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feferika · 2 years

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No one asked this, but here is an analysis of one of my favorite One Piece arcs strictly from a literature and film fanatic standpoint...

PART ONE: TRILLER BARK

Thriller Bark is the first favorite! Because it shows some of the unknown literary prowess of Oda sensei that many people probably would overlook (simply from it being so obscure with the references).

Now, the first obvious reference that this arc brings up is Frankenstein by Mary Shelley.

We know just from a glance that all of these monsters are not quite what they seem from their stitched up appearances. Unlike the stereotypical take on Frankenstein’s monster of the bolts and thunder, we have the truly gruesome amalgamations and chimera-esc creatures truly rising up to greet us.

While these creatures are very comical in appearance, there are also extremely horrific looking moments with them.

Much like Victor Frankenstein, Hogback and Moria do not truly comprehend how their monsters can affect other people. Entire lives are being uprooted for the sake of these monsters that are mutilated for the sake of science and their own personal goals.

We see some of this through the unhinged use of Cindry’s creation which very much mimics the Bride of Frankenstein’s story in many ways.

While she is not solely created for the same purposes as the Bride of Frankenstein, she is still created for the sole desire of another person.

Her disjointed personality shines through in her actions that are very disparate from the original person. Simply put, they are not the same person at all despite having the same appearance. The entire essence of the original Cindry is lost in this creation and becomes a purely physical satisfaction.

These are also highly comparable to the 1932 film White Zombie for the smitten notions and the morally unacceptable actions of the lead character who sought to empower the women for his own. Which is also where we possible gain Cindry’s overall design from.

While many of the overall aesthetic of the arc is reflective of stories like Dracula by Bram Stoker and its many iterations in media, it is also fair to say it is overall taken from inspiration of all of the classic monster films and their aesthetics.

The Post-Thriller Bark moments with Dracule Mihawk, Perona, and Zoro merely expand upon this notion and further solidifies these references

For heaven’s sake, his name is basically Dracula! Anyways, I digress...

Now, let’s take a step back for a moment and analyze Hogback’s name for a moment. Hogback is a geographical term to signify an odd strata formation generally in mountains.

The name was probably chosen for the rough and jagged appearance, much like the person and his creations. Since these formations look much like the stitching of the creations, I find it a very fulfilling name for our doctor.

So, what about Gecko Moria’s name? What makes his name so unique?

Well, many of us who have seen the Lord of the Rings may remember a place called the “Mines of Moria.” However, many of us may not be aware of the origin of the name Moria itself.

So, J.R.R. Tolkien was a fan of many older forms of literature and is known for his work in transcribing many words for the Oxford English Dictionary (OED) from older forms of English that we would not be privy to today without his and others’ efforts.

One of the literary works that Tolkien took inspiration from was a Norwegian story called Soria Moria Castle (or Soria Moria slott). Now, I have read this story before and I absolutely adore it, but many of us may have never read it. So, I will briefly explain it.

The main character, Halvor, is a good for nothing son who longed for something else in life. He was led astray by a man to set out at sea and is LOST. He gets off his boat and finds a castle.

Hmm. Strange. I think I remember Luffy and the Strawhat crew getting lost at sea and stumbling upon a mysterious castle through the ghost and fog.

Anyways, many things happen as Halvor is in this mysterious castle.

First, Halvor is warned about a three headed troll living on this land.

Second, Halvor is asked to wield a sword.

Third, a marriage deal is offered to Halvor with multiple women involved.

Fourth, there is a time where the parents of Halvor find their own son unrecognizable until a series of events later.

The story continues with more series of events with weddings and travel using magic, but what is important is that many other elements of the story shine through in this One Piece arc.

So, while many can chalk this arc up as being purely classic monster aesthetic, there is clearly more going on here than we first realized.

So, now we know why the name Moria is relevant. But what about Gecko?

In Japanese, Gecko means “Moonlight.” Which that alone feels fitting for a man that revels in the shadows for his malicious intentions.

Now, it would be folly of me to chalk all of these references up to solely one Norwegian folktale since many of these comparisons can be shared with the story The Island of Doctor Moreau by H. G. Wells.

This is a story of a shipwrecked man who details the actions of the doctor on the island who creates human hybrid amalgamations using animals.

Many of the animal amalgamations mentioned in the story are also featured in this comic itself. For instance, the character recounts how he looked upon creatures that resembled “swine” much like our beloved Lola’s monster form. There is also mention of an ape-man, rabbits, sloth-creatures, hyena-man, etc...

BUT MORE IMPORTANTLY! He mentions a leopard-man! Even a puma-man!

HE ALSO MENTIONS... DARE I SAY IT... DOG-MAN!

Anyways, it’s mostly about the animal-human hybrids. That’s what you need to gather from that story.

So, what about some of the other characters? Ones like our precious Ghost Princess Perona?

Well, there is no REAL evidence to what she is in reference to other than the idea of ghosts, poltergeists, and spirits often being entities that mock and toy with others. For instance, most western depictions of ghosts like the three bullies in Casper or some of the small-fry ghosts in GhostBusters.

I like to think of Perona’s ghosts as more of an Inkwell Era reference.

Which is also what I pertain to most of Brook’s enchanting humor. So, think cartoons like Betty Boop and you have the general idea of what I’m talking about.

Perona is also very characteristic of the idea of women who reside over the horror media and truly reign on it. We’re talking Elvira, Vampira, Morticia Addams, etc... Horror Queens to put it simply.

But this neglects some of the later iterations known as Scream Queens which over the years have gathered a more gothic punk aesthetic such as in The Return of the Living-Dead, Underworld, or even in REPO! The Genetic Opera...

So, yes. Plenty of horror aesthetic. Which is why we are hounded by zombies and can laugh throughout the entire arc. Since, that’s what classic horrors and cheesy modern horrors are all about.

Of course, Perona’s style itself is more reminiscent of Gothic Lolita culture, but I doubt any of you need little ole ME to point that out.

Why, we have grown up with that representation in many other forms over the years in anime anyways.

It would be odder if Oda sensei DIDN’T touch upon such a cultural iconic look.

So, yes. Perona is great and I adore her. But there are more characters to talk about! Like Brook! Who I have mentioned at least twice now!

Why the name? Why the violin? Why the gentleman look? Why anything?

First, I would like to point out that a brook is a small stream. Streams are known for a multitude of meaning, such as a stream of music flowing or a stream of silly words... Brook is a skeleton man with the power of BOTH and he has a flowing way of working with his soul.

So, then there is the gentleman look. He is specifically supposed to be a man of the past and look contrarian to the people of the present. Giving him a classic gentleman look carries this effect out perfectly and further exemplifies the classic horror setting of this arc.

So, what about the violin? Violins are one of the most performed classic instruments for horror stories but also for uplifting songs because of the varied range it has for musical prowess. Plus it’s an instrument that is easy to carry around and has a long lineage of usage. Perfect for a gentleman who has been around for a long time.

Brook’s introduction brought about plenty of classic tips of the hat to how to ward off evil spirits in a multitude of cultures.

Salt is often used for repelling a variety of supernatural beings, as well as being an ill-omen when spilled.

Crosses are generally used to ward off spirits of “unholy origins” like vampires and demons. Creatures that are created against God.

Garlic is used to ward of vampires.

Omamori (amulets) are used to ward off bad omens and offer protection.

Juzu (prayer beads) and others are used to prayer for resolution to suffering.

We also see glimpses of Ofuda (slips of paper) from Usopp like this one...

The Nobori (vertical flag) that Usopp carries says “悪霊退散/akuryou taisan” which essentially means “evil spirit/demon dispersal”

Usopp and Chopper in general have a very Van Helsing appearance to hunt/ward off the monsters. Van Helsing being the Dutch monster hunter from Dracula... Anyways!

This story arc would not be complete without discussing our dear Kuma. The man with many a shrouded mystery around him and even some analysis on him that I have which may delve even further than Thriller Bark. So, at this point if you are not caught up beyond Thriller Bark, then I would stop reading from this point on...

So, yes, Kuma. The bear symbolism is all there, I do not need to cover that part. What I do what to cover though is the other part of his name. Bartholomew is a name with a multitude of meaning in this story.

We all know that Oda sensei is very clever in his usage of historical pirate names throughout the comic in a variety of means. Bartholomew is no exception in this regard. Bartholomew "Black Bart" Roberts is the pirate figure that Kuma borrows a name from and that is where the similarities between the two ends.

Instead of taking on a particular personage after the pirate, instead his imagery is more similar to one of the Apostles of God.

We know this from Kuma’s very upstanding way of talking and acting, as well as his manner of carrying around a Bible (which has multiple variants throughout the series and is an arguable discussion).

However, I would like to propose that many of the actions that occur with, around, by Kuma, etc... Are all also very synonymous with legends about the Apostle of God himself.

For instance, his physical appearance is reflective of the common depictions of Bartholomew the Apostle as a man with dark skin and curly hair. He is also a person known for being skinned alive and beheaded for his death sentence.

I believe it is also no coincidence that the cross-esc symbol is a reference to this comparison. Even the way his ability works appears like one who is warding off evil.

One could say he’s... hands on...

Anyways! I love this arc and I really hope that other people like my analysis of it and have their own thoughts to share. I do acknowledge that much of my analysis could be my own opinions and not the truth, since most of this is not confirmed by Oda sensei himself. But! I still think it is worth sharing and worth talking about because that’s what literature is all about! Talking and discussing and making your own takeaways from it!

So, try not to be horrified by my... lengthy amount of words and pictures here...

Stay tuned for PART TWO!!!!!!!!!!!!

#one piece #thriller bark #analysis #im sorry but also not sorry #spoilers #for some people who might be newer to the series

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bookgeekgrrl · 9 months

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My media this week (27 Aug-2 Sep 2023)

📚 STUFF I READ 📚

🥰 Unseen (Rath & Rune #2) (Jordan L. Hawk, author; Joel Leslie, narrator) - back in Widdershins with Librarian Sebastian & his be-tentacled half-human lover Vesper Rune, trying to collect the evil Books of the Bound. The Rune brothers are also finding that unfortunately it's harder to cut ties with an abusive family than one might wish.

