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aquilaofarkham · 7 months

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Dying Has Never Frightened Us: Intergenerational Trauma, Healing, & the Burden of Legacy in Castlevania

An analytical and interpretation essay that discusses how the concept of family legacy and duty can lead to intergenerational trauma in the Castlevania franchise. Focuses primarily on the Belmont who found strength from his pain by honouring his family’s legacy no matter how heavy it felt or the burden that came with it and the Belmont who found his own strength from the ones he loved and who loved him in return.

☽ Read the full piece here or click the read more for the text only version ☽

THE BURNING NEED FOR RETRIBUTION: INTRODUCTION

The world has trauma. It is deep, collective, spanning its roots over centuries and territories dating back to when the borders of today never existed, and it has largely gone untreated—but not undiscussed.

From children’s cartoons to award winning dramas, trauma has become one of the most common topics for media to discuss, depict, and dissect. It makes sense given the sort of physical and mental gauntlet which society has been through in the past five years. Sometimes even in just the past twenty-four hours. From an uptick in disasters stemming from climate change, the rise of publicised policy brutality, genocide as a result of settler colonisation, new developments coming to light after decades of denial regarding the residential school system in Canada, and of course a global pandemic which is still making ripples. Then there is the recent examination of generational trauma which differs from culture to culture. The open wounds we’ve already left and will be leaving for future age groups.

Seeing how fiction reflects reality and vice versa, it isn’t any wonder that movies, television shows, and video games find ways of processing this worldwide sensation of frustrated ennui along with the need to find answers as to how regular citizens can fix things, including ourselves, when politicians and world leaders cannot. When reality cannot provide satisfying resolutions, when we are left confused and even angrier than before due to the apparent shortcomings of institutions meant to provide relief towards the average person, it’s natural to look towards specific media. Whether for coping mechanisms, validation for this collective and personal trauma, or simply for cathartic release so the emotions don’t have to remain bottled up.

Castlevania , both its original 2017 series and the most recent entry of Castlevania: Nocturne (as well as the video games which the show is inspired by), is no stranger to this popular trend of storytelling and characterisation. Yet this trend also comes with its own controversy. When done with a deft writer’s hand and a layer of empathetic critical thinking, trauma in fiction and how we heal from its intergenerational effects can be a powerful tool in raising awareness in regards to something left forgotten by the larger public or it can allow viewers to look inwards at themselves. Done poorly or with a lack of empathy and taste, then the floodgates open.

But beyond the usual discourse surrounding trauma in fiction (how to portray a “realistic” panic attack, what makes a “good” victim, the problematic connotations of forgiving one’s abuser, etc.), Castlevania has its own things to say about the lingering effects of grief, guilt, and pain over the course of thirty-two episodes (now a fourty episode runtime with the inclusion of Castlevania: Nocturne season one). The series—particularly the first which ran from 2017 to 2021—has now gained a reputation for being one of the darker animated ventures tackling themes of religious corruption, abuse, sexual manipulation, and injustice among many others. The value and thoughtfulness of each depicted theme ranges from being genuinely compelling to delving into mere shock value yet the series is also known for its uplifting ending and cathartic release from such dark themes.

One could write entire dissertations on each complicated character and their developments. From Dracula’s suicidal tendencies as a result of unchecked grief to Isaac’s conflicted redemptive journey beginning with his unflinching loyalty to the king of vampires and ending with him forging down his own path in life. How characters such as Carmilla, consumed by her inner agonies and burning hatred towards the world to the bitter end, was left isolated from her sisters until she was forced to choose the terms of her own death, while others like Alucard, Sypha, and to an extent Hector rose above their individual torments in favour of hope and survival. However, this examination will focus on the series’ titular family of vampire hunters. Namely, the Belmont who found strength from his pain by honouring his family’s legacy no matter how heavy it felt or the burden that came with it and the Belmont who found his own strength from the ones he loved and who loved him in return.

Note: this essay will delve into speculations and purely interpretative hypotheses stemming from the author’s own opinions in regards to how they personally read the presented text. It will also discuss heavy spoilers for the majority of Castlevania games and the first season of Castlevania: Nocturne.

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WHAT A HORRIBLE NIGHT FOR A CURSE: THE CYCLE OF TRAGEDY IN THE CASTLEVANIA GAMES

This examination begins in the exact same place as the show began with its inspirations and references: the original video games developed and distributed by Konami Group Corporations. It’s easy to get swept up in the notion that because of the technological limitations with video games at the time, the Castlevania games are devoid of story or characterization. Yet even the most bare bones of a story found in the games can still have something to say about the burden of legacy and how trauma left unconfronted has the possibility of tearing down that legacy. The most prominent example being Castlevania: Symphony of the Night , arguably the first game to begin delving into a deeper story and character driven narrative. It follows the events of Castlevania: Rondo of Blood , a game which portrayed its protagonist Richter Belmont as a force of nature in the face of evil, always knowing what to do, what to say, and emerging victorious without so much as breaking a sweat (or candelabra).

In keeping with the time of its release and the landscape of popular media particularly in Japan, Rondo of Blood feels like a traditional 1990s action anime complete with brightly coloured cutscenes and character designs reminiscent of Rumiko Takahashi and Rui Araizumi (despite the usual classic horror elements present in every Castlevania game). This is most evident with Maria Renard, the second playable protagonist who attacks with her own arsenal of magical animals and even has her own upbeat theme music during the credits when players complete the main story in “Maria mode”. Richter also shares many similar personality traits with his counterpart, namely his optimism in the face of danger and the confidence that he will be the hero of this narrative.

Of course all this changed in the direct follow-up to Rondo of Blood , the aforementioned Symphony of the Night . Arguably the new staple of future Castlevania games to come, not only did it change the gameplay and aesthetic, it changed the very core of the characters as well. The game even begins with the same ending as Rondo of Blood where Richter fights and defeats Dracula with the help of Maria. Then during the opening crawl, we discover that during a time skip, Richter has vanished and Maria is searching for him. Surely this will be nothing less than a heroic rescue and the most powerful Belmont of his century will be restored to his rightful pedestal.

Yet for the first half of Symphony of the Night , the player is faced with a sobering realisation—the villain we’re supposed to be fighting, the one responsible for conjuring Dracula’s castle back into existence, is Richter himself. No longer the hero we’ve come to adore and look up to from the previous game. Of course, the player along with new protagonist Alucard both know that something isn’t right; perhaps Richter isn’t in his sound mind or some nefarious force is possessing him to commit evil deeds. But unless the player solves the right puzzles and find the right in-game items, Symphony ends with Alucard putting down Richter like a rabid dog. However, this ending can be avoided and a whole second half of the game is revealed.

Richter’s canonical ending is left ambiguous at best, tragic at worst. He laments over his moment of weakness, claiming the events of the game were his fault despite Alucard’s insistence that confronting Dracula was always going to be inevitable. Still, the tragedy of Richter’s fate and how he is portrayed in Symphony of the Night comes much later, when it’s implied the Belmonts are no longer capable of wielding the fabled Vampire Killer, a leather whip imbued with supernatural properties that has been passed down generation after generation. One mistake and misjudgment left the Belmont legacy in a perpetual long lasting limbo with the titular hunters themselves seemingly disappearing from history as well, leaving others such as the Order of Ecclesia to pick up the fight against Dracula’s eventual resurgence. It isn’t until the height of World War II (the setting of Castlevania: Portrait of Ruin ) when the whip’s true potential is finally set free thanks to the actions of Jonathan Morris, a distant relative of the infamous vampire slaying family. However, the only way in which Jonathan can reawaken the Vampire Killer is by defeating a manifestation of the person who last wielded it and also whom the whip abandoned nearly two hundred years prior—Richter Belmont.

Yet players and fans don’t get to see it in the hands of another Belmont until the events of 1999 when Julius Belmont defeats the latest incarnation of Dracula and seals his castle away in a solar eclipse. Even then, he loses his memory until thirty years pass and he’s forced to do battle with Soma Cruz, an innocent transfer student who is also the reincarnation of Dracula. If the protagonist of Castlevania: Aria of Sorrow succeeds in defeating the cosmic threat that has awakened his supposed “evil” destiny, then Julius can finally lay down the Vampire Killer in peace (until the sequel Castlevania: Dawn of Sorrow , of course). If not, the game ends with Julius keeping his promise to Soma should he lose sight of his human side and let Dracula be reborn once again. In a scene that directly mirrors the beginning of Symphony , Julius enters the castle throne room, Soma throws down his wine goblet, and the screen goes black. The cycle continues anew. Julius has upheld the duty of his family name but at what cost.

The theme of tragedy getting passed down through different generations, permeating from person to person even with those who are not Belmonts, is a staple of later Castlevania games following Symphony of the Night . In some instances, pain and trauma is what jumpstarts the story moving forward. Castlevania: Curse of Darkness begins with its protagonist Hector in a direct parallel to Dracula swearing revenge on the one responsible for the murder of his wife; an ultimatum that follows him every step of the way, fuelling his rage and determination up until the penultimate moment when his goal is within reach. Yet even then he cries out, claiming this “murderous impulse” isn’t truly him—it’s the result of an outside force he himself once aided before defecting before the events of the game.

Something similar occurs in Castlevania: Lords of Shadow , an alternative reimagining of the franchise that while still a topic of division amongst most die hard fans has also seen a resurgence of popularity and reevaluation. It begins with Gabriel Belmont grieving over the death of his own wife (a trope which is unfortunately common amongst the majority of Castlevania titles). This is a wound that follows him throughout his journey until an even more painful and shattering twist regarding Marie Belmont’s demise is revealed to Gabriel later in the game.

However, there is one example from the games that stands above the rest in regards to the sort of damage which generational trauma as a result of familial duty and legacy, upheld to an almost religious degree, can inflict. So much so that even a declaration of retribution can evolve into a generational curse.

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HUNT THE NIGHT: LEON BELMONT & THE MYTH OF FREE WILL

The Castlevania timeline didn’t always have a set beginning. An inciting incident by which all future stories, characters, and inevitable calamities could base themselves off of. Rather it changed from game to game until a definitive origin was settled in 2003 with the release of Castlevania: Lament of Innocence . For at least two games, the starting point was supposed to be with Simon Belmont, making his way through a labyrinth of dark forests and cursed towns, before finally traversing the ever changing fortress in Transylvania to defeat Dracula. He even went as far as to gather the remains and resurrect the eponymous lord of his own choice just to rid himself of another curse entirely.

Castlevania protagonists are always cursed by something. Whether it be the cause of Dracula’s influence, their own actions as seen in Lords of Shadow , a curse of the flesh like how Simon had to tackle his own ailment in Castlevania II: Simon’s Quest , or something else just as common as Dracula’s curse: the burden of honouring a family duty.

A basic yet iconic 1986 entry followed by a sequel that had potential especially with the first appearance of the now famous “Bloody Tears” track but suffered from a rather confusing and lacklustre end product. Then suddenly the starting point for the franchise timeline changed drastically. Castlevania III: Dracula’s Curse despite the numerical inclusion in its title stands as more of a prequel, detailing the exploits of the Belmont who came before Simon. Not much was altered in the grand scheme of things; the titular vampire hunter still essentially slays Dracula with the help of three other playable characters, said final boss having been driven mad and more violent than ever by humanity’s slight against him. However, not only were the methods by which Dracula is defeated changed but players were given more insight into the sort of burden placed upon the Belmont family name.

