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see-arcane · 2 years

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Jonathan Harker: The ‘Absolute Love Corrupts Absolutely’ Villain That Almost Was*

*LONG before Francis Ford Coppola’s Cinematic Gary Oldman Fanfiction

Spoilers ahead for the Dracula Daily enjoyers, because I’m whipping out all my literary receipts on this.

I recently finished speed-rereading Dracula because I have no self-control. In doing so, I got a refresher on quite a few incendiary factors of the book that time had dulled in my memory.

1. There’s a TON of ‘I’m not like other girls!’ and ‘men good, women dainty,’ and ‘What no I’m not projecting, honest, I just really like the words manful, voluptuous, manful, aquiline, manful, God, and manful again. –Bramothy Stoker,’ so brace for that from basically the whole cast. I’m blaming it partly on Bram Flakes’ own prejudices, of which there are plenty, and the fact that he’d clearly never met a thesaurus in his life.

(I appreciate everyone’s mental revamp of Mina as the New Woman to Lucy’s Classic Damsel, but…oof. Everyone’s in for a harsh Period/Stoker Accurate reminder.)

2. Brammy Pajamas was either hanging around some exceptionally devout Christians to write some of the second/third act scenes with everyone basically thrashing and wailing and falling on their knees and clasping/kissing hands as they pray to/thank God, all while thinking it was perfectly natural behavior for these characters…or he legit had no clue how any kind of ordinary human being, Christian or otherwise, would react to the situations he puts them in.

(Seriously, it’s not even that everyone’s devout, it’s that they’re all written to act like they’re in a soap opera where the only direction they got was to be as hammy and histrionic as physically possible. You’ll know the scenes when you see them.)

3. Jonathan Harker has not only been done dirty by every adaptation since the book in terms of being a main character, along with being the character to spend the most time with Dracula in close quarters, period, and being the love interest for Mina—his whole character arc by the second half of the book is the most blazing hot, “If my beloved is destined for damnation, I’m heading to Hell with her, fuck all else,” shit I have ever read in classic literature, full stop.

Not Dracula. Not any character based on Dracula.

Jonathan fucking Harker is the OG archetype for Love Corrupts (Violently), and the canon story avoided him going full tragic villain by t h i s much. You want proof? Let’s go.

NOTE: MAIN SPOILERS STRAIGHT FROM THE BOOK, SHIELD YOUR EYES

Here’s the part most Harker fans scream over, myself included:

“To one thing I have made up my mind: if we find out that Mina must be a vampire in the end, then she shall not go into that unknown and terrible land alone. I suppose it is thus that in old times one vampire meant many; just as their hideous bodies could only rest in sacred earth, so the holiest love was the recruiting sergeant for their ghastly ranks.”

Good shit, good shit! Jonathan was already prepared to risk falling to his death from a cliff or being eaten by wolves rather than stay in Castle Dracula for a bloodthirsty eternity with the ladies. But now? Mina is quite literally his, “You are worth Hell,” Beloved. But there’s more. Fast forward to one of Team Fuck-Up-That-Old-Undead-Man’s first head-on encounters with the Count. As they’re waiting, Jonathan gets impatient, declaring:

“I care for nothing now,” he answered hotly, “except to wipe out this brute from the face of creation. I would sell my own soul to do it!”

He says as much in front of his Christian+ buddies who, by now, had pretty fair reasons to believe in the legitimacy of Hell and all its demons. Van Helsing is definitely startled and seemingly talks him down from such an oath. Key word being seemingly. Because we jump forward again to a point where Mina, in full saintly forgiveness mode (and apparently selectively forgetting Van Helsing’s history lesson about Dracula’s pre-vampire days being ones of a slaughtering tyrant), saying that if/when they destroy the Count, oh, how happy his soul will be to be free of his torment on Earth, et cetera. Jonathan Harker has a rebuttal to share. Namely:

“May God give him into my hand just for long enough to destroy that earthly life of him which we are aiming at. If beyond that I could send his soul forever and ever to burning hell I would do it!”

God forgives. Jonathan Harker emphatically does not.

Onward again, and he speaks volumes by what he does not say. Chiefly, there’s a point where Mina, now in full martyr preparation should the worst happen, makes the boys swear an oath to destroy her body if/when she succumbs and dies to Dracula’s vampiric poisoning so she cannot rise again as one of his ladies. The boys swear. Mostly. What we get from Jonathan is…

“And must I, too, make such a promise, oh, my wife?”

“You too, my dearest.” (Note: The rest of her paragraph here is full of the most knife-twisting, utterly warped martyr ‘pep talk’ I’ve ever read, and I have no idea how she/Bramarama thought it would remotely convince Jonathan this was all a reasonable and chill thing she was talking about. Anyway.)

It’s important to note that absolutely nowhere in the ensuing text does Jonathan ever speak the promise out loud. He does read the goddamn Burial Service at Mina’s request, which he barely chokes his way through. But he never makes the oath.

Another jump ahead. They are on the hunt for Dracula and, alas, have just missed him at a key point. Most of the gang are shaking their fists at the sky, cursing up and down. And what is Jonathan doing? Well, to quote Jack Seward, just before the epiphany…

“We men were all in a fever of excitement, except Harker, who is calm; his hands are as cold as ice, and an hour ago I found him whetting the edge of the great Ghoorka knife which he now always carries with him. It will be a bad look-out for the Count if the edge of that ‘Kukri’ ever touches his throat, driven by that stern, ice-cold hand!”

And upon discovery of the Count slipping them…

“Harker smiled—actually smiled—the dark bitter smile of one who is without hope; but at the same time his action belied his words, for his hands instinctively sought the hilt of the great Kukri knife and rested there.”