🥰 Pretend to Be Nice (Interdepartmental Cooperation #2) (seekwill) - 57K, GO Gabriel/Beelzebub - same universe as Golden Handcuffs, just as good as that fic - I love a fic where two jagged edged people learn to see how their broken pieces fit together

🥰 Unknown (Rath & Rune #3) (Jordan L. Hawk, author; Joel Leslie, narrator) - On the hunt for the Book of Bone. Widdershins may know its own but the Old Families definitely still cause a lot of harm

😍 The 70 Days After Groundhog Day (Ptelea) - really great Batfam fic - Dick's POV, focusing on Jason & Dick but also about Jason's relationship to everyone after a 53-day timeloop that only Jason can remember

💖💖 +121K of shorter fic so shout out to these I really loved 💖💖

love you like rlb (orphan_account) - MCU: stucky, 3K - forever fave, reread - when Steve wakes up he finds the phrase 'love you like rlb' is world-famous, but no one knows why and he doesn't tell them, at least not immediately

No Place Like Home (asocialconstruct) - MCU: stucky, 5k - post-WS Bucky time travels to pre-war Stucky & sexy times ensue - always a fun, hot read

Cassiopeia, Orion, Bootes (AidaRonan) - Stranger Things: steddie, 10K - forgot how much I love this fic with the hilarious tag 'he was a gator boi' & some extremely excellent monsterfucking

[Podfic] The Three-Steve Solution (seleneaurora) - MCU: stucky/samsteve/stony, 6K - excellently done podfic of a hilarious cracky fic with multiverse Steves of different omegaverse designations being kidnapped by baddies and their respective partners showing up to rescue them

[podfic] Doctor Feelgood (cricketsong1985) - MCU: stucky, 10K - fave, relisten- another great podfic - Bucky discovers one of Steve's kinks and sets out to make his fantasy real - hot sex but also I love how well their relationship is expressed

📺 STUFF I WATCHED 📺

Celebrity Jeopardy - s1, e5

Insane Pools: Off the Deep End - s1, e1

Leverage - s2, e5

Make Some Noise - s2, e1

Maine Cabin Masters - s1, e1-8; s8, e1-4

Harley Quinn - s4, e8

Um, Actually - s8, e12

What We Do In The Shadows - s5, e9-10

Only Murders In The Building - s3, e5

D20: Mentopolis - "Grappling With Death" (s1, e4)

D20: Adventuring Party - "A Random Sequence of Events" (s14, e4)

🎧 PODCASTS 🎧

The Atlas Obscura Podcast - Villa de Vecchi

The Sporkful - A Garlic Dispute 20 Years In The Making

The Atlas Obscura Podcast - It’s Getting Hot in Here

Re: Dracula - August 30: Millions of Kisses

Ed Zitron's 15 Minutes In Hell - Episode 4 - Rob Corddry, Actor

Vibe Check - Introducing The Stacks with Traci Thomas

The Atlas Obscura Podcast - How to Quarantine in a Ghost Town

99% Invisible #551 - Office Space

Switched on Pop - Olivia Rodrigo’s Good Ideas

⭐ Song Exploder - Re-issue: Janelle Monáe "So Afraid"

Re: Dracula - August 31: Do Not Fail

⭐ One Year - 1955: The Weather Girls

⭐ One Year - 1955: The Crockett Craze

Dear Prudence - Relationship Podcasts Are Ruining My Friend's Life. Help!

Re: Dracula - September 1: Am Writing

Pop Culture Happy Hour - Suits And What's Making Us Happy

The Atlas Obscura Podcast - Maine Windjammers

Welcome to Night Vale #233 - Citizen Spotlight: The Vampire of Lombardi Street

⭐ One Year - 1955: The Team Nobody Would Play

Re: Dracula - September 2: Suck From my Wound

🎶 MUSIC 🎶

Inflammable Material [Stiff Little Fingers] {1979}

Nobody's Heroes [Stiff Little Fingers] {1980}

Funky Hangout

my Journey playlist

The '90s Ska Revival

Vintage Blues Reworked

Boats, Beaches, Bars & Ballads [Jimmy Buffett] {1992}

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emmettkane · 7 months

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I watched Castlevania: Nocturne, long post time. First, context: I have lots of Opinions when it comes to storytelling media, especially in the departments of writing and world building. Regardless. I try to appreciate pieces of art for what they are doing, not for what I want them to do. I had very mixed feelings on the original Castelvania animated series, especially about the later seasons and episodes, but I still enjoyed it. Oh, also, beware all ye who enter here, for there are spoilers below. Don't read if you still plan on watching.

Anyway, Nocturne is great. Not perfect (I'll get into that) but still great. I love the characters, I love the choice of setting, I love all of the cultural work that went into it, and I think the sound design team deserves the novel peace prize. I also don't have any issues with, for example, the fact that Annette is justifiably angry when Richter bails, unlike some sections of the fandom surrounding Nocturne (i.e. weirdos, racists, etc...) There's other things I could gush about, design stuff, the insane action scenes, Edouard singing in Italian, Olrox turning a guy into a raisin...but then I'd be here all day. No, I've got some other notes to cover.

First: voice acting.

None of the VAs are bad, some of them are actually stellar! However, the director appears to have pushed their delivery towards being more realistic, more grounded, and I find that it clashes with both the tone of the story and the animated expressions more often than not, even if only subtly. They sound like normal, real-ass people, even when delivering epic speeches, pouring their hearts out, and facing off against the undead. Even the flashy villains, like Drolta and Erszebet, have their cadences muted. It's one of the only things that I find to be a step-down from the original series. Compare to Dracula, Trevor, and Carmilla.

Second: moment-to-moment writing.

The raw dialogue, even if you ignore the oft-stilted delivery, was itself a little cockeyed. In the same way as the voice acting, it seemed that the directors were pushing for/willing to accept more "realistic" dialogue. That is to say, rather than having the dialogue be sharp, clever, and efficient, it was often jagged, a little improvised, and reactive. It was informed not by its use to the overarching narrative, but by the reactions normal people might have to a given occurrence.

That's not to say that characters only exist to serve the story. They do need to be their own people in order to feel real and live, to be characterized well. In this case, however, this roughness doesn't seem to do that. Even when characters are supposed to be confident, well informed, or madly driven, this quality doesn't go away. It is pervasive, and becomes an unpleasant part of the narrative style.

The Point

Neither of these issues are actually crippling, I still enjoyed this thoroughly and am looking forward to the next season with bated breath, but it's a little disappointing to see no improvement in these areas since the original series aired. Oh, also, I know that it's 'Castlevania', but they could have foreshadowed Alucard a little bit.

#review #television #castlevania #castlevania nocturne spoilers #castlevania nocturne

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ruiniel · 2 years

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Fandom: Castlevania Series (2017-2021)

Rating: Mature

Relationships: Alucard/Trevor Belmont/Sypha Belnades

Characters: Alucard, Trevor Belmont, Sypha Belnades (for now)

Additional Tags: Post-Castlevania (Cartoon) Season 2, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Trephacard, Grief/Mourning, Mental Anguish, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Developing Relationship, Other Tags to Be Added

“Hold on to me, Belmont, not my shirt.”

Trevor does, or tries, grunting with his arm slung around Alucard’s neck as he stands to his wobbling feet. He can’t even feel irked by Alucard’s tone, eager to be moving and, if he’s being honest, too grateful to complain. “I really could try this on my own, you know,” Trevor says anyway, receiving no reply.

Alucard’s support never falters, his arm steady around Trevor’s ribs. “I appreciate the care for my time,” he says as they take a few steps together, “but I do have an inordinate supply of it.”

Well, he’s right about that. Again, Trevor lets it slide. Maybe he’s getting soft here, or maybe he’s become more used to Alucard’s cold-shoulder retorts. He’s warm against Trevor’s side, and the hunter is absolutely not focused on that more than the important task of putting one foot in front of the other.

This is not awkward.

He recalls Alucard’s words to Sypha, to them, the honesty in his voice with the admission that he wanted them here and despite Trevor’s own previous misgivings, those moments stayed with the hunter ever since and now live free in his head to mull over.

This is not awkward.

They pass through a tall entrance to an adjoined chamber, and from there onto a long terrace overlooking the wooded pathlands. It is here Alucard eases the hunter down on a padded, upholstered bench, set in the shade and heaped with cushions.

Trevor squints, uses his hand as a shield until his eyes stop hurting from the sudden change. He blinks as the wilderness appears in tints of green and fading blue the farther it spreads, climbing up the knees of solemn mountains rising jagged in the distance. Getting some fresh air was the goal here, and the hunter takes full breaths of it.

Alucard busies himself with some bottles and flasks, then sits beside Trevor on the bench. It’s quiet up here, comes the thought, but not as silent as the stifling four walls of a chamber, and days passed since Trevor was reacquainted with lucidity — a state he’s apparently taken shamelessly for granted before the onset of his illness. It’s strange to him to be left so weakened as to need help in this manner, stranger still to actually receive it; something Trevor remembers happening but once before in his life, a kindness he clung to through the latter years when his defaced hope in humanity was finally about to give. “Thanks,” he says, shaking off the memory, because not everything must be ghosts and regret.

Alucard looks his way, an eyebrow raised; waiting patiently.

“For this,” Trevor sighs, pointing at himself. “For helping me heal.” He rubs the back of his head, furrows his brows.

Alucard picks a tome with a dusted blue cover from a sheltered table in the corner. He looks down at the damn thing, and there is that fucking sadness again; it's on his face, in the way he moves, in everything he does.

This is awkward.

But he’s Trevor fucking Belmont, afraid of no man or beast et cetera, et cetera, and if he was unhinged enough to punch Dracula in the face he won’t quail before talking about his feelings to his son.

“Neither Sypha nor I could have done any different,” Alucard says, meeting his eyes and he’s… he’s smiling. Brief and pale, but it’s there, like it was those first moments of clarity when Alucard was leaning over him, looking like something priceless had just dropped in his lap. A silly comparison, maybe, but Trevor’s never been a poet, and it’s Alucard’s expression he still sees in those states between wakefulness and sleep.

“Still,” Trevor looks back ahead, sliding lower against the bench, “I’m not dead, probably would be if it weren’t for you, again, and… and, yeah.” He sighs, “What I’m trying to say is,” he throws Alucard a brief glance to see him staring at his feet, elbows propped on his knees, “I’ve lived on lucky chances for the latter half of my life. I’m surprised I’m still alive, to be frank.”

“Agreed.”

“Shut up and let me say this. I was used to being treated like shit by people, and after a while, it’s easy to become what everyone makes of you.” He feels Alucard's gaze on him, finds it easier to stare at the clouds smeared like white pastry across the sky. “From the beginning — ever since your weird entrance into our lives you both always treated me like I’m worth something, and that’s… I’m thankful for that. Yeah? Wanted to get this out of the way. Wanted you to know.” He falls silent, observing two eagles as they circle each other in strong, graceful sweeps against a backdrop of blue.

Alucard rests with his head on the backrest, hands clasped together over his chest, finally looking like he’s got no stake up his arse. But he understands, he must. After all, his own life did a complete flip, making way for… for whatever this is. Maybe Alucard isn’t sure either. But he no longer avoids their company for most of the time, no longer slinks away at night to hunt until he returns bloody and worn. Instead, he stood by Trevor and Sypha since that morning, kept feeding Trevor that horrible tasting medicine and if he left, many times they would wake late into the night and find him there, either reading or dozing in an armchair close to the bed.

And that, too, is what Trevor is grateful for — all of them taking a direly needed breath together. No heavy topics. No talk of sieges. No questions apart from practical matters of the present. He rubs at his chest where it still hurts to breathe and a persistent fatigue renders him incapable of doing much, for most of the time, but the air is clean, they’re not running for their lives, and Alucard is here.

“So, we’re staying for a while,” Trevor speaks gruffly against his own fear. For how long? They haven’t discussed that, either. And how much does it really matter now, anyway? “You’ll need a lot of help with this place, by the looks of it.”

Alucard reaches for the water pitcher, pours and offers out a glass. His hand is pale and bony beneath the brush of Trevor’s fingers, his eyes sunken in, and he still looks like something heavy and nasty constantly drags him down by the shoulders. Trevor makes an effort and doesn’t comment. Nobody likes having their pain called out at every turn; they know it’s there, after all.

“First, regain your strength. Then we’ll see to the rest.”

Trevor can't argue with that, and a few steps forward are usually better than none.

Above them, the eagles cry.

“There is… so much more preserved food here than I thought!” comes Sypha’s voice, a little muffled, from the other side of the door leading to the pantries from the kitchen.

“All right.” Trevor looks back at the list of quantities he’s been writing, seated at the long kitchen table. He feels better with each passing day, and now can even help with some tasks without running out of breath in the first thirty minutes. Still, he wouldn’t mind it if things sped up a little, either.