When the story of Dracula’s Curse begins, protagonist Trevor Belmont isn’t revered as a legend or hero but rather a blight on larger society who the people only turn to as a last ditch effort against rising evil. The regular god-fearing people of Wallachia now fear the Belmonts and their power (it is also implied that some still feared the barbarian-esque Simon despite his legendary status) so the family is excommunicated. Trevor is forced to enlist three other outcasts—or simply two other fighters, depending on which version of the story you examine—in order to carry out the family business. Even when the rest of the world has shunned them and there are plenty of others just as capable of stopping the forces of evil, a Belmont still has a destiny to fulfil.

Yet once a series has gone on for long enough, things within the established canon are bound to change—again and again. Whether through re-examination in order to line it up better with present day morals and sensibilities, or through good old fashioned retconning in favour of something more interesting, more thought out, or less convoluted. Other times, it’s simply because either the creator or viewers wanted it to happen. In 1997, this occurred with the release of Castlevania Legends on the GameBoy, a prequel to Dracula’s Curse that was meant to serve as the actual origin for the Belmonts, Dracula, and even his son Alucard. Instead of Trevor, the very first Belmont to fight Dracula is now his mother, Sonia Belmont, seventeen years old and already burdened with the glorious purpose of her bloodline.

Sonia is undoubtedly the protagonist of her own story with agency and drive. However, the game ends with a stark reminder of why the Belmonts have a place in the Castlevania universe. The last we see of Sonia in Legends is in the form of an epilogue where she holds her newborn child and states that one day when he’s grown, he will “be praised by all the people as a hero”. Despite her triumph over Dracula—a monumental feat itself—it seems that her purpose in the end (the purpose of most Belmonts other than to forever fight evil in fact) was to merely continue the bloodline so that descendants can carry out a promise made centuries before by another Belmont—someone that neither Simon, Trevor, Julius, or Richter ever knew.

The inevitability of sudden retcons within long-running media was not as kind to Legends as it was to Dracula’s Curse . Because of how the in-game events conflicted with subsequent entries (for example the implication that Trevor is actually the son of Alucard, thus further tying the Belmonts to Dracula through blood as well as duty), both Legends and Sonia were completely removed from the canon timeline. This is merely one reason why the next attempt at creating the definitive origin for the franchise, now a cult favourite among certain subsections of the fan community, was regarded with some animosity. However, twenty years after its release, Castlevania: Lament of Innocence is considered by many as an underrated entry. It is certainly the darker title where both the hero and villain stumble through their own hardships yet neither emerges completely victorious by the end.

The opening narration crawl of Lament of Innocence describes the lives of Leon Belmont and Mathias Cronqvist. They spend most of their lives as reflections of each other; one grows into more of a fighter while the second is coveted for his intellect and ambition. Both are valorous, honourable, and products of their own respective plights. Despite his service to the church, Leon is soon systematically stripped of everything save for the clothes on his back because he wouldn’t follow their orders blindly. While Mathias is forced to watch as an uncaring god (the very same god he serves) takes away a figure of pure virtue and love. This figure, Elisabeta Cronqvist who appears to be a splitting image of Dracula’s next deceased wife Lisa Tepes, was the last remaining tie Mathias still had to whatever bit of morality he still feels, which he eventually throws away when deciding to drag his only friend and everything he holds dear into hell alongside him.

The difference is how both men react to those personal horrors and how they let it govern their pasts, presents, and futures not just for themselves but for others who follow after the dust has supposedly settled. Two men, two best friends turned hateful enemies because of an interlinked tragedy. Not only that, but also because of their perspectives, morals, and the way they view a world that is unkind to them. Both were spurred by the death of loved ones, both used it as a conduit, or rather a catalyst for the radically opposing directions in which their choices take them and their families. Leon chooses to struggle onwards towards a world free from darkness and horror despite his pain. Mathias chooses to revel in that very same darkness and pain with a fire that would burn for aeons. In the end, one thing is absolute. A single thing the two men can agree upon as they flee down adverse paths: one of them will destroy the other.

Yet the timeline of Castlevania proves that this choice comes at a great cost for the Belmonts in particular. By the end of Lament of Innocence , Mathias has revealed himself to be the great manipulator pulling the strings behind the scenes. Due to the immense grief he felt over losing Elisabeta to a presumably common illness made untreatable because of the time period’s medical limitations (coupled with his own arrogance and narcissism), Mathias finally becomes Dracula. Dominion over death and even god by has been achieved by doing what Leon’s righteously moral mind cannot comprehend: transforming himself into an immortal creature driven by bloodlust. All he had to do was lie, cheat, and cruelly outsmart everyone else around him. That of course includes Leon as Mathias’ manipulation tactics were also the cause of the mercy killing of Sara Tarantoul, Leon’s fiance, to stop her from turning into a vampire herself. After watching his former friend escape before the sun can rise and disposing of Dracula’s constant right hand man Death, Leon finally feels his anger over such a betrayal boil over. He gives one final message to Mathias, now the new king of the vampires: “This whip and my kinsmen will destroy you someday. From this day on, the Belmont Clan will hunt the night.”

This is how Castlevania: Lament of Innocence ends. Unlike other entries like Symphony of the Night, Aria of Sorrow, or Harmony of Dissonance , there is no good, neutral, or bad ending that can be achieved if the player is aware of certain secrets and tricks. There is only one for Leon and Mathias. The inclusion of multiple endings in some Castlevania games versus a singular set ending in others may seem like a small coincidental narrative choice in conjunction with evolving gameplay, but it matters in the case of Lament of Innocence. From the moment Leon enters the castle to rescue his fiance, the wheel has already started turning and his fate is sealed. Mathias has already won and Sara, along with future Belmonts, are already doomed. And Leon’s ultimatum made in the heat of the moment would go on to have repercussions centuries later. “Hunting the night” gave the Belmonts purpose but it also burdened them with that exact purpose. While Dracula deals in curses, so does the Belmont family—a curse of duty that gets passed down throughout the bloodline.

Leon Belmont was of course never malicious or cruel like Mathias was. He never wanted to deliberately curse his family because he suffered and so should they. His choice was made out of anger and retribution. Still, it goes on to affect Simon, Sonia, Julius, and others in drastic yet different ways. Yet in the case of specific Belmonts like Trevor and Richter, we see how this family legacy can have varied consequences in far more detail through the introduction of animation and serialised writing into the Castlevania franchise.

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SOMETHING BETTER THAN A PILE OF RUINS: TREVOR BELMONT & STRENGTH FROM LEGACY

If there’s one thing that Castlevania makes abundantly clear with its four season runtime, it is that trauma does not inherently make people better or more virtuous. We of course see this from the games with Mathias and his personal crusade against god which leads to the complete dissolvement of his closest friendship. Or with Hector and the rage he feels towards his wife’s murderer, who also happens to be his former comrade under Dracula’s employment. Even Leon’s promise to both his friend, now his most despised enemy, and future descendants can also be an example of how gut reactions to pain, grief, and betrayal can have damaging consequences in the long run. This particular dissection of trauma when it affects a survivor negatively and in almost life-altering ways while still giving them a chance at achieving their own method of healing is most apparent with the animated representation of Trevor Belmont.

At its core, the first season of Castlevania airing in July of 2017 with four episodes in total is inspired by the events of Dracula’s Curse with the following seasons taking more from Curse of Darkness along with original story elements. It begins with the brutal execution of Lisa Tepes after she is falsely accused of being a witch. Shortly afterwards, Dracula declares war on all of humanity in an explosion of grief-riddled vengeance (a declaration that is not dissimilar to Mathias’ cursing of god after Elisabeta’s admittedly more natural death). Hundreds of civilians are slaughtered in the capital city Targoviste and hoards of night creatures descend upon more townships across Wallachia.

This would be the perfect opportunity for a Belmont to stand up and fight back except there is one problem: the Belmonts have been eradicated from this world on false grounds of black magic and aiding the vampire lords instead of hunting them—much like how Lisa was slandered and paid the price with her own life.

The only Belmont left surviving is Trevor himself and his introduction does not paint him in the most optimistic or even heroic light. In the midst of being excommunicated by the church, he’s been wandering aimlessly for the past few years while languishing in whatever tavern he stumbles upon. In one particular bar Trevor finds himself in, he overhears the other patrons cursing the Belmonts and blaming them for Dracula’s siege upon humanity. He tries to stay out of it and not bring too much attention to himself until one glance at the family emblem stitched into his shirt breast is enough to ignite an all out skirmish.

Trevor hides his true identity not because he’s ashamed of it, but for his own safety and self preservation. In fact, the opinion he holds of his family is the total opposite from disdain for the sort of legacy they have saddled him with even in death. He reacts strongly to false accusations directed towards the Belmonts, angrily correcting the bar patrons by stating that his family fought monsters. However, he quickly realises he’s said too much and tries saving face by once again detaching himself from possibly being connected to the aforementioned Belmonts.

It’s only when Trevor is backed into a corner and is fresh out of snappy drunk retorts (thanks to a few hard hits to his nether regions) does he finally admit to his real lineage. As mentioned earlier, Trevor finds himself caught up in the first real brawl of the series not because of the pride he feels in himself but the immense pride he feels for his bloodline. All the while, he’s given up trying to hide what he is—a Belmont—and what he was born to do—fight fucking vampires.

Every time Trevor has the opportunity to bring up his bloodline whether in a fight or in conversation, it’s usually spoken with some bravado and weight even when he’s inebriated. However, when visiting the ruins of the Belmont ancestral home in season two and thus directly confronted with what little remains of his family legacy, Trevor loses all that previous bluster and becomes far more contemplative. He doesn’t reveal much of what it was like to actually live as a Belmont, only that it was “fine” and “no one was lonely in this house”. Even when staring up at the portrait of Leon Belmont, he says nothing and instead firmly grips the very weapons which his ancestor must have also wielded.

It’s clear that Trevor feels no shame, bitterness, or lack of respect towards his family history despite the hardships that have come with it. Still, it’s difficult for him to truly accept the duty of being a Belmont and Trevor continually struggles with it over the course of two full seasons. Upon arriving at the ruined city of Gresit which is under constant threat of night creature attacks, Trevor doesn’t seem particularly concerned with the people’s plight or with helping them. He inquires about what’s been happening by speaking with a few local merchants but it’s only in order for him to gain a better picture of the situation that Gresit finds itself in. Otherwise, he’s simply passing through on his way to another tavern, fist fight, sleeping spot, or all three. Until he puts aside his own needs for self-protection in favour of saving an elder Speaker (a fictionalised group of nomads original to the Castlevania show who have made it their mission to help less fortunate communities and pass on their histories via oral tradition) from a potential hate crime committed by two supposed men of the cloth.

This moment acts as a representation of the first chip in Trevor’s carefully maintained armour. During the bar fight, he claimed over and over again that he was a Belmont in both skill and purpose. However, Trevor hasn’t done much to prove such a proclamation. Because of his ennui and poor coping mechanisms due to lingering trauma, he’s been all talk and not a lot of action—until this point. At first he tells himself to walk away, this sort of confrontation doesn’t concern him. Then he remembers where he comes from and uses the very same family heirloom to help someone physically weaker than himself.

