain, which itself is a complexity and dichotomy often ascribed to Kurt Weill’s music.

When initially finding and working on songs for what was to become Here Lies Jenny, Bebe noticed being drawn to the work of one composer most strongly.

Like Bernadette Peters talking about how she gravitates to selecting Stephen Sondheim’s material for her concerts, Bebe would say simply, “all of the music that I loved the most was Kurt Weill music.”

A revue in 1991 called Cabaret Verboten (also with Roger Rees), that sought to recreate a Weimar Republic cabaret and re-conjure some of the decadence of pre-Nazi Germany, increased Bebe’s exposure to Kurt Weill’s music and was where she “first became captivated by the composer”. Building on this strong connection and deep appreciation in the years since then, Bebe would assert of his music, “it resonates for me.”

“Neuwirth knows Weill’s music isn’t for everyone,” one reviewer wrote, “but she won’t apologize for it.” She sees its capacity to be “appreciated on many different levels,” and has described it on varying occasions as “unflinchingly honest”, “very fulfilling to perform”, not just “arch and angular and Germanic…[as] many people think”, but as having “great lyricism and tenderness”.

Bebe feels a strong affinity for Weill’s music in part because of its “ability to convey the truth completely and fearlessly and without artifice”. For example, “If you're talking about heartbreak, [his music] goes to the absolute nth degree of what that really means. The way he shows that is with fearless lyrics and the bravery to make the music as beautiful as it can be.”

“Maybe the way I appreciate it speaks to the kind of person I am,” she would say. “I’m very bright but not an intellectual. I like things in a visceral, passionate and spiritual way.” And to Bebe, Weill’s music certainly provides that – which was why devising this show was of such importance and significance to her.

Bebe said also that “the show offers the broad range of Weill's songwriting talents.” This is indeed a truism, with the work of no fewer than ten different lyrists being showcased across the nearly two dozen songs during the evening, including Berthold Brecht, Ira Gershwin, Alan Jay Lerner, Langston Hughes, and Ogden Nash.

The different styles and languages of Kurt Weill’s music mirror Weill’s own history and geographic progression through the world. Born in Germany, “Weill, a Jew, had to flee the Nazis at the height of his popularity. He fled to France and then to the United States, where he became a citizen in 1943.”

His songs reflect the world in which he was living. For instance, ‘The Bilbao Song’ is a tale of sometimes gleeful, sometimes regretful nostalgia and comes from a collaboration with Berthold Brecht in German. It is performed here only in English through the use of “Michael Feingold's now-accepted translation”. The Brechtian-ism is a feature of this production as a whole that was remarked on at the time, being appraised there was “more than a dash of an alienation effect at play,” with material being sung for example behind grilled windows or facing away from the audience.

His French material is alternately reflective of the musical identity Weill tried to devise while having to reinvent himself from scratch in France. Bebe performs one of these French numbers here, entitled ‘Je ne t'aime pas’, which has its own poetic lyricism, and indeed mournful significance, given the translation of the title as ‘I don’t love you’.

Alternately, jazzy, Broadway glamour is comparatively evident in some songs like ‘The Saga of Jenny’ from musicals that arose in America on the Great White Way out of the era of Golden Age of the American musical in the ‘40s to the 60’s.

This show was ambitious then, in its mission of exploring a wide range of the composer’s musical contributions across multiple decades, countries, styles of music, and lyrical collaborations.

Beyond his own musicals, Kurt Weill’s music has been notably seen elsewhere on Broadway or in the theatre world via interpretations such as songs in concerts with Betty Buckley, Patti LuPone, Ute Lemper; or full stage productions with Donna Murphy as Lotte Lenya in Hal Prince’s 2007 Lovemusik; or Lenya’s recordings herself.

Much of Kurt Weill’s legacy lives on through his wife, Lotte Lenya, who was seen as his “chief interpreter… [and] largely responsible for reviving interest in the composer” after his death.

Like Lotte with her “whisky baritone”, Bebe is able to convey meaningful interpretations of Weill’s music through her vocal richness and skilled acting choices, carefully controlling factors like timing, pronunciation and syllabic stress.

An example. Bebe does the most satisfying version of ‘The Bilbao Song’ I have heard. There’s a line in this song that states: “Four guys from ‘frisco came with sacks of gold dust,” in which the last portion of the phrase is repeated a further two times. Bebe emphasises the third “SACKS, of gold dust?!” in the dramatic manner stylised through my punctuation in attempts at recreating its phonology, which contrasts against the two previous readings. This gives the line a salient narrative purpose. It conveys not just an observation, but a tale of surprise and incredulity – who on earth would walk into a bar carrying entire sacks of gold dust?

It may be seemingly just one small detail, but it has a large impact. Other versions that intonate all three repetitions of this line the same miss this engaging variation and feel flat in comparison.

This song would justly so later become a staple of her concert material – along with others like ‘Surabaya Johnny’ and ‘Susan’s Dream’.

But there is unfamiliar territory traversed in Here Lies Jenny too. The rendition of Ogden Nash’s lyrics with ‘I'm a Stranger Here Myself’ is ‘new’ – and it’s exquisite, in its melodic, lilting and playful but darkly seductive swirling sentiment.

Another notable number in need of individual mention would be ‘The Saga of Jenny’. There are two Kurt Weill songs most strongly associated with the ‘Jenny’ moniker – this, and the also well-known ‘Pirate Jenny’ from The Threepenny Opera, which Bebe had done a production of in 1999. The latter was trialled in early versions of the show but ultimately didn’t “serve the piece as well as other…moments could,” so was taken out. Fortunately, Bebe would later work it into her concerts.