“Oh! And there’s a room here for cold storage!” Sypha dutifully notifies him.

“So, what am I adding here?”

“At least another twenty pieces of dried meat,” comes Alucard’s voice, “and another ten sacks of flour.”

“Christ,” mutters Trevor, “was he feeding an army in there?”

Alucard’s tall figure slips through the door, with a look on his face that says ‘have you lived under a rock’ and with his dark coat flecked with flour at the lapels and chest. There’s some in his hair, too, and Trevor bites the inside of his cheek because it’s a shit move to tease someone who looks like they might drop dead at any moment, but he also has a hard time associating the sight with the memory of Alucard’s edgy, dramatic appearance in that Keep under Greșit.

Different sides to everyone, aren’t there. He wonders idly what else there is to discover about each of them, and how well or poorly they will handle it. Together, together for now.

Alucard glides over and peeks down at the list over Trevor’s shoulder. “Goodness, your handwriting is atrocious. I can barely discern parts of this.”

“Next time you do it,” mutters Trevor, but he leans back in his chair, glad for the proximity because he is that kind of fool. “My foremost skills, as you know, lie in other areas.”

Alucard tuts — another thing that throws Trevor off balance. “This is a long list,” he states as Sypha emerges from the pantries, arms full of bags with spices.

“Where on earth did you get cinnamon? It’s so difficult to find, and—”

“We traveled the world quite a bit with the castle,” Alucard answers, eyes still on the list as Sypha sniffs at one bag, a brief, elated smile on her face. “I think between all of this and whatever foraging we’ll need to do, we should be fine for a while.”

“Good, that’s settled,” Trevor adds as Sypha reaches them, leaning over Trevor’s other shoulder to glance at the notes. She smells of mint and sage, and that odd spicy-sweet scent of that cin-uh-mun that has her so pleased.

“Trevor, is this a P or an R?”

“Ugh, you know what…”

Sypha giggles — how he missed it — and sets a placating hand on his shoulder. Having them both at his back in a situation that doesn’t boil down to live-or-die dwindles the hunter’s annoyance to nothing. He thinks of how siloed they were, each struggling with their own thoughts and feelings only a week ago. It’s not a sudden change but a subtle one, and it’s enough to matter, for now.

A breath together, indeed.

Trevor scratches his head as the three of them stand before the once-entrance-now-gaping hole leading to the Hold. It’s the first time they’re returning to assess the damage and get an idea of what can be done in the short term to protect the knowledge and artifacts in the Vault. Sypha knows quite a few warding spells to help in that direction, but the fighting left the place in shambles and thus in need of their attention, not to mention proper isolation from humidity and other environmental wear.

“Hm,” Trevor points at the remains of staircases hanging off the walls, “We can’t go down there the usual way, that’s one. Sypha, could you make up some… ice stairs, or something?”

“That won’t be necessary,” says Alucard, turning to look at both of them. He extends a hand which Sypha takes without hesitation, realizing what he’s offering.

Trevor blinks. “No way. I am not being carried down like some—”

He doesn’t get to finish as Alucard takes a plunge with Sypha held securely to him, and Trevor hears a brief sigh, sees her robes fluttering like the wings of a great blue bird before she and Alucard land gracefully in front of the door to the Vault. He looks back up at Trevor, and it’s too far for the hunter to make out his expression, but hell, he reckons this wouldn’t be the first time Alucard had to haul him around like a sack of onions, anyway. He’s also decidedly not fond of falling from great heights no matter the support, but they don’t need to know that. Trevor sighs and makes a gesture that concedes defeat, calling Alucard back up.

“Sypha, a little light please.”

“Since you asked so nicely,” Sypha rubs her palms together, then spreads her arms out wide. The lamps of the vault come alive, revealing levels upon levels of shelves and chasing away the shadows in the immense hall.

Everything is as they left it, including the damage incurred by Trevor fighting the intruding creatures. Sypha makes her way towards a lectern, followed by Alucard.

“I’ll do a quick round,” Trevor tells them, a hand on the whip curled neatly at his belt as he disappears among the rows of ancient furniture.

“Look at that!” Sypha points at the giant skeleton of a creature hanging in chains from the ceiling. “Have you ever seen anything like it?” she asks Alucard, who’s regarding the bones in silence; the enormous jaws, the huge teeth like spikes — the stuff of nightmares.

“I doubt it’s the supernatural, in this case. To me, it looks like one of many creatures which apparently walked the Earth eons before humankind took over.” He looks back at the large, dusty book Sypha’s opened. “This place may have an index but it’s…” he turns to a shelf, retrieving a wooden object made of pipes of various lengths and frowning as he stares at it, “... nonetheless a mess.”

“You’ve already so helpfully pointed that out before, thank you very much,” they hear Trevor’s voice from far away.

“That looks like a pan flute,” comes Sypha’s observation, and Alucard lifts the object he’s holding for a closer inspection.

“A nai, to be more exact,” adds Trevor, emerging from a row of shelves and nearing them.

He takes the pan flute from Alucard, thoughtfully running his fingers over the wooden tubes of varying diameters. They’re fit in a curved array, arranged by order of length from right to left. “You’d hear these at special occasions, during celebrations or on bonfire nights, what have you. The pitch of each pipe is adjusted with beeswax.” He turns the instrument over in his hands, speaking as though he’s reciting a forgotten lesson.

“I’ve heard it played before. It sounds beautiful, haunting even, if the musician is skilled enough for it,” Sypha tells Alucard. “Not something one would find in a collection of monster hunting resources, though. Unless… ” She seeks Trevor’s gaze, “you know how to play this, Trevor?”

Trevor inspects the nai, blows some dust off the polished wood. He shrugs. “I used to. We all learned something or other to pass the time between studies and training,” he says, then tucks the thing inside a pack he brought down, avoiding her eyes.

Sypha smiles. “I see,” she murmurs, throwing Alucard an indulgent, knowing look as the hunter turns away.

“So, are we done here?” asks Trevor. “I think we know what we want to plan next. First, we need the ability to get down here without resorting to either of you, so…”

He freezes at the clang of objects falling from their place, striking the floors and sending loud, lonesome echoes through the cavernous enclosure. They all exchange looks of silent understanding, and Alucard’s already tensed, his claws halfway out. His eyes close as he listens. “Wait... it’s nothing, it’s—”

Trevor’s already walking towards the source of the sound, hand on his whip at the ready. “... just a cat,” the hunter says, mild disbelief on his face at the movement of something dark beneath one of the stacked shelves.

It’s fully grown from the looks of it, tail swishing and eyes gleaming. Its coat is black all over, and it looks rather shaggy, but from what Trevor can tell, the animal isn’t wounded. It’s also decidedly not shy or afraid as it languidly advances towards them.

Sypha’s snickering behind him. “Our intruder! My, what a shiny coat you have there!”

The cat mews, and Alucard watches it padding closer, inspecting them with intelligent eyes. “Considering the superstitions alive and well in the area, I doubt finding a household was an option for him.”

“How can you already know it’s a ‘he’?” asks Trevor, but Alucard’s right, which is weird. Maybe to do with his shapeshifting-creature-sensing abilities or whatnot. He really should read up more on dhampir, or there's a thought, actually speak to Alucard about it, maybe. Either way, his own curiosity can wait now.

“We can safely assume there’s no shortage of nourishment for him here,” Alucard glances at the vastness of the Vault.

“Do we… leave him down here?” asks Sypha, picking up a few tomes that caught her interest in the meantime.

“Well, you can’t really force a cat to do anything, so, I don’t know,” Trevor drops down, balanced on the balls of his feet. “Hey, you. Want a ride out of here with the three big lugs?” he asks the cat over Sypha’s amused expression, and they all watch as the animal saunters over when Trevor rises to stand, fluidly wandering between his ankles, purring loudly with its tail curled upward.

“I think that’s a ‘yes’?” Alucard ventures as he picks up their pack and Sypha wraps an arm around his neck, preparing to rise back to the surface.

Trevor takes a leap of trust and lifts the cat up, who settles with zero fuss on his arm. Seems like a deal. He looks down at the stray animal, “A word of warning though: we might be more trouble than it’s worth.”

Chapter VI

A/N:

This just in, Trevor talks about (some of) his feelings.

The Țepeș family went on many trips around the world with the castle [HC activated in this part].

Trio being catfinders is the result of the author's obsession with the ol’ Trevor Belmont vs cats HC. Trevor likes cats. Cats like Trevor. They look at him and they see catnip. I just think it's neat.

The nai is a traditional pan flute used in the region.

#ruiniel:fanfiction

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symphonyofthewrite · 4 years

Text

Seven Years Bad Luck...Or Maybe Just a Moment

Wonderful cover art by niuan_ on instagram!! Please please go check them out!! Their Castlevania art is incredible!! I'll put a link to their insta in a reblog!!

Fandom: Castlevania Netflix

Summary: Adrian broke the mirror in his father's study...how will Dracula ever forgive him?

Originally written for the prompt "Please give us Lisa and Vlad just being loving science parents (bonus points if they’re protective)" I’ll put the link to the original post in a reblog!!

Father was going to be furious.

Adrian’s brain ran through all the potential scenarios; at first his father’s voice raised and came down on him, and at last he felt the dirt outside the castle—thrown out, on the grounds that breaking a mirror was more than bad luck. Sure, it might be a small chance that would happen, but a child’s imagination hasn’t been domesticated yet.

“Are you alright, sweetie?” his mother asked at the dinner table, putting a hand on his shoulder, “You’ve barely touched your food.”

Adrian didn’t say anything. He wanted to speak, to defend himself, to lie, but words were fickle and cruel; they rose to surface, but when he tried to net them, they dove back down his throat.

Emotions, however, weren’t particular about how and when they appeared, and bit even those who weren't trying to catch them.

“I…I’m sorry.” Tears began to fill his eyes.

“Sorry?” Lisa half laughed. “Sorry for what?”

The boy’s golden eyes flickered to his father, who paused, and cocked his head to the side. Only confusion. No anger there…yet.

But surely there would be. His mind offered a seven-course meal on just how angry the vampire king might get in the next few minutes.

Lies, excuses dove down his throat. But the truth wouldn’t stay choked down.

“I…I broke your mirror!” he blurted out, too loudly, “I didn’t mean to, I swear! I—It just fell to pieces! I wasn’t playing with it or anything!”

He heard how loud, how tiny, his voice sounded, and the excuses sputtered and died.

He was ready for Dracula to stand tall, to demand how and why, for his eyes to flash red and…okay, maybe not ready, but expecting it, at the very least.

Instead the Tepes parents looked each other quizzically.

“Which mirror?” His father asked calmly—mirrors weren’t exactly the most common occurrence in a vampire’s house, after all.

Adrian sank down in his chair, his eyes darting away, the words a low, burbling murmur, “The-The one in your study.”

His parents’ faces broke, not in anger, but into forgiving—almost amused—smiles, like he had done something funny and didn’t know it.

“Come with me, Son.” Vlad stood up from the table—but less as the commanding presence, more in a sweeping motion that could take him away with him—holding out a hand.

Adrian’s eyes ran to the safety of his mother. She nodded; go with him.

He got up from the table, taking his father’s hand—(not as cold as one might think)—still apprehensive, but now more than a little curious. His footsteps pattered along behind the calculated tolls in the halls.