Yet when he accompanies the elder back to where the other Speakers have found shelter from the monsters repeatedly demanding their heads as well as future night creature attacks, Trevor’s metaphorical walls are erected back up. He won’t take any part in this eradication of humanity whether as a victim or perpetrator and especially not to stop it. The people of Wallachia made their choice in the unjust murder of Dracula’s innocent wife, they made their choice when they decided to massacre what was left of his family, and the church made their choice when they decided to fight Dracula’s armies themselves without the Belmonts. Why should he lift a finger (or whip) to save the masses?

Despite this nihilistic attitude, Trevor proves to be a poor defeatist. He still desperately wants to protect the Speakers and warns them of an oncoming pogrom planned for them. A massive hate crime fueled by superstition and facilitated by the corrupt Bishop of Gresit which will supposedly save the city from night creature ambushes (this can be interpreted as a direct allegory meant to comment on how minority groups such as Jewish and Romani communities were used as scapegoats during the Mediaeval period). However, the Speakers refuse to budge and decide to face the angry and misled crowds head-on. They instead tell Trevor to leave in their place which, in a burst of frustration, spurs him to finally act like a member of his clan should.

What follows next is one of the most defining moments of the series for Trevor, cementing his place as a Belmont. Another corrupt member of the church demands to know what he could possibly stand to gain from fighting back considering his downtrodden state and the fact that he’s entirely outnumbered. Trevor’s answer is simple: nothing. The Belmonts don’t protect everyday people for any great reward or because of any strong personal ties. They do it because it’s their duty and the right thing to do. Trevor even mirrors something which the elder Speaker told him; a family mantra that encompasses the very purpose of the Belmonts, dating back to Leon: “It’s not the dying that frightens us. It’s never having stood up and fought for you.”

Trevor’s healing journey does not end at this moment. He still has moments of hesitation where someone like Alucard has to forcibly remind him of his place as Belmont, saying he needs to choose whether he’s really the last of a long line of hunters or a drunkard. This leads to a fight sequence that nearly spans the length of an entire episode where Trevor further proves himself by taking on at least three different creatures all with varying degrees of strength, skill, and fortitude. Episode six of season two is the ideal example of not only Trevor’s determination but also his quick thinking. Moments such as him wrapping his cloak around his hand so that it doesn’t get cut while his sword slices through the throat of a minotaur or using a set of sticks to beat against an adversary when his whip is knocked away. Being a Belmont means using one’s intellect (no matter how unconventional it may seem) as well as one’s muscles.

There is also another albeit less violent instance at the start of season three where he still feels the need to hide his surname while in an unfamiliar village. Then there is the revelation that malicious stories about the Belmonts and their supposed demise still circulate amongst rural Wallachian communities. Yet despite coming from a family of old killers (a term Trevor uses before facing off against Death in the final season) his family name remains his strength and the weight of both the Vampire Killer and Morningstar whip keep him grounded rather than burden him. The Belmont name carries such weight throughout the series that by the end, there is strong consideration from Alucard of naming a new township nestled in the shadow of Dracula’s castle after that family.

Trevor deals with his pain and trauma quietly, almost numbing it with the assistance of alcohol and dodging the harder questions regarding what his family was really like. He still finds strength in remembering what the Belmonts are here for despite the tribulations that come with the family name. Hardships that continue and evolve nearly three hundred years later.

—

THE THINGS THAT MAKE ME WHO I AM: RICHTER BELMONT & STRENGTH FROM LOVE

Depending on what sort of mood you might find the author of this essay in, their favourite Castlevania game will vary. At the moment, it’s a three way tie between Symphony of the Night for its artistry, Lament of Innocence for its story and characterisation, and Aria of Sorrow for its evolved gameplay. However, one personal decision remains relatively consistent no matter the mood or time of day: Richter Belmont is the author’s favourite Belmont and the inclusion of him in the latest animated adaptation Castlevania: Nocturne has only cemented that fact.

It makes sense from both a narrative and marketing standpoint as to why we’ve suddenly gone from the events of Dracula’s Curse/Curse of Darkness depicted in the previous series all the way three hundred years later to Rondo of Blood . Narratively, Richter and his companion Maria Renard already have a direct link to Alucard through the events of Symphony , which Nocturne will most likely cover and be inspired by in its second season. Marketing wise while also appealing to the largest demographic possible (even those less familiar with the games), amongst more recurring characters like Dracula and Alucard, Richter is arguably one of the most recognisable Castlevania figures right down to his design.

Certain traits and visual motifs of other Belmonts have changed drastically over the years and with each iteration. Meanwhile, from Rondo and Symphony , to Harmony of Despair and the mobile game Grimoire of Souls , to finally Nocturne and the inclusion of Richter as a playable character in the fighting game Super Smash Bros Ultimate , specific elements of Richter never waver. This includes his blue colour scheme, his tousled brown hair, and his iconic white headband. All of which carry over in the first season of Nocturne which not only expands upon Richter’s character first established in Rondo of Blood but also further examines said character.

For example, Richter’s true introduction directly following the downer cold opening is without a doubt the farest cry from Trevor’s. While Trevor’s first scene acted as a sobering depiction of what happens when physically/mentally damaging coping mechanisms mix with unacknowledged grief, Richter’s first fight gets the audience’s blood pumping, complete with a triumphant musical score and a showcase of his skill with the Vampire Killer. Richter is cocky, but not reckless. He’s sarcastic, but not sullen like Trevor was. Because of his upbringing after the death of his mother, filled with positive affirmations, he values the wellbeing of others along with their fighting experience. Yet his confidence does not overshadow his acknowledgement of the family burden. Richter is well aware of how heavy the Belmont legacy and duty can weigh upon an individual’s shoulders along with how closely it can tie itself around a person’s life and their death—a reminder as well as memory which haunts him for nine years.

When Nocturne begins, its first major fight sequence takes place between Richter’s mother Julia Belmont (an original character for the show) and the vampire Olrox, an enemy taken from Symphony of the Night now reimagined as a seductive, complex Indigenous vampire on his own path towards vengeance against the very person who took away the one he loved most in this world—just one of many thematic parallels to the first series, this time referencing Dracula’s motives and justification for his grief. Just when it seems like Julia has the upper hand thanks to her magical prowess, Olrox transforms and ends her life in a swift yet brutal manner. All of which happens right before ten-year-old Richter’s eyes.

Julia was simply doing her duty as a vampire hunter and her life as a Belmont ended the same as most of her ancestors did: in battle while fighting for the life of another. Why then did it hurt Richter most of all? Why does it haunt him well into his early adult years? And why was it seemingly more so than how Trevor’s trauma haunted him? There are two probable answers to this, one being that Richter was only a child, directly confronted by the cause for his mother’s sudden and graphic death with no way of fighting back despite being a Belmont.

In the case of Trevor, although he was a few years older than Richter when his entire family and ancestral home were burned in front of his eyes presumably by the same people they were supposed to be defending, the circumstances which followed them afterwards are vastly different. For nine years Richter was surrounded by those who loved and cared for him whereas Trevor only had himself and the hoards of average Wallachians who hated him because of superstitious rumours and the church’s condemnation. Trevor had over a decade’s worth of experience in becoming desensitised to his pain and trauma, masking it beneath self deprecation and numbing it with alcohol. He wasn’t even aware of the fact that he was a deeply sad and lonely individual until Sypha pointed it out to him.

Despite his bravado and brighter personality than his ancestor, Richter is also an incredibly sad, hurt person who suffers somewhat from tunnel vision. He obviously has empathy and wants to protect people from monsters, vampires, and the like. More so than Trevor did during his introduction before his moment of self-made rehabilitation. However, he doesn’t seem to care much about the revolution itself or what it stands for. He attends Maria’s rally meetings but he doesn’t take active part in them, opting to stay back and keep a watch out for any vampire ambushes. He admits that he doesn’t really listen to Maria’s speeches about liberty, equality, and fraternity. And in the most prominent example of his disillusionment with fighting for a larger righteous cause, when given a revolutionary’s headband, he shoves it into his pocket and mumbles about how tired he is of everything.

This could be interpreted as defeatist if Richter wasn’t already trying so hard to uphold his family duty and maintain a level head. He needs to have a sense of control and almost achieves it until Olrox so casually confronts him in the middle of a battle which Richter and his friends seemed to be winning until they’re forced to flee close behind him. When Richter runs away and emotionally breaks down the moment he’s finally alone, it isn’t because he’s weak or cowardly. On a surface level, it was due to his fear and panic over not being able to face his mother’s killer (someone who has proven to be much, much stronger and more powerful than any Belmont). Yet it was also a form of harsh admission to himself. He couldn’t maintain that aforementioned sense of control and perhaps he never will, not where he is right now at least.

It isn’t until he’s reunited with his grandfather Juste Belmont (long thought to have died, leaving Richter as the final Belmont) that this negative mindset brought on by unresolved trauma begins to shift. In many ways, Juste is another callback to what happened with Trevor. He suffered an immense tragedy in the past and has since spent his entire life drifting from tavern to tavern, avoiding his own grandson and instead leaving him in the care of people far more capable of raising him and instilling better morals within the youngest Belmont.

Other mentor-esque characters appear in Nocturne such as Tera who raised Richter alongside her biological daughter Maria. There is also Cecile, the leader of a Maroon group which Annette joins after escaping slavery. Despite their individual pains, these two women maintain the hope that humanity can be changed and the evils of the world can be defeated. Meanwhile, Juste has thoroughly lost his own hope. He reveals to Richter that “evil will always win” because of how it permeates everything and is far stronger than any Belmont, even the most magically inclined members. No matter how many Draculas, Carmillas, or Lord Ruthvens are defeated, it will always find a way to creep back to the surface whether through the upper class of France or through the very colonisation that nearly wiped out Olrox’s people or enslaved Annette’s family.

One of the first things that Juste says to Richter directly references the sheer weight of the Belmont legacy, all of which culminates within the whip itself. This can also be a reference to the Vampire Killer carrying a living soul as Leon Belmont was only able to awaken its true power by sacrificing Sara Tarantoul. The whip has both a metaphorical and literal weight which the Belmonts must come to terms with.

Yet for Richter, family is maintained not through blood ties, which can easily die out or be abandoned because of generational trauma, but through the people we find and attach ourselves to. Under the immediate threat of losing his found family, all of Richter’s pain and anguish explodes when his magical powers violently return to him in one of the most visually impressive and cathartic moments of Nocturne season one, complete with an orchestral and operatic rendition of “Divine Bloodlines” taken straight from Rondo of Blood as he ties the same headband he nearly discarded earlier around his head. Then once the dust settles and Richter is asked by Juste how he managed to tap back into that great power, he simply responds with the most obvious answer he can come up with: there are people who love him and he loves them in return.

This is reiterated when Richter is reunited with Annette and describes the same revelation when she asks how he was able to regain his magic. Not just a mental revelation but for Richter, it was a physical sensation as well. Just when he believed he had lost everything, something reminded him of all the things worth protecting in his life and all the pain he’s had to endure.

Richter finally donning his iconic white headband is symbolic of not only his decision to actively join the French Revolution but also his revelation that the love he feels for Maria, Annette, and Tera is his own righteous cause. That, to him, is worth defending just as much if not more than the concept of a centuries old curse turned legacy.