The former made it in, and provides the exciting opportunity to get to hear Bebe’s take on this song as made well-known by a number of respected performers. ‘The Saga of Jenny’ appeared initially in Weill & Gershwin’s collaboration for the musical Lady in the Dark in 1941, starring Gertrude Lawrence. The song has since gone through innumerable reiterations, such as via Ginger Rogers in the 1944 film adaptation of the same name; Julie Andrews’ big-production performance in the Gertrude Lawrence biopic Star! in 1968; and other high-profile concert performances like via Ruthie Henshall, Christine Ebersole, Lynn Redgrave and Ute Lemper; along with Lotte Lenya’s own recordings.

Further extending the song’s life was ‘The Saga of Lenny’ – a version devised with new lyrics by Stephen Sondheim, performed by Lauren Bacall for Leonard Bernstein’s 70th Birthday in 1988. All of these are on YouTube and I would testify are worth a watch.

In this show, Bebe performs the number with the bravado of a war-time songbird. She strides around with an old-school 1940s microphone back and forth across the stage as she progresses through the song’s distinct chronological sections, grounding the show centrally back to its identifying moniker and characterising an eponymous, engaging and multiply varied ‘Jenny’.

When not bound to microphones, Here Lies Jenny also involved the use of Ann Reinking’s “minimal but inventive” choreography to create striking visual images. Though perhaps not resembling the fast-paced, razzle-dazzle of Chicago, these patterns of movement are at times no less impactful. Bebe is dragged fluidly across a countertop, rolled sinuously down pairs of legs, centred in a dark tango (that one review likened as a potential metaphor for a ménage à trois), or spun backwards upside down onto Emamjomeh’s shoulder in the air – to name a few notable moments.

Not a dance show by any strict sense, all of these demands are nonetheless physically taxing. This is a matter of importance given the timing of the show.

What Bebe had long deemed a “peculiar” hip from her early twenties, begun causing notable pain when it “went from peculiar to downright bad in 2001” during Fosse on Broadway. It was recorded the “pain continued during [this] high-concept Kurt Weill revue” in 2004, such that performing this manner of movement in the show can have been no trivial feat. The next three years brought subsequent arthroscopic surgery for cartilage removal, and then total hip replacement.

That being considered, the show was able to run in the highly demanding manner it did for five months straight because of Ann Reinking’s assiduously crafted choreography.

The Zipper Theatre was the “funky downtown Manhattan space” that housed the show for that time. The timing of the production and the nature of the theatre played integral parts in the piece’s characterisation.

Roger took Bebe to see the theatre when they were devising the show, and to Bebe, it felt right. “There is this creative gesture that we are making and the gesture is completed if it’s in this place.” Not in some new, shiny theatre; but here, with a darkness and sense of history that created an evocative mood similar to the tone of the whole show “as soon as you walked into the building.” This was aided by the show beginning at 11pm each night – “absolutely an artistic choice” – given that what “happens between these five people, happens very late at night”, in a shadowy time of day filled by darkness and secrets.

Here Lies Jenny ended its run in New York in October 2004. But this did not mark the end of the piece. Bebe and her troupe took the show to San Francisco in the Spring the following year – after a seven month interim that included filming thirteen episodes of Law and Order: Trial by Jury, the aforementioned hip cartilage removal, and subsequent recovery.

The show was not deemed flawless by everyone who reviewed it. Some thought it too dark or wished for less abstraction and ambiguity. But as one article would conclude, “Faults aside, it’s hard not to recommend a show devoted to Kurt Weill,” ultimately providing a “unique and polished evening at the theatre.”

Roger Rees would reflect on the show, “Weill & Neuwirth work so well together” because Bebe’s “high standard of performance” means she is able to “delve deeply and go on forever” into material he likened to being as complex as Shakespeare.

It “demands a great deal from a performer, and she is equal to it,” Roger said. “She’s very deep in herself. There’s nothing made up about [her], which is a rare and beautiful thing. The match between performer and material is exquisite.”

This would likely mean a lot to Bebe, as the show itself meant a lot to Bebe. And still does several years later. She would cite it in 2012 as the “role she wish[ed] more people had seen”, as to her, it “was a beautiful, unusual piece of theatre”. Altogether, it was something ineffable and “bigger than the sum of its parts”.

“It’s something I've wanted to do, and I did instigate it,” she said, of putting the show together. But that’s not to say it was easy to helm matters. “For me to be in charge, makes me very uncomfortable.”

That the show got made at all then Bebe would recognise as “a testament to how deeply I love the material and how inspired it makes me.” Her trust in people like Leslie, Annie and Roger enabled the creation of such a project from the ground up that wouldn’t have otherwise existed. Thus, to borrow a phrase from Stephen Sondheim, it was the combination of both personal drive, and also the shared collaboration of four people who all “love each other very much” that ultimately ‘made a hat where there never was a hat.’

It was even further an important show to her, because it was “a very private thing.” She’d describe Jenny as a very physical and emotional role – “the most personal of anything I've done.”

It clearly holds a special place in Bebe’s own heart. Undoubtedly, it would be poignant to revisit again. As we look to the near future of theatre with shows that could feasibly be staged as events start coming back, in tandem with the publicly expressed desire of people wanting to see Bebe back on stage again, this pre-existing, modestly-sized, inventive piece would be no bad suggestion.

How about a Here Lies Jenny reprise when theatre returns?

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