They came to the scene of the crime: the study. What was once a smooth, shining mirror, now a pile of glittering glass on the ground. When his eyes fell upon it, Adrian looked away and swallowed.

Dracula let go of his son’s fingers, taking a step forward. He looked over his shoulder smirking a little, and raising his hand.

With one motion his sin was undone; the puddle of a mirror rose, like a dog called by its owner, the jagged droplets coalesced back into the rippling surface.

Adrian’s eyes widened as he stepped closer, seeing himself reflected in it silver waves, as if he was the only one in the room. Vlad put a hand on his shoulder.

“This isn’t a normal mirror.” He waved a hand and the scene within the mirror became something else entirely: a mossy forest. He waved his hand again and before them was a moonlit beach. “It can take you anywhere in the world.”

Adrian took another step closer, mouth agape, staring at the shifting scenes, and reached out. Before he could touch it, however, Dracula waved his hand, and he was reflected in the room again.

“Can we go somewhere?” He looked up at his father, the fire dancing from the mirror to those golden irises.

The kind look in his father’s eyes flickered.

“Not…today.” He turned to leave the room.

Adrian rushed up to him. “Tomorrow?”

The vampire king paused, flicking his wrist, and Adrian jumped at the sound of shattering glass; the mirror had returned to its fragmented pile.

“You have lessons tomorrow.”

The boy followed him into the hall. “The next day then?”

“Son—” Vlad stopped, pinching the bridge of his nose.

He sighed and crouched down before him, one hand on his shoulder, the other brushing through his son’s hair.

“You are one of the brightest children I’ve ever met—and I don’t meet a lot of children,” he chuckled. “You are kind, and gentle… and you always do what you feel is right.”

Adrian smiled sheepishly.

His father twisted a lock of his hair around his finger. “But the world out there…”—Excitement ran from Adrian’s toes to the tip of his tongue, but he said nothing; something made his father’s eyes look redder— “Has no place for that.” He turned his nail, cutting the strand of hair. “Your place is here, in the castle, with your mother and I, where it’s safe.”

Adrian looked at the ground, biting his lip, desperately trying to keep the fluttering thing in his stomach from dying.

“But I—”

His father raised himself back up, six feet tall and all vampire.

“It’s time for bed.” He said, and it’s not up for discussion.

“What’s it like, out there?” Adrian asked as his mother tucked him in for bed.

“Well,” she thought about it. “It’s big,” she pulled the covers tight around his shoulders. “Bigger than you could imagine. And colorful, much more than this drab, old place. The sun is so bright, and it has a way of illuminating everything beneath it, making it look more beautiful. And there are hundreds of thousands of animals, howling—awoo!—and meowing”—she pawed at him—“and chirping”—she whistled—“and just as many people—all creating wonderful things, singing, dancing…” She trailed off.

She seemed so happy when she talked about the outside world. Surely it wasn't so awful a place.

“Mother?” he asked softly.

“Yes, that’s me.”

“…Will I ever get to go out there?”

“Why of course! Why do you ask?”

“Father says…he says that the world out there has no place for—”

“Adrian,” she paused, then reached out to cup his cheek“…your father is what most people would call an old fuddy-duddy.” She smiled, then paused, saying more seriously. “He…hasn’t had very many good experiences with people. He just doesn’t want you to get hurt.”

“So… you’ll take me out there?”

“Well,” she laughed, “I can’t exactly sneak you out tonight. But yes, one day. Your father will take some convincing, but I’m pretty good at persuading him. …Did you hear about the time I showed up at his front door?”

He’d heard it alright; only about a thousand times.

But there would be a time, many years later, a time when he walked the world, and some mirrors that broke couldn’t be repaired, when he would give anything to hear her tell it just once more.

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antihero-writings · 5 years

Note

Please give us Lisa and Vlad just being loving science parents (bonus points if they’re protective)

I’m SOOOO sorry for taking so long to respond!!

This was the first ask/prompt I felt like I could answer in a short fic, and I wanted to try responding directly on the ask like I’ve seen some people do…but, just like me, I took forever to write/edit even something short XD

Apologies if any of this is inaccurate…usually I rewatch bits of the the show to double check, but I was already taking forever to write this so I didn’t this time...

Anyway, I was really excited to try out an actual scene from Adrian/Alucard’s childhood, and I enjoyed writing it!! Thanks for the delightful prompt!!

Loving + protective science parents coming right up!!

(I also had another idea for this prompt that was more science-y that I might post later, so stay tuned in case—and please let me know if you’d be interested in that/more of this type of thing!!)

*****

Father was going to be furious.

Adrian’s brain ran through all the potential scenarios; at first it was the sound of his father’s raised voice, and at last it was the feeling of the dirt outside the castle—thrown out, on the grounds that breaking a mirror was more than bad luck. Sure, it might be a small chance, but a child’s imagination hasn’t been domesticated yet.

“Are you alright, sweetie?” his mother asked the quintessential mother’s question at the dinner table, putting a hand on his shoulder, “You’ve barely touched your food.”

Adrian didn’t say anything. He wanted to speak, to defend himself, to lie, but words were fickle and cruel; they rose to surface, but when he tried to net them, they dove back down his throat.

Emotions, however, weren’t particular about how and when they appeared, and bit even those who didn’t at all want to catch them.

“I…I’m sorry.” Tears began to fill his eyes.

“Sorry?” Lisa half laughed. “Sorry for what?”

The boy’s golden eyes flickered to his father, who paused, and cocked his head to the side. Only confusion. No anger there…yet.

But surely there would be. His mind offered a seven-course meal on just how angry the vampire king might get in the next few minutes.

Lies, excuses dove down his throat. But the truth wouldn’t stay choked down.

“I…I broke your mirror!” he blurted out, too loudly, “I didn’t mean to, I swear! I—It just fell to pieces! I wasn’t playing with it or anything!”

He heard how loud, how tiny, his voice sounded, and the excuses sputtered and died.

He was ready for Dracula to stand tall, to demand how and why, for his eyes to flash red and…okay, maybe not ready, but expecting it, at the very least.

Instead the Tepes parents looked each other quizzically.

“Which mirror?” His father asked calmly—mirrors weren’t exactly the most common occurrence in a vampire’s house, after all.

Adrian sank down in his chair, his eyes darting away, the words a low burbling murmur, “The-The one in your study.”

His parents’ faces broke, not in anger, but into forgiving—almost amused—smiles, like he had done something funny and didn’t know it.

“Come with me, Son.” Dracula stood up from the table—but less as the commanding presence, more in a sweeping, flowing motion that could take him away with him—holding out a hand.

Adrian’s eyes ran to the safety of his mother—the nod that she gave said go with him.

He got up from the table, taking his father’s hand—(not as cold as you might think)—still apprehensive, but now more than a little curious. His little footsteps pattered along behind the calculated tolls in the halls.

They came to the scene of the crime: the study. What was once once a smooth, shining mirror, now a pile of glittering glass on the ground. Adrian looked away, swallowing, at the sight of it.

Dracula let go of his son’s fingers, taking a step forward. He looked over his shoulder smirking a little, and raising his hand.

With one motion his sin was undone; the puddle of a mirror rose, like a dog called by its owner, the jagged droplets coalescing back into the rippling surface.

Adrian’s eyes widened as he stepped closer, seeing himself reflected in it silver waves, as if he was the only one in the room. Dracula put a hand on his shoulder.

Adrian took another step closer, mouth agape, staring at the shifting scenes, and reached out. Before he could touch it, however, Dracula waved his hand, and he was reflected in the room again.

“Can we go somewhere?” He looked up at his father, the fire dancing from the mirror to those golden irises.

The kind look in his father’s eyes flickered.

“Not…today.” He turned to leave the room.

Adrian rushed up to him. “Tomorrow?”

The vampire king paused, flicking his wrist, and Adrian started at the sound of shattering glass; the mirror had returned to its fragmented pile.

“You have lessons tomorrow.”

The boy followed him into the hall. “The next day then?”

“Son—” Dracula stopped, pinching the bridge of his nose.

He sighed and crouched down before him, one hand on his shoulder, the other brushing through his son’s hair.

“You are one of the brightest children I’ve ever met—and I don’t meet a lot of children,” he laughed a little. “You are kind, and gentle… and you always do what you feel is right.”

Adrian smiled sheepishly.

Adrian looked at the ground, biting his lip, desperately trying to keep the fluttering thing in his stomach from dying.

“But I—”

His father raised himself back up, six feet tall and all vampire.

“It’s time for bed.” He said, and it’s not up for discussion.

*****

“What’s it like, out there?” Adrian asked as his mother tucked him in for bed.

“Well,” she thought about it. “It’s big,” she pulled the covers tight around his shoulders. “Bigger than you could imagine. And colorful, much more colorful than this old place. The sun is so bright, and it has a way of illuminating everything beneath it, making it look more beautiful. And there are hundreds of thousands of animals, howling—awoo!—and meowing”—she pawed at him, and he laughed—“and chirping”—she whistled—“out there, and just as many people—all creating wonderful things, singing, dancing…” She trailed off.

She seemed so happy when she talked about the outside world.

“Mother?” he asked softly.

“Yes, that’s me.”

“…Will I ever get to go out there?”

“Why of course! Why do you ask?”

“Father says…he says that the world out there has no place for—”

“So… you’ll take me out there?”

“Well,” she laughed, “Well, I can’t exactly sneak you out tonight. But yes, one day. Your father will take some convincing, but I’m pretty good at persuading him. …Did you hear about the time I showed up at his front door?”

He’d heard it alright; only about a thousand times.

But there would be a time, many years later, a time when he walked the world, and some mirrors that broke couldn’t be repaired, when he would give anything to hear her tell it just once more.

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thebeautyofdisorder · 4 years

Text

The Undone & The Divine (BBC Dracula) - Chapter 4

A/N: Sorry for the cliffhanger, but chapter 4 is here! I really hope you like it. Whether i will leave it here (for now) or add on anymore immediately I’m not sure of, but I suppose we will see. Please let me know what you think!

First two Chapters Here

Chapter 3 Is Here

Can be found on AO3 - Right HERE -

Rating: T, for blood and maybe language

Pairing: Dracula & Zoe/Agatha Van Helsing

Chapter 4

He'd felt her before he heard her, despite her best attempt at startling him, her form partially blocking out the beam of light projecting from the door he hadn't cared to close. It took more self-control than the Count would ever willingly admit to remain facing away from the source of the voice, if for no other reason than to keep his confusion as close to the vest as possible. He refused to be at a disadvantage again, with her more than anyone.

“Apparently we’ve both underestimated our own resilience,” he remarked, with faint amusement calling back to his comment from the last time they’d met, though he couldn’t rightly include the ‘vampire’ designation. She didn’t feel like a vampire, and yet she was certainly not the sick woman who he’d left for dead.

“So it would seem,” Zoe agreed, taking a few steps inside despite the agitation she’d felt from a distance ramping up to a fever pitch now that she was actually in his presence. It wasn’t fear – he wasn’t likely to be any danger to her in her current state, not anymore. She was simply hyper-aware of Dracula, and it was causing a strange disconnect between her mind and her body. At least she’d assumed he was the cause of it, but now as she found herself approaching him for closer study, without any inherent want on her part, she wasn’t so sure he alone was to blame.

“Indestructible after all.”

“Yes, I’m afraid Death has turned out to be completely immune to my allure,” the vampire drawled in a good imitation of indifference, finally turning about to meet her approach, head tilting as he took her in with careful consideration.