—

SLAVES TO OUR FAMILIES' WISHES: CONCLUSION

Richter, both his game depiction and his recent Nocturne iteration, acts as a reflection and subversion of what a Belmont is along with what that family duty means to different members. Trevor found healing from his trauma through his duty. Richter found his healing through love. Of course Trevor loved Sypha and Alucard in his own way, but throughout the entire first series, from the moment he removed his cloak at the end of season one to standing up against Death in the finale, his driving motivation was always to preserve his family’s legacy despite his own shortcomings. The Belmonts were all but gone and Trevor had been exiled, excommunicated, and turned into a societal pariah. Had he given into despair and continued with his vagabond ways, who else would wield the Morningstar, the Vampire Killer, or any of the knowledge cultivated by previous Belmont generations?

But for Richter, family legacy is more of a nebulous concept. It gets mentioned in conversations and we see its varying effects on individuals, but even when Richter is reunited with Juste, the immediate priorities of his found family takes the place of his blood family. This, according to him, makes him a Belmont.

It is also important to consider that we are still only on the first season of Castlevania: Nocturne with season two having been renewed and in production merely a week after its initial premiere. With the reveal of Alucard as a last minute cliffhanger in the penultimate episode, it will be interesting to see how his own characterisation as well as his close tie with both the Belmonts and his own family burden will further develop especially after three hundred years within the show’s timeline. One of the biggest possibilities is that in contrast with his youthful brashness and instability that was the crux of his character in the first series, Alucard might serve as a sort of mentor figure or perhaps his own generational pain will bond him further to Richter and Maria, more so than he was in Symphony of the Night . Then there is the question of whether Richter in the midst of the apparent losses he suffered during the finale of season one will follow down the same path that his video game counterpart did.

In 2020, the author wrote another Castlevania -centric essay which detailed the visual, thematic, and aesthetical shifts of the franchise from its inception during the 1980s all the way to the 2017 adaptation through focusing on how these changes affected Alucard. By the end of that essay, it was mentioned that despite the show being renewed for at least one more season, the overall future of Castlevania remained unknown. This is still the case for now.

Though one can make educated assumptions and theories, there’s no way of knowing what sort of direction season two of Nocturne will take with its themes and characters. This is doubly true for the games themselves. Despite the anticipated releases of the Silent HIll 2 and Metal Gear Solid Delta: Snake Eater remakes, as of now Konami has not revealed any official decisions to remake, rerelease, or produce new Castlevania titles. One can hope that due to the success of both shows along with the anticipation for Silent Hill and Metal Gear Solid remakes that something new will be in store for Castlevania in the near future.

Castlevania , both its games and animation adaptations, prove that there is a place in this world for every kind of story. In the last episode of season one airing in July 2017, Alucard states what could very well be the thesis of the entire franchise: “We are all, in the end, slaves to our families’ wishes”. Yet even if we cannot escape the narrative we’ve been latched onto or, for dramatic purposes, cursed with, there are ways in which we can combat it and forge our own healing process.

—

MEDIA REFERENCED

Castlevania (1986)

Castlevania II: Simon’s Quest (1987)

Castlevania III: Dracula’s Curse (1989)

Castlevania: Rondo of Blood (1993)

Castlevania Legends (1997)

Castlevania: Symphony of the Night (1997)

Castlevania: Aria of Sorrow (2003)

Castlevania: Lament of Innocence (2003)

Castlevania: Curse of Darkness (2005)

Castlevania: Lords of Shadow (2011)

Castlevania (2017—2021)

Castlevania: Nocturne (2023—)

#castlevania #castlevania netflix #castlevania nocturne #trevor belmont #richter belmont #leon belmont #castlevania symphony of the night #my writing #god its been so long since i wrote an actual essay pls be gentle with me.....

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drabbles-mc · 5 months

Text

For the Record

Javier Peña x GN!Reader

For @pickled-pena's writing challenge!: resolutions, pickle/jar of pickles, "You stand there and accuse me, but where were you at the time?"

Warnings: 18+, language, mentions of injuries, angst/arguments

Word Count: 2.2k

A/N: This was such a fun challenge! Thank you to the mods for putting it together! It's also been a while since I've written for Javi so that was a treat too haha. Happy New Year, y'all! xo

Narcos Taglist: @garbinge @winchestershiresauce @sizzlingcloudmentality @panagiasikelia @616wilsons @hauntedforsst @mirabee @boomclapxox @nessamc @supersanelyromantic @padbrookcottage @mysun-n-stars @raincoffeeandfandoms @justreblogginfics @ashlingnarcos @proceduralpassion @artemiseamoon @narcolini @hausofmamadas @cositapreciosa @il0vebeingdelulu (If you want to be added to any of my taglists, please let me know!)

You were standing in the kitchen, holding the refrigerator door open as you looked inside it for the fifth time since you’d gotten home less than an hour before. No new food had appeared there in that span of time but you still kept coming back to check anyway just in case. You weren’t even actually hungry, although you should’ve been with how hectic the day had been and the fact that it led you to not being able to eat anything since your coffee and half of a pastry on the way to base that morning.

If you had still been back home, you would just be enjoying No Man’s Week—that week between Christmas and New Year’s when not much of anything gets done by anyone even if they have the best intentions. But you weren’t home. So instead of staying home and ditching work completely, or sitting in an office pretending to work but really getting nothing of the sort done, you had been running around the streets of Medellín trying to catch Escobar’s men and trying not to get shot in the process. Much less relaxing.

Along with your day being the opposite of relaxing, you also weren’t successful in either of the things that you had set out to do. The information that you’d been gathering had gotten you pretty far, but not quite far enough. The member of Pablo’s team that you’d been tracking for weeks slipped through your grasp, although it wasn’t without a fight. That much was evident because of the bullet that had gone clean through your bicep, and the other that had buried itself in your tac-vest. It was not a successful day.

Now, on top of your day being unsuccessful, everything else was infinitely more difficult to do when you only had full use of one arm and hand, and of course it wasn’t your dominant one. You should’ve taught yourself to be ambidextrous.

Then, as if all of that wasn’t enough salt rubbed into your very fresh wounds, you were about to make a final decision on what was going to pass for a very sad dinner when the lock flipped on the apartment door. You heard the click and you let out a sigh purely out of reflex as you let go of the fridge door to let it fall shut. Your jaw was clenched tight as you heard the apartment door swing open and quickly slam shut. Dramatic. He was always so dramatic.

“What the fuck was that?” he said as he started to storm into the kitchen.

You turned around to face him, your face as neutral as you could manage it. “Lock the door, Javi,” you instructed, purposely ignoring the question he’d just thrown at you.

He froze for a moment, hesitating. It took a second for him to process what you’d said, realizing that you weren’t giving him the argument that he’d been gearing up for the entire drive back to your place. He obliged, albeit begrudgingly. He was shaking his head the whole time, about two seconds away from stomping his foot like a toddler in the midst of his tantrum.

“Well?” he dove right back into it once the lock was in place.

“Well, what?” you asked, tone even as you turned back around to the fridge to open the door again, this time just to have an excuse not to look at him.

“You know what.” He wasn’t yelling, too exhausted for that, but even with how low his voice was it still held plenty of anger, still sharp enough to feel like it was cutting you. You heard his footsteps behind you even as you kept your eyes glued to the inside of the refrigerator. When he spoke up again you could practically feel his breath against the back of your neck. “You never should’ve been out there alone.”

You refused to turn around and look at him. “Some things can’t wait. You of all fucking people should know that. Plus it’s not like I didn’t try to get you to go with me, but no,” you dragged out that last word to twist the knife a little more. “Only you’re allowed to do that apparently.”

He scoffed. “What’s that supposed—”

“Don’t,” you cut him off, your laugh cruel enough to put you on even footing in the argument. “Don’t insult either of us by finishing that question.”

There was nothing in your fridge that would even come close to constituting a meal. You’d been living on takeout for the last few weeks because of how hectic everything had been. No time to grocery shop and definitely no energy left to cook. But you didn’t want to leave your apartment now that you were home, so you were just going to suffer through by grazing on the scraps that you had. You reached for the nearest jar on the refrigerator door, grabbing it with the one hand you still had full use of.

Javi watched as you side-stepped your way out of being boxed in by him. You moved to the side and set the jar on the counter, and Javi waited a second before he moved right along with you, trapping you between him and the counter now instead of the fridge.

As much as Javi wanted to plead ignorance, he knew exactly what you were talking about. It wasn’t something you brought up often, saving it for times when you needed a good card to play. This was one of those times. He was angry about it but he’d done it to himself in a way—he knew that. He tried to come to his own defense. “That’s not the same. You know that. What I did—”

“Was fucking reckless,” you snapped, slamming the jar down on the counter, not hard enough to break it, but hard enough to make both you and Javi flinch. You tightened your grip on the lid, not even trying to open the damn thing, just trying to channel all of your anger and exhaustion into something that would cause minimal damage. “You can’t stand there and be pissy at me for what I did today when your track record is what it is. It’s not,” you scoffed, “it’s not even fucking close.”

“You got fuckin’ shot!”

You turned around to face him, stanced up like you were ready to fight despite the fact that you were bandaged up and strapped down in a sling, a last-ditch effort from the doctors to try and remind you not to move your arm if you could help it. “And you got Steve fuckin’ kidnapped!”

Javi flinched at the accusation, the truth of it stinging just as much as the rest of it. “It’s not—”

“And, for the record,” you turned back around and set back to work on opening the jar on the counter, “I tried to fucking tell you. You didn’t wanna hear it. You didn’t think that I had anything. So don’t stand there and act like I just up and out of the blue decided to go rogue. I tried to make sure someone had my back and you bailed on me.”

You didn’t touch him. You weren’t even looking at him and yet he found himself taking a step backwards like you’d shoved him with both hands. “Hey.”

“No,” you refused to turn around and look at him, dedicated to the tear that you were about to go on, “no don’t give me that. You feel shitty about it? Good. You should feel shitty. Because it didn’t have to go down like that today. You wanna come in here and yell at me and say that I was acting stupid and reckless and I just—you didn’t leave me any other choice!” You tried and failed to twist the lid on the jar, only adding to the frustration that was stacking endlessly on your shoulders. “You stand there and accuse me of all this shit, but where were you at the time? What else was so promising that you just fucking hung me out to dry?”

“If you knew I couldn’t be there then you should never have gone out on your own.”

“But you could’ve been there! You were supposed to be there!” You wanted to throw your hands up in exasperation and you couldn’t. You turned around to look at him, hating that you could feel the tears in your eyes. “You promised. You can’t just treat your promises to me like, like the bullshit excuses you give our boss. They’re not just some red tape you have to find a way around. You owe me more than that.”

He frowned, the response that he’d been building up in his head evaporating completely the more he listened to you, not just to your words but to the sadness in your voice, the dejection. He never wanted to make you feel like that. Until recently he hadn’t ever been in the position to make someone feel that way—his relationships never unfolded the way that yours had.

He still wasn’t ready to spit out an apology, though.

“I don’t think they’re red tape,” he finally said. He took a deep breath as he reached around you and took the jar off the counter.

“Javi—”

“Let me finish,” he stopped you before you got on another tirade. He easily twisted and popped the lid off the jar you’d been struggling with before setting it back down on the counter. Neither of you commented on it. “I should’ve listened back then. But you didn’t say a damn word to me today once we left here. I had no idea where you were until I heard a call on the radio saying you got fuckin’ shot.”

“Would you have even shown up?”

“How can you ask me that?”

“Because you blew me off once.”

“In a fuckin’ meeting! In a conference room! I would never—” he stopped short, getting himself together. “No one goes out alone like that.” He paused, hurt crossing over his expression for a moment. “I don’t let you go out alone like that.”

If you hadn’t been so exhausted, you would’ve had more angry things to say. More cutting comments to make. But as it stood, you just wanted the day to be over with, wanted the argument to be over with or at least paused. There would be plenty of time tomorrow to keep hashing it out after a decent night’s sleep. You were trying to figure out a way to say all of that when the sound of your stomach growling cut through the tense silence of the apartment.

You sighed, about to cobble together a sentence of some kind when Javi spoke up for you. “Eat. Get some energy to yell at me more later.”

Despite the exhaustion and the stress, you managed a smile. “Tha—”

“That all you’ve had today?” he asked.

“Not really,” you said, your tone markedly different than it had been a few moments before, “but sort of, yeah.”

“I don’t think pickles count as dinner after the day you had.”

“Well,” you reached into the jar with your good hand and carefully pulled one out, “I don’t think that you brought home dinner.” You took a bite of it. “So this is gonna have to do.”

“I can run out and grab something,” he offered, not quite an olive branch but something close.

You appreciated the offer but you still shook your head no. “It’s fine. We’re both home. Let’s just…yeah.”

He knew that he should’ve fought you on it, gone out and gotten something more passable for dinner anyway despite your protest, but he didn’t. Of all the arguments the two of you were bound to get into, he didn’t think it was worth it to make this one of them.

“We gotta get better about cooking,” he said as he stepped over, reaching in and taking a pickle out of the jar.

You let out a tired laugh. “Next year, maybe.”

He chuckled and shook his head. “Thought you didn’t do resolutions?”

“I don’t. But, you know, still sounds good.” You paused for a brief moment. “Yours should be to listen to me more.” There was no real malice behind it, almost like it was a real piece of advice.

He took it as such as he leaned back against the counter beside you, studying your sling, your face, your everything. “You alright?”

It wasn’t funny, per se, but you still had to laugh at the fact that it took you both this long to get to the point in the conversation where he was asking you that. Typically that’s the first thing someone asks when they hear you got shot.

“I will be,” you told him truthfully.

You leaned, letting your head drop against his shoulder. You let out a deep sigh, one that he mirrored soon after. Part of you felt like maybe there was something else that you should be saying, but when you felt the kiss that he pressed to the side of your head, you figured that whatever was left to say could wait until later.

#pickledpena #pickledpeña writing challenge #pickledpeña #javier peña #javier pena #narcos #narcos fanfiction #javier pena x you #javier pena x reader #x reader #x reader fic #javier pena fanfiction #javier peña x reader #javier peña x you #my writing #fanfiction #drabblesmc

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coldresolve · 17 days

Text

Moneymakers, pt.xlvi // The Silence

Previous / AO3 / Wattpad / Masterlist / Next

Renee follows the departure out the corner of his eye, sees the figure melt into the darkness of the hallway. He hears the door to Davin’s room go, the low click of the lock. An audible draft seeps in from where the window used to be, the occasional whisper through invisible gaps between the plywood panel and the frame, or the crinkling of the plastic sheet.

Tremors muddy the movement of his hands, but he still manages to painstakingly pull the shirt over his head, using the fabric to wipe the brunt of the blood off the lower half of his face. The taste of it is nauseating, that metallic sweetness. A faint pulsing at the bridge of his nose is a millisecond out of sync from the one in his elbow. Different distances from the heart.

Mouth-breathing, goosebumps rising over his naked torso as the chill air of the kitchen washes over him. Dried sweat itching along his hairline. His face feels warm, vision still sailing, and the house is eerily quiet in the aftermath of what just happened. The sort of silence that makes the sound of his recovering, ragged breathing carry. It’s out of place. Doesn’t belong.

Pushing himself up with his good arm, Renee staggers, and immediately has to catch himself on the edge of the table when his rattled sense of balance nearly makes him trip over his own feet. He stumbles through the warm light of the kitchen, shouldering open the bathroom door. The lights make him squint, and even that small movement sends a lingering jab through the center of his face. His reflection in the mirror looks foreign, and he can only focus on one element at a time, never manages to get the full picture. The blood still leaking out of either nostril, sliding over his upper lip, dripping. The fucking taste. The goddamn fucking taste.

Setting the cartilage straight reinvigorates the bleeding, and whenever he tries to block the flow with pressure, it hurts bad enough for him to see stars. Ten or so minutes are spent frozen, eyes fixed on the red that steadily creeps down the drain, until the flow begins to ebb out. Then he washes his face with cold water, carefully rubs dried flakes from his skin.

With the water still running, Renee props an elbow on the edge of the sink, resting his forehead against his arm. The shout aching to burst out of his lungs is halted by the pain in his throat. All that escapes is a groan, equally as strange as his appearance. It doesn’t belong. This isn’t him.

Five, six months of his life spent preparing to chase a fever dream that crumbled the moment reality started to set in, lured along by a guy who couldn’t care less if Renee threw himself off a cliff. And there’s rage in all that, of course there is, but beneath it - something worse. A bottleneck, a smothering pressure that feels like it’s coming from all sides at once. Makes his stomach churn.

Dread.

Uncertain steps trace back to his bedroom. Sinking down next to the bed, he leans his back against the frame, hand automatically clutching at the ache in his arm, thumb driving into his bicep. He leans his head back, exposing his neck, and hopes, at some level, that the blade of the guillotine would just hurry up and drop already. It’s been teasing for far too long.

Renee’s eyes close. Small dull sounds of the foundation settling, mingled with the ringing in his ears, the feeling that his body is rolling, wavering. There’s a kaleidoscope in the dark, faint across his eyelids. Churning thoughts that hardly go anywhere, but simultaneously span his entire lifetime.

A clarity of sorts, but it hurts to consider. Physically hurts – it accentuates the pain in his throat for some reason, makes his head reel. Makes him sweat and shiver at the same time.

Why is the house so quiet?

It is mourning in advance.

He opens his eyes to the sight of a blank ceiling. The air leaves his chest slowly through gritted teeth, a grimace that has yet to veer into real resolution – and probably never will.

But he still gets up.

💵

00:02

Leaving his phone to charge on a side table, Renee filters rather methodically through the trash in his room, laying everything he might consider keeping on the bed. It predictably ends up taking hours. He tries to snort a line just to keep his energy up, but it turns out to be impossible with a busted nose. So he rubs it on his gums instead, which is gross as hell, the sort of taste you have to spend a few minutes washing down with lemon-flavored tonic water, but it works, so he repeats that ritual continuously, every time he starts to come down.

Once he’s done, it looks like an explosion went off in his room. All drawers out, all closets open, every box opened. Clean and dirty clothes lazily discarded on the floor, piles of knickknacks, cans, and half-full bottles of alcohol, used dishes, empty paper bags. He’s pretty sure he has managed to get this far without making too much noise. Standing back with a sigh, his eyes loosely scan the mess, before he finally moves to the clutter on the bed. A clutter that is four times the size of his backpack.

Some sacrifices have to be made.

Renee winces at that thought.

The stash is the first thing he dumps in. A fresh set of clothes, an empty water bottle, a power bank. Then his laptop – before he immediately changes his mind. Evidence. He fishes it back out, and goes scavenging throughout the house, steps as quiet as he can make them.

Passing Davin’s room, he stops in his tracks and carefully pushes the handle down, slowly enough that the individual clicks of the spring can be heard. It’s locked – he knew it was locked, he heard it. He’s not entirely sure why he even tried.

The drill, he finds upstairs on the floor next to one of the spotlights, the bit still sporting trace amounts of blood in its threads. Pulling the trigger produces a lazy whir, weak and low no matter how hard he clutches it.

The charger for the battery is nowhere to be seen. Half an hour, forty-five minutes of rifling through bags and black containers of equipment, cables and various small electronic devices, soldering wire and plugs, most of it is just Davin’s gear. When Renee finally spots his dad’s old tool case behind a stack of cardboard boxes, he thinks the search is done. But the tool case, too, leaves him empty handed, and then he has to curb the impulse to kick its contents across the floor.

Sneering at the room, pacing as well as he can muster without triggering a creak of the floorboards. His hands are shaking again.

Deep breath.

💵

03:15.

A thin, wet layer of greyish white covers the patio by now, squished so thoroughly under his shoes, he leaves a series of dark prints in his wake. Snowfall across the pitch black sky gives the impression that the air is cushioned. All the sounds are blunt, apart from the melt-off that drips from the gutters.

The light in the small shed on the side of the house flickers briefly to reveal a neatly organized space, in which the dust has been left to collect for, as far as Renee is aware, a year and a half, at the very least. The mower parked in the back, surrounded by steel shelves of lawncare and pesticides, a few cans of gasoline, gardening tools, tubs of grainy fertilizer, plastic bags of different types of soil. Despite his mother’s occasional interest in flowers, Renee knows most of this stuff has only ever been touched by the gardeners. He clanks around different cabinets until he finally, finally finds the drill charger, stocked up behind boxes of other handheld power tools. Plugging it into a wall outlet, he clicks the battery in. For a few seconds, he stands back, locking eyes with the small blinking light, silently daring it to cause another problem. Much to his surprise, it doesn’t.

Rubbing his forehead with his knuckles, he fishes out a cigarette, igniting it under the hum of the fluorescent lights. The smoke mixes with the vapor of his breath, hanging still in the air just underneath the low ceiling. Deep breath. He pulls out his phone.

Can we talk?

yes

The cigarette trembles slightly between his fingers. Deep breath. Deep breath.

you dontt owe me anything laz

Wincing, Renee nestles the knuckle of his free hand between his front teeth, biting down until it feels like the skin breaks. Stops himself, pulls his hand away again, flexing his fingers. A minute passes, then another. No reply comes to alleviate the dark feeling that’s slowly settling in his gut. Lazarus keeps his phone open through the night, he’s never been slow to respond. Five minutes, and the cigarette is burned to the filter. Is Renee reading too much into the silence? Definitely.

What other choice does he have?

He lights another smoke.

💵

04:11.

Reason tells him to eat something for the sake of energy, but as night turns to early morning, Renee finds himself unable to concentrate enough to do anything about it. There are a dozen holes in the hard drive, a folding knife in his pocket, and his backpack is ready to go. Exhaustion wears him down like a heavy weight, and yet he still can’t settle. He paces the open kitchen silently, finds himself compulsively whispering nonsense. Replays of past conversations that should’ve gone differently, or the ones he’s about to have. All devolve into subdued hissing eventually, and he has to force himself to stop, to inhale once or twice through gritted teeth, until something new invariably pops into his head, and the cycle repeats itself.

The nonstop agitation tires him out further. Renee retreats into his room, spends god knows how long sitting on the bed with his back to the wall, hands filtering through his hair, breathing heavily through the quiet. Conrad is probably sedated, he realizes. Bad trips don’t usually go unnoticed, and yet all night, Renee hasn’t heard a peep.