“What?” She felt herself ask, feeling the weight of his focus drag on a moment too long for her liking.

Dracula ignored her question, approaching closer until she had to crane her neck to meet his gaze, an act she wasn’t accustomed to having to enact that often in her daily life. His hand lifted, brushing her hair off her neck to study the state of his bite. The wound was raised and slightly jagged, but shown white against her skin - evidence of rapid healing, yet no inflammation or scabbing.

A clear sign of life – real life, in a woman he had murdered a week ago. A wry chuckle reverberated through his chest, previously so still that she could feel it like a distant earthquake.

“Of course it would be you.”

One sharp nail grazed the pierced flesh, and she stood rigid against the tremor that bloomed over her skin until his hand dropped, and his gaze flipped rapidly from probing to analytical.

“Why though? Five centuries I’ve been trying to procreate, and it was rare enough I even got within the realm of close. Most recent attempt notwithstanding, perhaps Johnny, but he threw himself off a bloody cliff, and well – he didn’t exactly look very alive towards the end, did he?” he blurted with a scoff, the cogs of his mind whirring as he began to pace in front of the window. They were almost audible, tripping over the obvious until someone couldn’t resist the urge to prod the bear any longer.

“You haven’t figured it out yet? Honestly, Count, maybe you should’ve eaten more doctors.”

Dracula’s eyes narrowed, catching the muted edge of Dutch hostility he had grown to know far too well over the last century, infuriation and amusement blending imperceptibly on his face. His lips parted, intent on snapping back, but just as quickly he stopped, shut his mouth and took a moment to think. Out of spite, of course.

Then it clicked.

The count let out a loud guffaw of frustrated laughter, slapping his large hands down on the table with so much force Agatha was surprised it didn’t split down the middle. It was the least collected she had ever seen him outside of a blood frenzy, and it was at first difficult to tell if he were furious or enthused.

“Of course. My blood. Of course,” he announced, grinning widely to himself, before spinning and turning upon the woman before him, grabbing her by the shoulders, uncaring if she shared in his jubilation or not.

“What was it, Agatha, you told Johnny all those years ago? There was a pathogen that was passed from one to another, yes? Oh, you are brilliant. And heaven’s sake, I am an idiot at times, aren’t I?” he mock-sighed, lauding perhaps a little less than an ounce of authenticity to his self-deprecation.

“At times?” She snarked back, despite Zoe’s otherwise well intended vow to not indulge him, leaning back in reluctance to his grip.

His eyes rolled skyward, tilting his head to look down at her in disappointment, retaining her in his grasp. “Always one to ruin a party.”

“Only if it’s yours.”

A pointy-toothed grin slowly overcame his face. “Wouldn’t have it any other way,” he shot back, in what could have almost passed for warmth.

With a brief, forced groan of disgust, Zoe decided it was paramount to take back control of this particular reunion with some sense of urgency before it got off the rails any further. Nudging her shoulders out of his grasp, which he surprisingly didn’t protest, she paced back and looked out the window, “You know I can’t just let you go infect the world with unquenchable bloodlust, Count Dracula.”

“Oh?” He inquired with a small hum of surprise, stuffing his hands as far into his pockets as they would fit. “You don’t look so unquenchable to me…” His tone was mocking, but his eyes shown dark with curiosity.

“That’s because I’m not like you.”

He looked even more amused. “Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure. Have you been around fresh blood?”

She didn’t respond, but from her stubborn silence he already knew the answer.

“Have you been eating? Sleeping?”

“Some,” Zoe protested, turning back to face him with renewed confidence. “More often than not I’ve been working.”

Dracula looked mildly alarmed at the insinuation, but not for any reason pertaining to himself. “Don’t tell me you went back to that institute? Oh, Zoe. Surely you know that can never end well?”

“You yourself said science is the future, and I very much agree. Which is why I’m going to do everything in power to make sure that I never have to take anyone’s life,” she continued, powering through his protest like the useless distraction it was. She didn’t for a moment think he had any real concern for her well being, vampire or not.

“By starving yourself until some unfortunate intern gets an ill-timed paper cut? Dr. Helsing, they’ll lock you up and throw away the key. Believe me. I know.”

“I’m not starving myself. The reason you can’t process solid food is because all of your organs stopped functioning centuries ago, I am going to do what I can to make sure that doesn’t happen to me. Plus, there are other ways to intake the nutrients within blood that are necessary to live without using someone else’s veins to do it,” she protested, holding her head high in protest.

His brows wagged, her stubbornness coming as no shock, despite the unfortunate nature of it. If the rest of the Van Helsing bloodline were half as persistent as just one of these women’s weakest moments, he hated to know what the family dinners were like.

“Fine. Fair enough. If you’re so determined to try that approach I can’t stop you. But don’t expect me to join you.”

Her smile was triumphant, but minimal. “Oh I don’t. So long as you don’t expect me to let you murder your way through the British Isles uninhibited.”

His smile mirrored hers, and despite knowing there was nothing (he was currently aware of) that she could use to stand in his way, his eyes held a darker edge of challenge and his voice was a ragged, conspiratorial whisper. “On the contrary. I would be highly disappointed if you did.”

She quirked a brow. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you like it when things don’t go your way.”

The vampire shrugged, approaching her once more. “Call it an existential crisis. On the other hand…” He placed one longer finger under her chin and with light pressure, urged it up so that she was meeting his eyes more directly. “All my best brides are the defiant ones.”

A mocking scoff erupted from her throat, and after a short, internal scuffle it was, at least in part, Agatha’s words that countered him. “I am not your bride, Count. In fact none of them ever were – you don’t keep ‘brides’ in boxes and feed them garden pests. Those were lab rats. A bride is someone you actually have to ‘live’ with – if you’ll excuse the colloquialism.” She gently jerked her jaw out of his grasp.

“Good thing we have forever, then.” He gave her another brief crooked smile and began to walk past her entirely towards the door. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m starving. I trust you can find your way out – unless you’d like to join me?”

“I’ll pass,” Zoe insisted, blinking out of the strange daze of his presence and Agatha’s intrusion with an annoyed set to her shoulders, looking after him with a look of warning. “I’ll be seeing you.”

He paused, glancing back one last time from the hall.

“Looking forward to it.”

---

Thank you everyone who’s been following it, I hope I paid off that cliffhanger while still being a tease. I hope the Agatha/Zoe conundrum doesn’t come off entirely too confusing, though it is meant to be confusing to her as well. Poor Zoe. Join the OT3 or put up with our incessant fuckery Also, I wrote this at work yesterday, so this post is funded by the US government ;)

@my-fanfic-library @ohveda @imagineandimagine @wannabebloodsucker @hoefordarkness @mymagicsuitcase @crazytxgradstudent @itendedbadly @theplumsoldier @gatissed @allfandoms-writings @littlemessyjessi @punk-courtesan @vampiregirl1797 @gleefullyselfishreblogs @break-free-killer-queen @desperatefrenchwriter @bellamortislife @charlesdances @iloveclaesbang @carydorse @ss9slb @dreamerkim @isayhourwrong

I’ll add anyone else who asks!

#bbc dracula #dracula bbc #dracula #dracula 2020 #agatha van helsing #zoe van helsing #dracula fic #claes bang #my writing #the undone & the divine

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jaggedcliffs · 5 months

Text

Jonathan from Oct. 3rd and onward be like

#dracula #jonathan harker #mina harker #jagged posts about dracula #I hadn't seen this edit yet after spelunking through a bunch of blogs' dracula tags #and so had to make it myself

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ids301-dd · 2 years

Text

Dracula

5 May. The Castle. —The grey of the morning has passed, and the sun is high over the distant horizon, which seems jagged, whether with trees or hills I know not, for it is so far off that big things and little are mixed. I am not sleepy, and, as I am not to be called till I awake, naturally I write till sleep comes. There are many odd things to put down, and, lest who reads them may fancy that I dined too well before I left Bistritz, let me put down my dinner exactly. I dined on what they called "robber steak"—bits of bacon, onion, and beef, seasoned with red pepper, and strung on sticks and roasted over the fire, in the simple style of the London cat's meat! The wine was Golden Mediasch, which produces a queer sting on the tongue, which is, however, not disagreeable. I had only a couple of glasses of this, and nothing else.

When I got on the coach the driver had not taken his seat, and I saw him talking with the landlady. They were evidently talking of me, for every now and then they looked at me, and some of the people who were sitting on the bench outside the door—which they call by a name meaning "word-bearer"—came and listened, and then looked at me, most of them pityingly. I could hear a lot of words often repeated, queer words, for there were many nationalities in the crowd; so I quietly got my polyglot dictionary from my bag and looked them out. I must say they were not cheering to me, for amongst them were "Ordog"—Satan, "pokol"—hell, "stregoica"—witch, "vrolok" and "vlkoslak"—both of which mean the same thing, one being Slovak and the other Servian for something that is either were-wolf or vampire. (Mem., I must ask the Count about these superstitions)

This is an excerpt from the latest entry for a daily Dracula email listing where they post and email to those who subscribe the entirety of the epistolary novel.

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guard-dogbiscuits · 2 years

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𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒎𝒖𝒔𝒆'𝒔 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒔: 𝑮𝑶𝑻𝑯𝑰𝑪 𝑳𝑰𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑨𝑻𝑼𝑹𝑬

italic for things that sometimes apply, bold for things that always apply and strike out what never applies. DO NOT REBLOG ; COPY AND PASTE ON A NEW POST

Cassia, the Revenant Betrayed

(For Jagged/Hades)

carmilla. giant featherbeds. tightening a corset. moonlit walks. killing for love. cruelty for the sake of love. love is always selfish. romantic tragedy. love to the brink of destruction. nighttime rendezvous. bloody kisses on soft skin. death was the maiden. a very strange agony. claimed by the supernatural. dreaming about your lover. sympathy for the devil. loving me to death. candlesticks lighting up the palm of your hand. a passion that wearies you. killing the one you love.

phantom of the opera. a single red rose laid out to be found. sensual voices singing them to sleep. a familiar shadow attending every recital. love waits on the rooftop in the night. two soulmates holding hands. walking down long corridors. retrieving something lost. devoting one’s craft to them. making them your muse. the horror was for love. painted faces on parade. gentle touches in the dark. revealing your darkest secrets. beauty and the beast. writing messages on the mirror. kindness conquers all. letting your lover go. love never dies.

jane eyre. loving the escape. an impassioned affair. being consumed by love. meeting your soulmate. lace and silk. thirsting for the perfect romance. marrying for passion. losing yourself in the face of your lover. wedding veils and bouquets of pink roses. maddened by love. finding warmth in the cold. calling out for your love. starting at the bottom. the fire cleanses all. hiding your passion. your love will destroy me / my love with destroy you.

the picture of dorian gray. painting a portrait or sketching the face of someone you love. meeting in secret. visions of your lover dying. clutching a lovers clothes to your chest. love so consuming you kill them. protecting their innocence at all costs. betrayal. polyamory. devotion. flowers for the one you love. remembering the name of your first love. jealousy when you see them with someone else. love so consuming you die for it. visiting the the place where you saw them the first time.

the count of monte cristo. letters to your lover. marrying for love. these bars can’t keep me from you. motivated by love. an avenging angel. scorching jealousy. love reborn. devoted to memory. it was all for you. going your separate ways. commit murder for me. an unstoppable hunger. death comes for us all. the strongest love eventually grows apart.

dracula. the holiest love. girls love wolves. the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb. violence is passion. red lips, sharp teeth. love letters in a diary. unrelenting support. getting lost in the woods. coming home to you. walking backwards into hell. vengeance for my love. even death won’t stop me. we can live forever. love is an open wound. too much love to give. bestowing your favor. a never-ending thirst. beauty even in death. ravenous desire. if only death had a heart to give. a mercy killing. these violent delights have violent ends.

frankenstein. childhood friends to lovers. they were something out of a dream. arranged marriages. learning to love. was it all really worth it? our guilt can know no bounds. vengeance, my love. dismembered body parts. my beating heart in your open palm. your death destroys me. adam and eve. crossing the mountains. an antagonist in mourning. paradise lost. the loss of innocence. abandoning your dream. the tempest on the horizon. humans are the real monsters. my love is wiser than my hate.

tagged by; @pellelavellan

Tagging: Youse guys

#I went with Hades because that's who I'm feeling lately

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thegothicviking · 5 years

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12, 16, and 98 😋

12. Ideas of a Perfect date?: Basically...pretty much every date tip/scenario from my post about non sexual dates for the Rammstein bois.