And that nausea again, like a hand wrapped around his stomach, mounting the pressure.

His phone dings as he’s sitting there. Unmoving, but his back tenses up. Fatigue is what finally allows him to pick it up – he finds himself struggling to care if the hole he’s in is about to sink further.

My place. Call me before you take off, bc I have some errands to run. That ok?

Renee swallows. The small indent in the side of his phone is rough against the notches of his fingerprint. Taking a deep breath, he types a proper response, only to immediately delete it. Another two, three minutes, he just stares silently at the screen, until he manages to hit send on mere acknowledgement.

yea

He lets the phone dump back on the mattress, folds his arms over his knees. Stares into the blackness of his room, eyes unfocused. Breathing hurts. It’s going to hurt for a while.

Hours, maybe, of waiting in the distance. He crashes eventually, and he’s too lazy to get off the bed and mitigate it. Heaviness drags at his limbs, the way his posture sags, body leaning into sheer exhaustion. Along comes a more pronounced ache in his body, the final release of the anesthetic qualities of cocaine. His mood doesn’t drop, for some reason – Renee reckons it simply can’t. Once or twice, he dozes off, still sitting there folded over, and only returns when he has to suddenly catch himself from not falling sideways on the bed.

And then, eventually – a sign of life.

A faint, indiscernible sound behind the wall his back is pressed against. Barely noticeable, but present enough that Renee lifts his head. The following quiet lasts long enough that he becomes sure he hallucinated it, until he hears a door go, and casual footsteps pass by in the hallway.

He checks his phone.

06:45, exactly.

Something in his throat feels as though it has swollen over the course of the night; there’s an obstruction as he tries to swallow. Slowly, he untangles himself from his position. The fatigue doesn’t melt away, exactly, but he finds a new rush of adrenaline spike. He picks up the backpack, checks his pockets. Puts on his shoes, his jacket.

There’s a moment where Renee locks in place in the middle of the chaos he has created in his room, staring at nothing. Shoulder poised to carry the weight of his belongings as his mind drifts into empty air. He doesn’t recognize it as doubt until he finds himself reassuring himself, to a debatable reward, that this is necessary.

Once he finally shakes out of it, he casts one final glance around the room, forcing emptiness. He opens the door silently, steps slow as he traces down the hallway.

The kettle is rising to its peak as he rounds the corner to the kitchen; a cabinet closes. Davin’s hair is down, one half trailing down his back as the other obscures his face. He doesn’t look up, even as Renee makes an effort to make his movements audible over the noise. Just calmly measures out two teaspoons of instant coffee,

Renee stops a few feet from the fridge, clearing his throat.

Davin still doesn’t look up. As the kettle beeps, he takes it, casually pouring into his mug. The steam swirls in front of his face. “Rought night, hm?” he mutters. “You’re not very subtle.”

Renee feels his upper lip curl. He shifts his grip on his backpack, and it’s only then that Davin looks at him.

Immediately, he pauses, any hint of casual humor gone from his face as his eyes trail from Renee’s face to the backpack, back again. His expression doesn’t darken, exactly, but it does go blank, and he sets the kettle down on the counter.

Renee takes a deep breath through his nose, pursing his lips. “I—.” He blinks, biting down the urge to cough as his voice gives out. He hadn’t expected speaking to become more painful than it was in the immediate aftermath of the hit. Grimacing, his eyes flicker to the floor as he collects himself. Another deep breath, and an attempt to swallow back the obtrusion in his throat without fully succeeding. Gritting his teeth, he forces it out, raspy and uneven. “I quit.”

Davin keeps looking at him for a long time with that same serious expression, before his gaze trails to the fridge, then down to the kettle. Dark hair fall down from behind his shoulder, hiding his expression entirely.

“Keep the rest of my half,” Renee croaks out. “I don’t give a fuck, I just never want to see you again.”

There’s not much of a reaction, but Renee is tense as he watches Davin’s thumb absentmindedly running down the handle of his coffee cup. Realistically, the silence doesn’t last more than ten seconds, but it feels like an eternity.

Finally, Davin’s hand wraps around the mug, balanced between his fingers. “I could live with that,” he mutters. As he takes a sip, he shoots Renee a sideways glance, one brow raised. “It was worth a shot, mh?”

The urge to scream, or at the very least throw something substantial. It turns into a full sneer. Renee clutches the strap of his backpack hard, gesturing around the room with his free hand. “Just burn it down,” he growls.

Davin nods.

Letting out a huff, Renee turns on his heel, heading for the entrance, movements stiff as he curbs the impulse to destroy anything within arm’s reach.

“Renee.”

But Renee has no intention of listening to whatever bullshit the man has to say for his parting words. He rips open the front door, lets it rebound behind him as he rushes past the threshold, met by a subsequent gust of cold air. The dim light of the dawn illuminates sparse snow drifting across the front lawn he bee-lines across. Heavy breathing marked by the prick of snowflakes in his throat, strangely welcome as a distraction for turmoil. He opens and shuts the door of the Clio with a similar careless aggression, ignoring the creaking of a spring in the front wheel as he ducks in, tossing the backpack to the passenger seat.

The frozen engine struggles to revive itself at the turn of the key, but the wipers easily brush off the thin layer of white covering the windshield. Snow is illuminated in the cones of the headlights, creating the illusion that it falls much heavier than it actually does.

Renee hits the side of the steering wheel once, before he yanks the car into first gear, grimacing at the jolt of pain in his arm. His foot eases on the clutch, and the car begins to move.

He doesn’t think about Conrad.

He doesn’t think.

Previous / Masterlist / Next

#writing #moneymakers #renee #davin #annual mm update boys #im trying so hard not to say ANYTHING about whats coming lmfao

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sunnynwanda · 8 months

Text

Uccellino

"So that's who you are!" Hero exclaims, stepping out of the shadows behind Villain with their mask in hand. How the hell did you get into my lair?

"Excuse me?" Is all Villain mutters, not turning around because of the lack of said mask on their face. They didn't bother wearing it at home, mostly for comfort, but also because Hero never dared to sneak into their lair.

"When you said your job was unconventional, I imagined a lot of things, but none of them included you battling me bi-weekly, Uccellino." The use of the nickname given to them by their lover stills the blood in their veins. Did Hero take them? Hurt them?

"What the hell are you talking about?" They snarl, fingers curling into fists.

"You still haven't figured it out?" Hero's voice is cheerful and, to be fair, painfully familiar when they speak softly instead of the usual anger-fueled snaps. "For a genius of a villain, you sure are quite slow, amore."

Villain froze. They could feel their heart pounding against their ribcage in an uneven rhythm. This could not be true. They could not be Hero. Not when Villain finally found someone they connected with so easily. So quickly. Come to think of it, that should have alerted them. They clicked too fast. Hell, they started living together after the third date!

Villain turned to face Hero, noting the satisfied grin on their handsome face. That damned enchanting smile that left no choice for them but to agree to a date. Just one, Villain had thought. What could go wrong?

When they had arrived for their first date, Villain expected to be bored within the first fifteen minutes. They ended up spending the entire night stargazing and telling stories from their childhood. The second time Hero asked them out was when they were ordering breakfast the next morning. Villain's mouth was full, and Hero had taken their silence as a yes and smiled. They couldn't find it in them to refuse after being graced with that smile. Not while they were battling the urge to grab their face and kiss those plush lips.

Needless to say, their second date ended with a heated makeout session in a closed art gallery that left Villain breathless and not minding a third date. They were too lovesick to realise it was moving all too fast. Hero had asked them over. They made a delicious dinner together and were supposed to watch a movie, a mutual favourite.

Well, they didn't get to that movie after they accidentally kissed Hero, who took the prompt, pinning them to the nearest wall and kissing them senseless. Senseless it was. Their entire relationship could be described by that word alone. They never got to leave that day, spending the night and the subsequent morning in Hero's bed. And the next night. Only ten days later did they realise they hadn't slept at home for almost two weeks.

They meet Hero's unwavering (and fond) gaze. "Did you know?"

"You mean from the start?" Villain nods tightly. Their head is spinning, but Hero has no business knowing that. "Of course not."

"Then why?" They question with a flat expression, and Hero isn't sure if they want to slap them or kiss their worries away.

"Then why what? Why did I ask you out?" Villain nods again. Hero rakes a hand through their hair to keep them busy and away from their favourite cretino. "I don't know, maybe 'cause I was attracted to you. Did that never cross your mind, amore?"

"Stop calling me that!" They finally snap, and Hero is thankful for the emotion. Now they know it wasn't an elaborate corruption plan on either side.

"I will call you whatever I feel like calling you." They claim smug as ever, taking a step towards their lover. Villain draws back a bit.

"Get out of my house!" They command, pressing their lips into a thin line. The demand is met with a look of utter resolution. "You have no power over me, Hero."

"You sure about that?" Hero almost purrs, sending a shiver down Villain's smile.

They reach them in two long strides, grasping their wrists and pressing them to their sides before Villain can react. Not that Villain could react while pressed flush against Hero's body with their lips within reach. Their gaze flicks down to Villain's lips, and that is all it takes for them to throw every inhibition out the window and crush their mouth against Hero's smiling one. Their now free hands move the mask away from Hero's face, discarding it on the floor. When they finally part, Hero's lips are red, swollen and smiling brightly. Villain can't help but reciprocate it with an equally giddy grin when Hero nuzzles into their neck, whispering softly.

"Cause you sure have power over me, Uccellino."

Masterlist

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ikroah · 1 year

Text

Pistol packin' mama, lay that thing down before it goes off and hurts somebody! —“Pistol Packin’ Mama,” Bing Crosby (1943)

It Keeps Right On a-Hurtin’ #24 - Ring-a-Ding-Ding III

Collaborative Issue! Guest Artist: @yesjejunus

«« First | « Previous || Next » | Last »»

Read IKROAH on Archive of Our Own

Notes / Original Pencils / Transcript:

Notes:

Oh noooooooooooo :(

These pages might get shrunken a little by Tumblr for some reason so either right-click to view at full-size or just read it on AO3 at the link above. And give a round of applause to my wonderful and wonderfully talented friend @yesjejunus who returns to guest art duty with this new issue, which is just another car crashing into the pile-up that is happening to Agnes in the closing half of Volume 2. Issue #25 will be all of my own art again, and I've been working for a long time on reinventing the look, feel, and production of IKROAH's artstyle so I hope you'll all be as excited as I am. Some really big things are about to happen.

Original Pencils

Here's another reason why mr. jejunus deserves a round of applause: patience. I talk often about how IKROAH is a very long-term project but this issue marks the longest collaboration in the history of the comic: the original pencils for this issue were drawn in August 2021. This was also when yesjejunus and I first discussed him doing guest art for this issue, and it would have been a lot sooner, of course, but you know, things (like months of burnout) can just happen. By the time this issue was finally next in the queue, I had committed to increasing the resolution of IKROAH's pages just to ease my own production, but these pencils were still formatted for the old size. I had to reformat these pencils for the new size and aspect ratio.

The tumblr editor keeps crashing every time I try to include them, so here's links instead: [1] [2] [3].

The thing about working with yesjejunus on comic issues like this is that at this point we're so deep in each other's heads that I barely even need to give him feedback. He understands the assignment completely because we're both sickos pressed against each other's brain-windows going "Yes…ha ha ha…yes!" and drooling. It's the kind of friendship as well as creative partnership that you really just treasure.

Transcript

INT. BENNY'S BEDROOM, THE TOPS CASINO, NEW VEGAS.

AGNES SANDS stares down, exhausted, at BENNY, the leader of the Chairmen and the man who shot her in the head.

BENNY does not stare back. He is dead. His eyes have rolled up lifelessly and blood is oozing from the gruesome wound in his skull.

AGNES looks away.

Suddenly—

SFX: KNOCK KNOCK

VOICE FROM OUTSIDE (off): Hey, Ben-man! Everything alright in there?

AGNES jerks up in surprise. She searches her surroundings frantically, looking for a way out. The gun that she shot BENNY with—the gun that BENNY shot her with—is still in her hand. She sees a side door, barely ajar, leading out of BENNY'S BEDROOM with a dim light coming from behind it.

AGNES sprints forward, her arm outstretched to shove open the door, and barges in. Then she freezes in her tracks. In front of her is a large and ambulatory machine, with claw-like arms and a computer monitor in its center. The monitor displays an unchanging vector of a happily smiling face. It speaks.

THE MACHINE: Hello! I'm Yes Ma—

AGNES raises the gun with both hands and fires repeatedly, her eyes wide and mouth agape in terror. She empties it of every single other bullet that was left in it.

THE MACHINE (shorting out): I-I'm sorry…!!

THE MACHINE crumples from the repeated shots, which shatter its monitor-face like a glass window and send it falling backwards. Its robotic corpse snaps and cracks with electricity and malfunctioning hardware as AGNES remains stunned in the doorway.

SFX: KNOCK KNOCK

AGNES looks up as BENNY'S men pound harder on the door to the suite.

VOICE FROM OUTSIDE (off): Benny! We heard shots! We're coming in!

AGNES drops the gun and flees through the hallway's secret private elevator.

VOICE FROM OUTSIDE (off): Oh, shit, somebody iced 'im! Get security!

#fallout #fallout new vegas #fnv #courier six #agnes sands #benny gecko #yes man #ikroah archive #volume 02 #24

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la-fille-en-aiguilles · 2 years

Text

Deadmen Got No Luck

Steve Harrington x Henderson!Female!Reader

With your eyes set on killing Vecna and protecting the ones you love, you’re a woman on a mission. But - of course - everything spins out of control when you come face to face with Henry slash Vecna slash One, losing more than you bargained for. Inspired by Saint PHNX, “Deadmen” and by the wonderful human being that is Joe Keery.

Warnings: Angst. A/N: Look at me, hashing out 2 fics in one week? This is 100% an AU and a product of my crazy imagination. Also a bit of a rewrite of the end of Season 4 with the reader inserted. There’s going to be more parts that nobody asked for - it’s happening anyway. Thank you for reading in advance! Gif not mine.

When you auditioned for the cheerleading squad 3 years ago, at the final round of selections, Chrissy Cunningham asked you a question.

“What’s your weakness, Henderson?”

An easy enough question, which didn’t take you more than 5 seconds to answer.

“I’m too stubborn for my own good”, you said, without batting an eye.

Even now, as you’re pouring kerosene in one glass bottle after another, passing the half-finished weapons to Steve to seal, there is an unyielding stubbornness about you that doesn’t allow you to be scared. As Robin mentions Vecna’s-slash-Henry’s-slash-One’s name, a wave of courage rises inside your chest against all common sense.

Who wouldn’t be afraid of an inter dimensional psycho - who has probably been dropped often as a child - on a warpath against the entire world as you know it?

“I have this terrible, gnawing feeling… That it might not work for us this time”, Robin says, her deep blue eyes emanating nervousness that doesn’t shock you anymore - it has long since established its home there. Her gaze switches between you and Steve, and while Steve puts down the bottle he is holding, you continue pouring kerosene into the Molotov cocktail, the stubbornness winning, yet again.

“You think we shouldn’t be doing this?” Steve’s expression grows concerned, as he frowns at Robin, before stealing a quick glance at you.

“I think we’re mad fools, the lot of us”, Robin speaks slowly, looking between you and Steve, as she picks up the bottle and stuffs a piece of cloth in its neck. “But if we don’t stop him, who will?”

She bites down on her bottom lip and turns away from Steve and you to put the bottle on the ground.

“We have to try,” you voice what’s on everyone’s mind, in a tone that doesn’t warrant a discussion. Instinctively, your gaze drifts to Steve’s face, and your eyes lock.

There’s something heartbreaking in those deep brown irises as he nods; the sound of Eddie’s shenanigans and kids’ amused chuckles wrapping around the two of you like thick fog. Your own eyes soften as you catch Steve committing your every single trait to memory; he doesn’t blink as he studies your face, the stray hairs that escaped your messy bun framing your cheeks. Your heart aches at the sight of his stare turning glassy.

“Yeah”, he manages, still unblinking, his voice breaking. Before you can realise what you’re doing, you find his hand with yours and squeeze it, even just for a fleeting moment.

The knowing look Robin gives the pair of you is entirely lost on you and Steve. Her lips stretch in a saddest of smiles as she drops her head; it’s Harrington’s voice that invites her into the little safe space Steve and you have created for yourselves; even just for a minute.

“To killing Vecna”, he says, a ghost of smile adorning his full lips. He stretches out a bottle, leaning over to you and Robin, so you can join him in a celebration of a sinister common purpose.

You don’t waste a second to respond, your eyes burning with resolution.

“Slash Henry”, you click one of the bottles you’ve filled against his.

“Slash One”, Robin adds, completing the ritual with a bottle of her own.

If only the actual deed was that simple.

“Uh- I don’t mean to freak anyone out, but I swear I’ve seen this tree before.”

Robin looks like a wounded rabbit, jumping from one foot to another, avoiding the vines littering the dead, dry ground. You heart almost stops every time her shoe brushes too close to the Upside Down’s monotonous flora, and you make an effort to tear your gaze away from her dance, just to save yourself from a heart attack.

“That’s impossible”, you reassure her, looking ahead, narrowing your eyes to better study your surroundings, with dust, or whatever the hell this is, floating around you in flakes.

“That would suck, right?” Robin parries in a taut voice. “If Vecna destroyed the world because we got lost in the woods?”

“We’re not lost, Robin”, Nancy counters in a tone that’s a tad too harsh, but you don’t blame her. Everyone’s on edge, you all just have different ways of expressing it.

Robin, for example, lets out an obnoxious, but also hella nervous laugh and speeds ahead between the trees, the Molotov cocktails attached to her hip swinging back and forth dangerously.

Your eyes grow wide and your breath catches in your chest.

“Robin, hey!” You call after her, albeit in vain. “Watch out for the vines!” You resist the urge to run after her and smack her ass just for the hell of it. “Hive mind, remember?”

“Thank you!” Robin yells back, without slowing down. You sigh. You’re pretty sure that by the time you get out of here - if you get out of here - it’ll be with 30 more years on you.

Nancy eyes both you and Steve for a second. Something you can’t quite decipher crosses her expression, but before you can really pin down what that was, she holds her DIY gun tighter to her chest and says: “I’ve got her. Hey, Robin, wait up!” She jogs after Buckley, careful not to put her feet where they shouldn’t go.

This leaves Steve and you walking together. Close. Closer still, when both of you avoid a vine on the ground, bumping shoulders, your fingers brushing against one another’s.

“Jesus”, you exhale a breath you didn’t realise you were holding. “Robin’s like the definition of a super klutz. You search the word in the dictionary, there’s her goddamn photo under it!”.

Steve chuckles softly at your words, both of you moving steadily forward and stepping further away from each other as you search for a safe place to step on.

“It’s just… It did take her longer to walk then most babies…” Steve shrugs, waiting for your reaction as he looks at you from a corner of his eye.

“Not helping, Harrington,” you fire back through gritted teeth, trying to stay alert between stepping in all the right places and keeping an eye on Robin in the distance. Nancy has now caught up with her, and both of them are marching forward hand in hand.

“She’s in good hands with Nance”, Steve speaks, as if reading your thoughts. When you raise your glance to look at him, he is focused on the pair in front of you, gentleness enveloping every syllable that leaves his mouth. “Whatever level of klutz she may be”. You smile at this small sign of affection in Steve’s demeanour. Something tugs softly at your heart when your eyes meet again, and the gentleness is still there, even multiplied by a thousand.

You walk in a comfortable silence for a minute or two, stealing not-so-discreet glances at each other, making sure the other one is careful about where they’re placing their feet.

“Uh, I actually, crawled backwards”, Steve suddenly says, scratching the back of his neck. “When I was a baby, I mean”, he adds, cocking his head to a side, as his eyes travel to your face. “Pushed my hands kind of like this”, he stretches his arms forward and makes the shrillest of sounds, “Beep Beep”.

You cannot fight a smile that blooms on your face, nor the giggle that escapes you, as you don’t take your eyes off him.

“Always in reverse, you know?”, you can’t tell whether you imagine it, but you can almost catch Steve’s cheeks growing rosy in the dimness of the forest.

“Let me guess,” you press your lips together for a moment, as if pondering over something. You decide to hold him out a helping hand in trying to diffuse the atmosphere. “Until you reversed your baby Harrington butt down a flight of stairs, right?”

Steve stops mid-step, his head snapping to face you with awe in his eyes.

“Yeah, actually”, he responds slowly, before marching on. “And thumped my head real good.”

You can’t help but chuckle wholeheartedly, throwing your head back in joy.

“Oh”, you manage through a grin. “That explains so much”.

Steve actually joins in as you chortle in delight. His eyes are almost glowing with warmness and comfort. You realise he’s completely at ease with you making fun of him - while on a killing mission in Upside Down.

“I think it kind of does,” he smiles at you, not missing a beat. “I think, right out of the gate, like, I’m super confident. But I’m also, like, an idiot”, the two sentences clammed together in a phrase make you laugh softly again, covering your mouth. Steve is rambling now, which is just hella cute. Has always been. He rambles on. “Which is just… I mean, it’s a brutal combination”, he agrees with your unspoken words, before correcting himself. “Was a brutal combination. Until something - or rather, someone - landed a blow on my head, like, of nuclear proportions. Changed my life.” Something changes in the air - and it has nothing to do with where you’re at. Without even realising it, both you and Steve have come to a halt under a massive tree, it’s dry branches throwing shade on you both. You don’t know why, but you can feel your heart hammering in your chest, as your stomach grows hot, knots forming in the pit of it.

Steve feels no pain; he looks at you like you’re the only thing worth looking at in the world. His eyes are big and warm and tender, and completely serene, as if you weren’t standing in the middle of Upside Down and he weren’t about to change your life forever.

“It was you”, he says, his voice soft, and passionate, all at the same time. "The first time I saw you. You were wearing that summer red dress with small black flowers on it and a matching red lipstick. And you had to repeat your question like three times, because I was just… Struck. I could barely breathe. I-” “Steve”, your entire body shakes as panic engulfs you. You can’t breathe. You can’t, you just. Can’t. Take. A damn. Breath.