But to answer your question;

Going to art gallery/museums (preferably WWII museums/history museums)

Concerts/festivals with the favorite music

Exploring cemeteries/abandon buildings

Visiting old churches/buildings/temples

Picnic outside in the sun

Camping outside in the forest/fishing on a lake surrounded by forest

Learning some new together (like experimenting with cooking or learning a new instrument)

A lazy day on the couch/in bed with lots of cuddles! 💕

16. Favorite movie?: I have so many!

Here are most (if not all of them. Not in any order);

Let The Right One In (the Swedish original. Not the remake "Let Me In".)

The original Swedish Millenium movies (The girl with the dragon tattoo-The girl who played with fire-The girl who kicked the hornet' nest. Swed. Original titles; Män som hatar Kvinnor/Flickan som lekte med älden/Luftslottet som sprängdes) ...Förlåt om jag skrev den sista fel! 😐

MAY (2002/2003 movie about a woman who kills people and stich them together to create a perfect friend!😊)

Out of the Ashes (WWII/Auschwitz & Mengele movie)

One Flew Over The Cuckoo's nest (classic Asylum movie starring Jack Nicholson)

I Am a Cyborg But That's OK (Korean? I think? Very Cute Korean Asylum movie about being a "Cyborg" in search for her mother"...I think??)

Fright Night (Original from 1985)

The Breakfast Club (classic teenage feel good movie from 80's)

Ghostbusters I (Original from the 80's)

John Wick 1

Girl, interrupted (Asylum movie starring Winona Ryder and Angelina Joile)

Nosferatu (original from the 1920's)

Repo: The Genetic Opera (highly underrated post-apocalyptic musical!)

Hellboy I & II

Inception

The Conjuring

The Crow (original starring Brandon Lee)

The interview with a Vampire (just the first one)

Anastasia (the cartoon from 1997)

Nebel im August ("Fog in August" WWII movie about the nazi's killing mentally disabled/physical disabled german children)

The Boy in The Striped Pyjama's (another WWII/Auschwitz-ish movie but with a twist at the end!)

Schwartzboek/Black book (another WWII movie)

The Wizard of Oz

Some Like it Hot (classic feel good comedy starrin Marilyn Monroe)

What happened to Monday?

Gainsbourg - A heoric Life

NApola- The fuhrer's elite (I think it's called? Kinda gay WWII Hitler Jugend movie)

Mädchen In Uniform ("Girls in uniform" lesbian teen angst WWII movie)

Dracula (starring Bela Lugosi)

Dracula; Dead and Loving it (comedy remake of Dracula)

Gremlins I (starring what I believe was the inspiration to the Furby toys??)

What We Do in The Shadows (hilarious Vampire mockumentary about Vampires being interview and followed by a camera crew)

Dark Shadows (vampire movie starring Johnny Depp)

Secret Window (very underrated Psychological thriller starring Johnny Depp)

Død Snø 2 ("Dead Snow 2" the 2nd one in a hilarious Norwegian horror comedy series about Nazi Zombies being brought to life!)

Remember (post WWII movie starring Christopher Plummer about a holocaust survivor- jew who seeks revenge to kill the nazi that murdered his family. Great plot twist at the end!)

98. Have you ever forgotten someone's name?: Yes. And I still don't remember her name! 😂 And it was always so awkward when she met me at the bus or whatever.."Do you remember my name now??" 😂 Luckily I haven't seen her in years!

Tack så mycket för dina frågor! 💕

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punk-in-docs · 7 years

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You Were Always Mine, Chapter 20

AU Tom Hiddleston - Romantic, Historical Romance, Victorian Fic. Based off the imagine; ‘Thomas spying on you after your divorce and doing anything to get you back. Including threatening your new beau.’ Prompt found on this blog. Link to the imagine here…. Chapter number: Chapter 20 Author: punk-in-docs (Here is my Masterlist for more chapters…) Triggers/warnings: Angst. More Violence. Attempted assault, and mentions of corpses, and triggers for death threats towards children. Btw. As a face to picture Harriden, just google Thomas Kretschmann as Dr. Helsing in the TV series Dracula.

She had always felt apprehension about going into a mortuary. Some doctor’s, she estimated, were far more brassy about their entrance into the place. But to her, the morgue, was a place where respect was conferred on the dead. It should have been a place of sombre, gut-tightening, remorse. She couldn’t look upon a corpse without feeling melancholia for the life that person had once fulfilled. Just because life was extinct, it did not mean that they were worthless. She held respect for pathologists, to see each cadaver, as just another patient. Perhaps, as she was a nurse, seeing the dead, meant that every single aspect of hope, and the job she carried, had failed both her, and the person on the morgue slab.

Erik had come to fetch her, a staggering three hours later, when he had finished Rosamund’s post-mortem. Conforming her death was loss of blood, via an assault on her persons, with a left handed assailant slitting her throat as he held her from behind. It wasn’t a gang rival killing, nor a mugging gone wrong. It was violent, cold-blooded, pre-meditated, murder. And that was what he promised his report would contain. Her father had been contacted, but blithely refused to come and identify her body. That fell down to her shoulders now. Erik walked across, ahead of her, cutting through the room to get to the only occupied morgue slab. As the police coroner had so casually put it, ‘It was a quiet night. Place doesn’t liven up til about one.’ She had given him a look of discernible annoyance and anger as he’d said that, shrugged, and remarked he was going for a smoke break. She followed Erik in, feeling terribly feeble, and scared of seeing one of her dearest friends, cold, grey and carved up to her chin, under that cloaking white sheet that shone brilliantly white in the intense light of the place. The walls were a reflective, green tile. The same awful, dank, moss green that had lined the hallway. She can see her jagged, distorted, in the tiles. Reflecting back on her. showing her a haunted vision of herself.

Vianne stood, wringing her hands. Nervously. Scared of what she knows she’ll see. Unfortunately, she’d seen many a corpse in her time. But never had one of those been someone she’d known so intimately, and taken from this world in such a heartless manner. Erik pauses, and Vianne watches him, he’d looked sombre, more than was appropriate for the situation, ever since he had come to fetch her. She knew Erik inside out, she could see it in him, his brow was drawn, as it was when he was either aggrieved, or deep in thought. Usually, when he looked like that, he’d tread, pacing back and forth in the Campus courtyard, treading grass underfoot, his spare hand tucked in his white coat pocket, the other holding his pipe to his mouth as he puffed, and puffed. Stared at the ground below his feet, And thought. He looked worried, and she could sense his trepidation was for her benefit. His hands went to the sheet, and after he looked at her for a long minute, the longest minute of her life, she saw tears, silver and unshed in his eyes. She swallowed, steeling herself.

He lifted the sheet off. And Vianne’s heart shattered all over again. She cupped her hands to her mouth, to stem her cries, but the sound of her sobs still cracked the shield of her fingers.

There she was. Rose in her final resting place. That lovely, enviable, honey blonde hair, scraped back off her face, in a harsh arrangement she would have been less than tolerably fond of. Her skin is an almost translucent kind of pale, almost as if Vianne can see every blue vein wriggling under her skin, now they lay so awfully still. Her skin was marble-stone grey, cold to the touch, like one of those beautiful, Grecian statues at the British Museum. This was how Rosamund price would forever be, frozen in time. A beautiful, precious thing who couldn’t be saved. The weeping crimson stitched wound running down the middle of her body, between her small, pale breasts, stands out starkly. But that wasn’t the reason Vianne was now sobbing, sounds of her cries, and gasps pleas echo off the cold, sterile walls.

She was crying, because Rosamund had been expecting, in the family way.

Vianne, not able to be shaken by anything gory. Afraid of nothing, and wary of very little, broke down at seeing that. She began to heave, and in her shock, she stumbles across the room, and empties her stomach contents into the enamel surgical tool bowl, stood in the corner. The smell of carbolic acid wafting up her nose, making her feel even queasier. Erik darted across to her, and rubbed her back. Startled at her nauseas reaction from a nurse whom he knew could stomach anything that came her way. But clearly not this. He poured her a glass of water, and forced her to sip it, holding it up to her lips. She drank little of it. Only to get the acrid, foul sting of regurgitation out of her mouth. She turns back, looking once more at her friend. One hand over her mouth, the other on the stand behind her.

“I don’t need to tell you the cause of death, do I?” Erik asked lowly. And he didn’t, of course. She shook her head. “Vianne, I am sorry, but I have to get a formal identification of her, to release her body to the undertaker to prepare her for burial-“ He began sorrowfully.

She shuts her eyes, and speaks calmly. Opening them again, transfixed by the corpse across the room. “It’s her…” She remarks with tears falling from her eyes. “Miss Rosamund Eleonora Jane Price..” She tells him. He rubs her shoulder gratefully, taking off his gloves to write it on the medical form to her left. She crossed back to her friend.

Her stomach was swelled to a point that so evidently indicated she had been secretly carrying life. All the more clear to make out from her undernourished body. Rose had always been slim, so a bump would have been harder and harder for her to hide as the weeks went on, even in the early stages. Vianne hadn’t really began to show until her sixteenth week. She looked back up, tears dripping from her eyes, across at Erik, who looked stoic as he walked over. As if he were holding them back too. And he was only her doctor, but there was vulgar, bitter breed of sadness in this situation. That someone, some monster, would kill an expectant mother. She laid her hand over roses, cold, pale one. Stiff as wood to hold. She didn’t touch her friend with precise indifference, as she had done with many corpses before, purely for medical purposes. She held onto Roses hand as if she were still here, smiling at them all, light shining in those, happy, blue eyes.

“How many weeks was she?” Vianne asked with a croaking voice. Erik sombrely answered. Laying his bare hands down on the slab, and clenching his fists on the hard table below them. Drawing the sheet up to protect the ladies modesty, up to her shoulders, he let the covers rest. Still showing her face.

“It’d be my very rough estimate, that she was just at the end of the embryonic period, and just beginning the foetal period. Around ten weeks.” He said.

“Ten weeks.” Vianne repeated. Harriden watched her face very closely, she wouldn’t take her eyes off the evidence of Rose’s baby.

“Do you know who the father is?” He asked quietly. Vianne reluctantly nods.

“The man I was engaged too. Henry St. Clair.” She gasps out, and more tears come. She looked up to see that Erik looked repulsed, and agitated by hearing such news.

“As insensitive as this remark may seem. I’m almost relieved for her passing. No woman nor child should be indebted to be dependent on that man.” Erik stated.

“She was a poor, poor, stupid, girl in love.” She remarked. “I know how it feels to be like that… and how it feels when you find out the truth.” Vianne explained, her hands reaching over to pull the cadaver sheet more fully over her head now.

“I’ll organise her funeral. Even if her father won’t put a penny towards it… I won’t have it be spread around town like foul gossip that Rose had no-one to care after her on this earth. She’ll be laid to rest in the most elegant coffin, and I will have only sterling words spoken of her, and of her child. She’ll have a wonderful, service, and the most elegant flowers I can get my hands on. But not Lilly’s. She hated Lilly’s, ‘awful, abominable things. Smelled like death,’ according to her, she always called them funeral flowers..” Vianne remarked with empathy on her tone, and tears still in her eyes as she remembered her friend. Stroking her hand fondly, before that too, she folded under the sheet.

“I’ll see to it her body is released to the coroner tonight. Vianne. But, now, I think you’ve had plenty enough trials for one day. I’ll escort you home. Thomas warned me that leaving you alone could be perilous…” Erik stated, heading for his jacket, hung up on a peg the other side of the room. His medical box was packed, and ready to go. Vianne knew, if she so much as opened her mouth and protested, she’d be very sternly reprimanded, and counteracted. Erik heaved on his coat, and nodded across at her.

“But, you have a home to go too. Erik…You have Julian..” She began. Erik wasn’t married, nor widowed. But he happily lived alone, in comfort. He had a dog he adored, a floppy eared basset hound, called Albert, and though she never remarked on it, nor passed judgement, but Erik Harriden enjoyed companionship with Sir Julian Remmington-Holland, another man of high class. A Lord. They were both upstanding, respected men of society, and no one ever remarked on the nature of their cosmopolitan bond. Though Erik appeared charming to women, and there was not a man alive who didn’t like him. Erik Harriden’s heart was firmly captured, but he was reserved about it, though still warm hearted, for he knew that idea wasn’t accepted in any society. It didn’t matter, not to her. People should love, who they love, gender be damned. Erik cared after Vianne in a way that made her feel safe. He was her greatest mentor, and the kindest, and only, person she let herself depend on. As a single, struggling, heartbroken mother, all those years ago, Erik, and Julian, whom she both knew intimately, and adored, together, they were godsends, more of fond uncle’s to Juliette and Arthur than friends. He didn’t feel like a friend, he felt like family. And families looked after one another…

But he merely met her eyes, tilted his head, he grabbed her hand, and held tight. His bronze eyes sparkled.

“I shan’t hear of your protests. What Doctor would do any less for his bestest, brightest student?” He finalises with a kind, warm smile that he was known for.

There is nothing but thick silence on the cab ride home. Night is shrouding, cold and blue over London now. Vianne idly wonders if Thomas had managed to sort out that problem at his foundry, she hoped it wasn’t too drastic-a catastrophe. She trusted his competence to deal with the matter, he could take charge and sort everything. The man she knew two years ago was so tightly held under rein, he could do no such thing. Lucille’s death, tragic as it was, must have been such a release for him. He was never, truly a part of the dark schemes, save for being handled and managed by her. He feared standing up to her, and she saw why. Lucille dealt out only in severity, masqueraded as love.

She knew, the minute she saw Thomas and his sister interact together, at Allerdale. That she’d never be able to encroach on what they had. The bond that had formed, in them both finding solace together out of the horrors of their childhood. Lucille thought she was losing her hold over Thomas, that’s why she lashed out so, violence being the only thing she knew how to successfully inflict. But what she didn’t know, was that from the day Thomas slid a ring on Vianne’s finger, in that chapel in Scotland, the rift between the siblings could do naught but grow wider. Lucille had made it painfully apparent in her life, that she liked only three things. Thomas. Allerdale Hall, and being in charge. She liked everything just so. Everything pinned in place, like her scarab beetles, immaculate, and under her control. Everything tagged, named and identified. There was her order, and there was no way of overthrowing it. Thomas saw her as a frail, fragile woman, though strong, she was more susceptible to break than heal. Vianne saw through that in a second. She had Thomas wound tight round her finger, like her little puppet. Now she was gone, Thomas strings had been cut, and his ties to home, he had gratefully severed. He was his own man now, and there was every comfort in that, for him. She saw it.

The carriage comes jolting to a stop, and she looks across, seeing they’d arrived home all before she’d even realised it. The tall, thin stretch of the white marble of her townhouse, stretched up above the street. All the lights within were off, she was relieved to see, and Vianne surmised that since she sent the note to Jeanie telling the staff, they had weeks off, she had stuck to that order. She still gave them pay, of course, she wasn’t cold-hearted, but she had told them to be absent, whilst she had some ‘redecorating’ done. When really, she didn’t trust St. Clair not to hurt her house staff, should they get caught in the crossfire of this sordid mess. She exited swiftly, key in hand, and Erik behind her, as they strode out of the foggy, darkening night, and into the comfort of home. Only when Vianne slid inside, her heart prickled, because it didn’t feel homely anymore. Cloaked in darkness, it didn’t feel like home, not to her. Not anymore. It felt like home where there was a dark, dashing man awaiting on her, in the other room. The last week, with Thomas, in his suite, felt more cosy, and homely to her than two years spent in this grand, mausoleum. She slides her keys into the bowl, on the side table, by the door, and flips on the light switch out of habit. It comes on, and briefly, the place is swamped, made a little cheerier, by the honey gold light that comes on. But before she even took one step, the lights fizzled out with a clicking, pang. She sighed. Erik moved behind her, coming in and shutting the door.

“I’ll check to see if there’s any bulbs in the kitchens…whilst I’m about it, I’ll put the kettle on. I surmise, we are both in need of tea.” He pledges. Vianne, stood in the mirror by the parlour door, busily slides the feeble pins out of her straggled hair do. Ruined by the night of activity she’d suffered through. After he speaks, she turns and smiles, looking sidewards at him.

“I do hope I’m not rudely keeping you from Julian’s company..” She enquires. He smiles at her.

“You could not, even if you wished too. He is in Yorkshire, staying with the Lord and Countess of Ahern. Shooting, hunting and playing a country gent as I understand it. The only person from whom you’re keeping me tonight, is Albert.” He explained.

“I’ll just go up, and change my gown. But I’ll make us something to eat, as penance, for my separating you.” She tells.

“I didn’t know Heiress’s could cook?” He ribbed.

“I didn’t know Doctors could boil kettles.” She japes back.

Erik chuckles warmly, folding his gloves in his hands. He moved, still in his swathing, fur collared coat, through the foyer, and down the kitchen stairs. He rubbed her shoulder kindly as she went past. “Touché.” He congratulates as he walked past her. She chuckles, hearing the whine of the kitchen stairs, as he went. That was one thing she detested about living alone. The fact that when the staff retired, the only sounds up around the house, were ones of silence. She hated that. She liked hearing someone she loved, go about their business in the other room. The creak of a floorboard, or the rustle of paper as they sat at their desk.

Lost in idle thoughts, she pulls out the drawer of the foyer dresser, forgetting what she hid there a while ago. She see’s the two portraits, in small, square frames, staring up at her. Their cherubian faces looking searchingly into the camera. She reaches out, and her fingertips stroke the faces through the glass. Arthur had gotten his father’s colouring, with hair as dark as ink. And between them, both boasted a set of eyes so piercing, Vianne knew they had got them from Thomas’s side too. The only feature that marked Juliette as being her daughter, was the bright, sleek locks of pure copper that tumbled from her beautiful head. They were gorgeous children, and she could barely stand it that, as she was with Henry, she had to keep them a secret, as if she were ashamed, which meant her visiting was scarce. She missed them both so much, it was as if she was missing two of her limbs. She took a keen interest in their schooling, at St. Antony’s, and visited often to take them presents, and for walks in the park with Sister Mary. They knew, they were loved. And Vianne found it harder and harder, leaving them there each time. In the early days of being back within London, she had considered giving them up for adoption, or fostering. But in her heart, deep down, she knew they were hers, and they always would be. She’d laboured so hard, to escape Allerdale, and their Father, that she gave no thought as to whether or not when she had them that she’d actually turn into a competent mother. Eventually, after getting the assistants job to help Harriden, slowly, as she came to trust him more, one day, she opened up, and told him. Afterwards, rambling on and on, about how they didn’t affect her work life, and that she made every care and consideration to see that they had everything they needed. And that she could keep the vows of her profession, because she wasn’t married, it was forbidden for married nurses to work at the London. After she finished spewing out her secrets, and worries. Erik looked up from his work, and the desk opposite, and slid his glasses off. Folded them in his hands, and smiled fondly at her, and then he said. ‘I’m gay. Miss James. I live with a man whom I love so dearly, life without loving him seems… damn near impossible. We all have our secrets outside of work, I urge you, don’t fret. So long as my secret is safe with you, yours will always have a haven with me.’ He’d smiled. ‘And, if you are amenable, I would like to meet your children. If they have half their mothers fortitude, then they are surely the sweetest children in all of England, are they not?.’ After that, Erik came regularly to see Jules and Arthur. He brought them cones of sherbet, and Albert lolloped along as they played happily in the park.

One memorable occasion she can remember, they were sat in Regents park, on a bench, on a brisk autumn day, watching the two children play with Albert, and running about in the crispy, underfoot, fun of the golden, amber and scarlet dry leaves on the ground. And, as Erik and she sat together, a passer-by, mistook them for a wedded couple, watching their children, and their canine caper about on the emerald grass. Vianne had flushed pink, and blinked those blue doe eyes as she searched for an explanation. Erik was certainly handsome, but he was much older than her, sadly, these days, closeness in age, to a marriage match, was not a hindering factor. Erik, to save her embarrassment, scooped her leather gloved hand up in his, kissed it, and spun a long tale to the stranger about how they met, ten years ago, on this very park bench, before they courted. The woman, reeling from his expertly crafted story, trotted off, secure in the belief she had just met the most love-struck couple in all of modern London. Erik excused his brazenness, his cheeks too, under his stubble, looked just as red as hers. He told her then, something he’d never told anyone, not even Julian. Was that he often ached after the thought he’d never have a family of his own. He’d never have a noisy house, crammed full of children and dogs. Because of ‘how he was’ he’d never know what it was like to be part of a family. That if he, were ‘normal’ then he’d want a wife exactly like her, because she was the most beautiful, giving, kind-hearted soul he’d ever known, and just being acquaintances and colleagues with her was one of his finest blessings, he’d considered. Vianne had told him then, chiding him for such self-deprecating remarks, and informing him that he would always be a part of her family. Meagre as it was. But the resulting smile on his face told her he didn’t think that, not one bit.

She traced her finger over both their lovely faces, before she shut the drawer. Wiped away the tear that had beaded in the corner of her eye, and turned about, intending to head up the stairs. She rounded the banister, picked up her skirts, and headed up. Halfway, she hears a noise that was so unusual in its nature, it made her stop. It was the sound of the dining table, scraping against the tiled floor, and the clattering crash of crockery hitting the tiles.