"I guess what I’m trying to say in a stupid, roundabout way is… I want- I want to do everything with you. I want to marry you, and have kids with you and grow old with you… And I want- I want to die before you do, so I never ever have to live without you, because I…”

“Steve, don’t!” you practically shriek, cutting him mid-sentence, with your chest feeling like it’s collapsing on itself. Your breathing is frantic as you cover your mouth, feeling the hurt that flashes on Steve’s face, like a shot of fireworks in the dark. A beautiful disaster - of your doing.

“I can’t do this right now,” this is the smallest your voice has ever been, as you plead him with your eyes to just stop, but also to forgive you for your tunnel vision.

There’s no way you would be able to stay focused on the mission if Steve actually says those words. Those three little words that are going to change your life forever, make you switch your priorities and always look over your shoulder to make sure he’s there and safe.

As if you weren’t doing it already, a small, nagging voice, sounding a lot like Robin, actually, rings in your head.

You see Steve open his mouth with his brows furrowed, an aftertaste of hurtful expression still creasing his forehead, when Robin suddenly jumps in front of you.

“Hey guys - awesome news!” She’s breathing heavily, but there’s something like a smile stretching her lips. “Looks like we weren’t going the wrong way after all!” Robin notices that something is off as Steve grinds his teeth on an exhale, looking away from both of you. Her eyes dart to your face, but you’re just standing there, not uttering a word, your expression is that of a lost puppy. “Are you guys coming?” Nancy pops up her head from behind Robin’s back, and a realisation that something has just gone down dawns on her face almost immediately.

“Yeah, okay”, Steve finally says, his pace quicker as he thrusts his body forward. “Let’s go, let’s go!”

“Geez”, Robin’s eyes grow wider at his reaction, but she turns on her heels and follows him, running. Nancy gives you a sympathetic look, which you pretend you do not notice as you stare ahead, moving your feet in the direction of Vecna’s hide-out.

Two hours from now you’d be wishing you let Steve finish his phrase. Two hours from now, you’d have given your life just to hear him say those three words, so that nothing else could change your life the way they could.

It all happens too fast. Too fast for you to keep track. Between the vines choking you, Steve smashing their tentacles pinning you to the wall with his bat again and again and again, him getting choked too, and your bruised and weary bodies hitting the floor, you realise you do, actually, get scared. All of your stubbornness and courage disappear the minute you clock Steve pressed against the wall, the Upside Down squeezing the life out of him by pressing hard, harder still on his throat. If you had any air in your lungs at that moment, you would scream, scream bloody murder, but even that, you cannot do. All you’re permitted is watch, watch the love of your life being choked to death.

When the four of you are lying on the ground, and then scrambling to your feet, you don’t have it in you to ask yourself why the Upside Down gives you a free pass and lets you walk away. You are more than ready to finish the job. You’re tired, low key panicking and absolutely pissed, pissed out of your mind.

Nobody fucking touches the people you love and gets away with it.

“I don’t believe in higher power - or divine intervention” Robin croaks, barely breathing. “But that was a miracle”.

“Then we’d better not fucking waste it”, you hiss, bending forward and snatching a blade where it’s been attached at Steve’s hip. He eyes you questioningly, but you don’t give him any kind of explanation as you start up the stairs, praying to God that you’re not too late.

That Max, and your brother, and Eddie, and the Sinclair's - are all okay.

“Phase four,” Steve says from behind you, always close, always covering your back. “Flambé”.

As you reach the attic and step onto the rotting wood, your entire body shudders at the sight. Vecna, putrid grey, slimy and smelling like decay, hangs above the floor, pumping energy through long, bony tentacles attached onto his back. He looks like a deadly heart of the Upside Down, and the scene is as terrifying as it is disgusting. But you are a woman on a mission. You have no time to be scared. Neither does Steve.

As you spot a flick of light to your left, as if in slow motion, you turn your head to watch Steve send a burning Molotov cocktail flying square into Vecna’s chest. The light reflects in the pupils of his eyes, the bottle spins once, twice, three times in the air-

The moment it hits Vecna’s body, the four of you are thrown back in a wave of shock, sparks flying in all directions and burning at your skin. Vecna’s body is suddenly alight, every single part of him on fire; the flames eat away at his flesh like at the pages of an old, dried out journal. He throws his head back, still in trance, and screams in pain, his cry piercing your brain.

His tentacles fall apart and push back, disconnecting from his body; you swear they screech all on their own, rearing back, leaving Vecna to fend for himself as his body hits the ground with a spectacular thump. He falls face forward, bare meters away from where the four of you stand. When he jerks up, lifting his head, he’s growling, surrounded by fire, the stench of his burning flesh enough to make your stomach twist. The sound of his flesh sizzling doesn’t help; it’s sickening to the bone.

On fire and panting, Vecna manages to stand and take a step towards you. Robin suddenly spurs into action, lightening up another Molotov; you swear you never saw the determination like that on her face before. She’s focused, she’s riled up, she’s fantastic as she throws another bottle full of kerosene right at him, forcing him back five steps. The hot wave hits your face again, harder this time. You blink twice, perfectly aware of your eyelashes having taken a heat punch; and the next thing you hear is shots.

There’s assertiveness in Nancy’s gait that tell Vecna one thing and one thing only. He’s dying tonight, and there’s absolutely nothing he can do about it. Fire dances in Nancy’s eyes as she fires one shot, two shots, three shots - forcing Vecna to retreat, further and further-

But the fucker is still standing there, in the middle of a raging fire.

And then he’s suddenly moving towards the four of you again.

Nancy’s breath is all you can hear as she whips her head to meet your eyes; there’s panic in her stare, and you realize that it’s going to take more than bottles filled with kerosene and 3 inch bullets to take out the fucker.

You turn your head to face Steve; you can’t help it, you have to see those chocolate eyes one last time. Your gazes lock, and it only takes him a moment to realize what you’re about to do.

As you step forward, Robin grabs him by his shoulder, pulling him back. You’re pretty sure he’s screaming, but you can’t think about that right now.

You are a woman on a mission.

Vecna’s screaming too as you run towards him; he’s barely moving, but he somehow meets you halfway. With a howl that rips into your throat, you swing the blade you took from Steve earlier and plunge it right through Vecna’s heart.

Two things you realize almost simultaneously as your chin touches his burning sizzling shoulder.

Your blade exited through Vecna’s back.

The fucker’s claws are dug into your chest, up to his fingertips, and the heavy-smelling blood - your blood - is cascading down your stomach and onto the floor.

You let go of the blade and come face to face with Vecna’s shocked expression, as he eyes you slowly, before dropping his gaze to his chest.

You can’t move - your body feels like it has been filled to the brim with lead. A cough escapes your lips, and you feel blood coming out of your mouth with a shuddered breath, narrow red flow speeding down your chin and dripping - drip drip drip - on your shoes.

“Steve”, you exhale before you collapse onto the ground; only the hit never comes.

“Oh my God, oh my God!” You can hear Steve’s voice, cracking and sounding a lot like he’s getting cut in two, but it’s really far away. Your body feels like it’s wrapped in cotton now, your skin hot in some places, and very cold in others.

Steve is holding you in his lap and you realize he caught you, slipping under you on the ground.

“Oh my God,” he rocks you back and fourth, tears leaving clear trails on his soot covered face. “Please, don’t- Don’t close your eyes, sweetheart, stay with me, stay with me!”

“Steve”, your voice is no more than a breath, as you’re struggling to keep your eyes open. “Steve, I…” an entire mouthful of blood escapes your lips and your eyes roll back.

“No!!” Steve screams and screams and screams like a wounded animal. “No, please!!” He yells into the roof, into the sky, to whatever God who’d listen. “Please,” he sobs, burying his face in your hair.

You don’t feel your body anymore. And the rest is a blur as you slip into impenetrable, silent darkness.

“Love?! Shit, love, are you okay?!”

Your entire body feels like it’s been put through a meat grinder, but the worst of it is the furious throbbing in your head. Your brain feels as if it’s on fire, and you can’t open your eyes, the pain so strong, it forces them shut.

You feel like you’re going to faint any second now, but then another voice rings above all the commotion and worried chatter, surrounding you.

It’s Steve’s voice.

“What the hell happened?!” Steve sounds distressed, and you moan in attempt to let him know that you’re somewhat okay; at the very least, you’re alive.

“Jesus Christ!” the first voice with a funny accent you only spotted now is back. “Come on, help me get her up. Fucking hell, scared the shit out of me”.

“You and me both”, you hear Steve mutter under his breath, and you’re pretty sure he didn’t mean to be heard by anyone.

Then you feel somebody tugging at your limbs, holding you up no doubt… Your head drops back and it eases the pain in your brain just enough to let you open your eyes. What you see next makes you almost want to die for real this time around, right there, on the spot.

A scream - hoarse and blunt, an attempt at a scream really - resurfaces from your chest as you stare into Vecna’s ugly mug, nose missing, skin slimy and the same putrid grey, and oh your god, he’s got his hands on you. There is no way you’re surviving this.

Some kind of a survival instinct kicks in, and you push your palms into his chest with whatever strength you have left - and - by some miracle, as Robin would say - Vecna lets go, his face twisting in surprise.

“Let go of me!” you rasp, pushing further back from him, creating distance. Only your legs don’t hold you up like they’re supposed to, and your pivoting back to the floor-

When somebody catches you. Strong hands wrap around your waist, and there’s something so familiar and comforting about them, you almost break out in tears of relief.

“Hey, it’s okay. You’re okay”, Steve whispers in your ear… and surely enough, the vannes open up and tears stream down your face as you turn around and smash your body into his, burying your face in the crook of his neck, your shoulders convulsing with sobs.

“I’m sorry, love, I didn’t mean to scare you”, Vecna says behind your back, and his voice is all sorrow, sadness and palpable guilt.

Wait a fucking minute…

“It’s alright, Jamie, it wasn’t your fault”, a voice sounding a lot like Robin chimes in, “She just.. collapsed”, she shudders at the memory, and her voice waivers. “Joe, we should take her to the hospital, call an ambulance or something. She might have a concussion… Jesus, she’s shaking, I think- I think she’s having a panic attack.”

“Just breathe with me, love”, you feel Steve caress your back in soft, gentle motions. “In and out. In and out.” You feel his chest expand against yours, and peacefulness settles in the pit of your stomach as you actually manage to breathe. “You’re okay, everything’s okay”, you feel him cup your face, but your eyes are closed, scared of what else you might be able to find if you open them.

“Look at me, love. Just look at me”, Steve coos, and you can’t help but oblige.

It’s him. It’s really him. The eyes, the nose with a slight bump, the freckles, partly hidden behind a generous layer of soot.

Relief crashes into you, a sentiment so overwhelming, your knees buckle - but Steve is there to catch at your waist, again, and to quickly scoop you into his arms, bridal style. He doesn’t smell like fire or dirt or Upside Down though. Steve smells like some spice, and musc and sugar?…

“Shit, I am so, so sorry, love,” your vision is blurry as you spot Vecna’s hand appear from behind Steve’s dirty, yet still magnificent hair. You follow the waving hand all the way up to his face, your head filled with cotton, your mind high.

It’s when your eyes catch the head of a blond, ruffled, handsome man attached to Vecna’s body, that your brain finally shuts down, and you fall back into an embrace of the dark and silent oblivion.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x henderson!reader #steve harrington imagine #Steve Harrington x female reader #stranger things imagine #steve harrington angst #steve harrington au

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