She thinks that it’s maybe Erik being a bit butterfingered. Her kitchen was quite poky. “Erik, Is anything the matter?” She calls, to no response. He was probably sheepishly searching for the broom as she spoke. She continues up a step, but the flare of fear and horror sits low in her gut, and she wasn’t one to ignore her gut instincts. She doesn’t call his name, but she scurries down the stairs, quickly, and she treads down them carefully. When she gets there, her heart stops, when she sees Erik, lying face down on the floor. The dining table was jolted out of place, scattered across the floor. Speaking of which, was littered with shards of destroyed crockery from the plate rack, now directly to her left. The kettle was overfilling, bubbling over in the sink. The patter of water continues, hissing and spitting down into the ceramic sink. She crouches, shaking his back, seeing if he was conscious, the corner of the dining table had blood specked on it. She surmises he must’ve fallen and hit his head. She tries to see if there’s a pupillary response when she opens his eyes. “Erik?” She asks him, trying to see if he’d respond. She didn’t see that the vacant shadow in the corner of her scullery, was filled with a dark figure. A familiar one, at that.

“I never did like him.” Comes the sneer. “Don’t know why the London insist on hiring a bloody Sodomite, anyway…” He spits. Vianne’s head jerks up in the direction of the sudden voice. Her lips gape, and from her position, knelt on the floor, she stays there, merely watching Henry as he stepped forwards, and throws a heavy, clunking object to clash heavily to the floor. It looked, to her, like a discarded cut of bent pipe. And it had blood on the back. Erik must’ve hit his head, falling forwards from the backwards blow Henry gave. Vianne recoiled, shrinking to the kitchen wall, by the bottom of the stairs, as Henry stalked closer.

She whimpered, he stepped closer, too close, for etiquettes sake. She turned her head to the side, able to feel his breath hit her cheeks, and his chest touched into her body, he was stood so close. He was wearing that grin, and the darkened eyes that told her he’d enjoyed a drink or two, before coming here. He was wearing all black, with an undressed collar, and black leather gloves on his hands. A silver watch chain was the only decoration to his lapels. Other than that, his big, thick, black coat covered most of his body. She flinched, not wanting to cry, but she feels close to it, when he fists his hands in her skirts, and the other grips her neck in a chokehold. She, on the other hand, is too terrified to move. It was what he did to her body that she hated the most. Petrifying her to the point of paralysis. She hated it.

“Hello dear. Did you miss me? Sorry I haven’t called… been rather busy…” He coos into her ear, and she can almost taste the whiskey on his breath. The hand fisted in her skirts, now slid up her back, cupping her ass, and slipping up to clutch the small of her back. Tugging her form closer into his chest. Feeling those perfect, pale breasts crush to his chest. He groaned caressing her body. “How’s your Sharpe? From what I hear, he declares you’re a wonderful fuck. Only I never got the chance to find out, now did I?” He snarls, watching her eyes, wide and terrified. Tendrils of red hair straying in her eyes… He groaned with delight, long and slow, admiring the way her supple body arched into him.

“Too busy with Rose. I suppose…” She spits back snidely. “As evident by the fact she was expecting your child…” She snaps before can stop herself. His jaw clenched, and his eyes narrowed. Tears fell from hers.

“I admit, that wasn’t to plan. But it was never my idea to kill the stupid bitch…” He explains, squeezing her neck tighter. Shamefully feeling how this situation, them here, now, was serving to make him aroused. He did forget she was such a sweet beauty, from up close. She was ripe to grope too, all curves. He hated the fact that he’d been denied them, where Sharpe had been let loose on them, with no so much as a thought and her thighs parted for him. And they’d been courting for a month, with not so much past the occasional long kiss. Was it any wonder he had to seek comforts elsewhere?

“Then whose was it?” She asks, his hold on her throat stung, certainly, but it was loose enough to let her talk freely. But on her seeking answers, his hand grew tighter. As she kept him talking, her fingers scrabbled gently for the dresser that she was almost wedged into. She can feel the edge of a plate, cold slippery and firm under her fingers, she leans over, keeping the conversation going as he hadn’t realised her hand was freely wandering.

“Never you mind.” Then he grinned. “You’ll find out, soon enough, I’m taking you to them..” He tells her.

“To who?” She seeks.

“The man who has your lover, and most probably will have left a few scars on his persons, before we get there…” He grinned, triumphantly. Her eyes flared with sudden realisation.

“There was no accident, was there? You just had to get us apart… What? Have you paid off the police now?” She snarls.

“Such a clever girl.” He groans patronisingly. “You’d be surprised how many people my associate has under his thumb…” He sneers. She had her fingers around it now. She had to act, without thinking about the consequences, she grabbed the plate, and smashed it across the back of his head. He dropped, and his grip on her grew slack, she ran.

She darted up the stairs, but apparently, a thin piece of crockery was not enough to subdue a fully grown man, of Henry’s bulk and stature. When she gets back to the foyer, she can hear him move behind her, he groans, snarling to snatch at her skirts, which she hears rip, as he tried hard to catch her. Which he manages, he grabs her, and in her stumbling to get away, she crashed sideways into the dresser by the front parlour door, sending the drawers shooting forwards, and the body of it falling down to the floor after. Meaning its contents splattered all over the floor, skidding across the tiles. From her sudden collision with the floor, she is winded. But she can’t move fast enough to escape him.

She feels him grab her bicep, and feels the full weight of him atop her. Twisting her round, she is pressed to the floor, facing up under his body. His legs bracket hers, and his hands grab at her shoulders. Keeping her pinned there. Other than being knocked to the floor, she is unhurt. His hand stroked up, harshly over her hair, and he leans down to sniff at her neck, smelling her, her perfume. She knew he always did that when he began to grow aroused. She tried to push him off, but he is too strong, he was suffocating her. Keeping her hands pinned high, he began kissing down her neck as he hissed at her.

“Don’t tempt me, Vianne, Do you know how tempted I am right now? With you like this, weak, under me. It’s taking every ounce of resolve not to lift up these velvet skirts, and take you, right here on the floor. Get my revenge on that cheating bastard you’re sleeping with… How ironic would that be? Just think, that poor sod is being beaten to a pulp as we speak, and here I am, inches away from being able to fuck his little devotee.” He growls. Chuckling. “I’m almost tempted to do it, and tell him, Just to savour the look on his face when he finds out you’ve been stuffed full of me.” He taunts. Tutting when she tried to shuck him off again. “Ah-ah-ah.” He chides, holding her steady.

She tried, hard, to claw her nails at his face, but he just laughs at her efforts, panting as he sat up, still having flecks of broken, white crockery littering his clothing. He did naught but leaned down, and kissed her, hard, on the mouth. Holding her head so she couldn’t twist out of his way. “God, I want you, right now, Vianne. “ he murmurs against her neck. His body rutting into her own, she could feel the hard muscles of him, and the evidence of his ardour, pressing down into her thighs. She squirms, bucks her body, tries anything to get him off.

“Then again… If I did take the time to bed you, we’d be late for our appointment. And he does so hate to be kept waiting. He’s scrupulous about punctuality. As you well know. Sweetling.” He smiles down at her, cunningly.

“I’m not going anywhere with you, you murdering bastard.” She bites out. So he slaps her to keep her quiet. Jerking her head to one side. The noise of hand, hitting cheek rings in the air.

He looked about them, at the destroyed furniture that had happened in the wake of their chase. And he see’s something then, the contents of the top drawer. When he looks up to the wall, he can see two square marks on the wall, faded there from the photos that kept th sunlight from reaching the wallpaper. He sees them now. Lying face down on the tiles, within reach.

He smirks, and she twisted about to see what she was looking at. She cottoned onto his intent instantly.

“No, Henry, please, no. I’ll do it, I’ll go, please…No, god! Please don’t!” She sobs. He didn’t listen to a word she is rambling out. He grabbed both frames, and turned them over. She clawed at his hands, put to no avail. His eyes sweep over the picture. Taking each one in, in his own time. And then…. He smiles down at her, looking deathly satisfied.

“Sharpes brats, I take it?” He asks her.

She is too scared to speak.

“You come with me. Now. Quietly, obediently. Or I’ll involve them into the bargain, and I cannot guarantee your safety, let alone theirs..” He promises. She doesn’t want to trust him. She’d been all over that mistake, before.

“You’re a monster.” She spits coldly. A tear falling from her eye. Scared now, but knowing she’d lay down her very life to protect Thomas, and her children. He tosses the pictures carelessly to the floor. As if they were rubbish to be slung away.

He wrenched her up, onto her feet. Her body felt bruised, and she knew she was in for another long night. She brushes her skirts off, and stands, on wobbling legs. Her hair mussed, thrown in her face. Assaulted by his lust, she had bitemarks bruising on her neck, and her lips are raw from his kisses. But right there, stood, glaring at the man she was sure was Satan incarnate. She’d never known she was capable of such hatred towards a fellow human being. She felt dirty, aching, and so full of blinding, white hot, rage. She couldn’t let him, and this stranger, threaten her family. And if going with him tonight would end it, then she’d go down fighting. She’s sure of that.

“I want to go and check on Erik. You gave him a blow to the head. He could have an intracranial haemorrhage. I need to see if he’s still alive, atleast, please, Henry.” She pleads, trying to appeal to his humanity, if she was sure he possessed a singular scrap of it.

“So you can go and get something from the kitchen with which to arm yourself? What do you take me for?” He growls. For the sake of her own safety, and not wanting another slap. She doesn’t say anything.

“I didn’t hit him hard. I don’t care if the bastard bleeds to death. I’d be doing the world a favour. He stays as he is.” He finishes tersely. Tugging her to the front door. Stepping over the debris. She winces as his foot carelessly crunches the photo frame of her and Thomas underfoot, and the one of Juliette. He looks back, seeing he hadn’t stepped on Arthurs portrait, he made a point to do so, hearing the glass shatter. That sound hits her heart, and she looks away. Another tear falls.

He fidgets in his pockets, and grips her arm tight once more. That was when his eyes seemed to see, for the first time, the bandage on her left arm. Still dyed pink from Roses blood.

“I almost forgot… How’s the arm?” He sneers, patting his pockets for something.

“Go to hell.” She spits out, her eyes blazing with hatred, her hair mussed, loose and free down her shoulders.

“Such a dirty mouth, for a Lady. I bet Sharpe makes good use of that, does he not? Get you on those knees and treat you like the foul harlot you truly are…” He snarls out. She glares.

“Why does it not surprise me that you don’t know anything of how a gentleman pleases his lady..” She jabs at his ego. His grip grew tighter. His eyes burned, and his nostrils flared angrily.

“The only reason you are standing right now is because Rose tattled to Sharpe, the stupid gossip. She opened her big mouth to him, and told him about the Beggars going after you, because of my debts with them. I told them it was easy money to be had knocking you about a bit. Sharpe would pay any sum to keep you safe, Unfortunately though, he killed most of them before they could ransom money off him. Left me in rather a precarious position…” He told her.

“Good.” She sneers.

His jaw grit, and he must’ve found what he’d been searching for. A small hunting knife. He showed it to her, letting the sparse light glint off the flat blade of it. He Grabbed her arm, and pressed her, tight, into his side. He jutted the knife into her back, just below her kidneys.

“Do you know how painful it is to be stabbed in the soft of your lower back? Because if you so much as try to run, or get help. I will dig this in deep, and twist it. And you’ll be dead before you hit the floor. Understand me?” He asks.

She didn’t nod. She merely glared. They stepped out the door. And she’d never been more ready to meet her fate. To finally face this faceless coward who’d been threatening all the people she loved.

@frenchfrostpudding @heavymist @totallynotasmutblog @echantedbytwh

#tom hiddleston #Edwardian era #historical fiction #romance #angst #violence #death of a friend #death of a minor character #loss of a child #trigger #attempted assault #attempted rape #sadness #attack #chase

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