For context, by this point Jonathan had already come at Dracula with said Kukri knife a while back, having nearly landed the blow after charging out of the pack and nearly fucking gutting the Count. For extra context, this is a Kukri knife:

He’s just been walking around with that. For half the book. Plotting.

And, with all of this in mind, we can only assume Jonathan had two plans of action in mind.

Plan A, follow Van Helsing’s lead.

…Not counting the moment he almost bit the Professor’s head off for saying he had to bring Mina along with him to Castle Dracula. Another good scene which includes his very succinct reaction to Van Helsing’s suggestion, even if he does have to agree in the end:

“Not for the world! Not for Heaven or Hell!”

Anyway. If the plan works out, cool. He gets to kill Dracula, Mina is saved. Best case scenario!

But then there’s the unspoken, explicitly unwritten (in case his pages need to be read), but heavily foreshadowed Plan B. They cannot destroy the Count, in time or otherwise. Mina is now either a corpse waiting to awake as a vampire, or a vampire already. The others, true to their vow, mean to destroy her.

Jonathan Harker, true only to Mina, in whatever form she may take, still has that Kukri. And the element of surprise. And a full acknowledgment of the realities of Heaven, Hell, and his holding Mina’s continued existence above them, his friends, his sanity, his humanity, and himself.

In short, all your tragically romantic Draculas can kindly go fuck themselves with a wooden stake. Jonathan Harker is the first and best gothic horror example of a person in love to the point of madness, damnation, and willingness to deceive or destroy anyone who would endanger the one he loves. The only reason we never got to see it in action was because Stoker had to tack on a happy ending. If he hadn’t?

The census would be less four unsuspecting heroes and plus two newlywed vampires.

The End.

Suck on it, Francis.

#Jonathan Harker is a good boy a lovely young man and he Can and Will Kill for His Wife :) :) :)#seriously there's a whole other essay to go with how gloriously fucked up-passionate this stance is within both the time it was written #and the novel itself which is SATURATED with God Christ and more God #for this fucker to have gone through what he did in the castle on top of all the very clear proofs of divine VS infernal goings-on #this dude is flipping the bird to all of it #the whole mess (be it of God or the Devil or fucking Dracula)#none of it ranks higher than Mina in his mind #my guy is fucked up and I love him #jonathan harker #dracula #mina murray #mina harker #dracula daily #spoilers

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swampstew · 6 months

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Roronoa Zoro, O-73 ~ Praise Kink

Summary: Let's do a monster mash! <She did the monster mash, The Monster Mash, It was a online smash, She Did the Mash, It went viral in a flash, She Did the Mash, She did the Monster Mash!> Frankenstein monster trope but I made it One Piece. Let your imaginations run wild with that scarred body.

Warnings: Spicy and suggestive. No actual smut but a collection of things Frankystein-Zoro would say as he rails you tenderly in his big, monstrous and scarred hands. Praise kink and affirmations, dirty talking, GN reader

Modern monster au: Franky’s Super Weird Experiment! This time he’s gone too far! Creating “a SUPER humanoid,” Franky’s newest creation is loose (or lost) in the ghastly mansion. Until he stumbles on to you, one of Franky’s many research assistants. Seems like Zoro/Zolo (he mumbles a bit, he’s shy at first) is taking an interest in you. Could you ever love a monster like him?

You’re gorgeous. Beautiful. So sexy. My precious human, no one will love you like me

More – give me more of you. I want you to be mine. Forever. Say yes. Sweet thing, you’re so good to me

Do you want to be my doll or my master?

You’re perfect. What? You have insecurities? Not anymore, my sweet

Look at how much precum/slick you’re dripping, and I haven’t even touched you yet. Aren’t you a freaky little thing?

I love the way that tattered outfit looks on you, you didn’t have to dress up for me

This {body part} was made for me

Can you see how you make my cock twitch?

So bare, so naked for me, and not just your nudity. I’m going to make you my spouse

Choke on my monster cock, your moans make me twitch

Only you can make me feel this way. Can make me this cum this hard, enough to stop and restart my stitched heart

I’d never lay a hand on you unless you wanted me to. You do? Wow that’s a lot of places – I’ll spend the rest of my life discovering your pleasures

I love watching you bounce on my cock, seeing you whimper and tremble over my thighs as I fuck you until you’re brain dead

Just like that, you’re doing so well little one

I’m going to mark you, inside and out

3 tiles to go, and since we've already made 60+ calls, the Halloween Scenario is going to be:

Halloween party/séance gone wrong scenario

#roronoa zoro #roronoa zoro x reader #kinktober 2023 #one piece fanfiction #raven's bingo board #roronoa zoro x you #raven's halloween party #one piece smut #swampstew stories #swampstew bedtime stories #roronoa zoro smut #tw monsterfucking

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dailyadventureprompts · 1 year

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Planescape: The Astral Dreamscape

I make it no secret that I’m not a fan of D&D’s default “great wheel” cosmology as I find the rigidity of its worldbuilding gives me very little to play with as a DM. So here I’m going to present my version of the astral plane, which I’ve found to be a much more convenient narrative thread to weave into my stories involving high magic and the truly weird

Setup: As the feywild exists as a heightened form of the mortal realm’s vitality and emotion, and the shadowfell acts as it’s dark and ghastly inversion, the astral dreamscape takes its form from the cast off thoughts and imaginings of all conscious creatures.

It is the place where the dreaming mind ventures when freed from the body, where fancies become theories become thoughts before becoming forms. It is said to be the origin of all magic, as a mage shapes the impossible form of the spell with their mind before setting it lose in the waking world, a wave of creation taking form in the astral sea before breaking on the material shore.

When viewed in its natural state, the Astral dreamscape resembles an endless starry sky, filled with swirling fogs, auroras and nebula like gasses. Vast structures float directionless in the expanse, growing like coral heedless of any physical constraint.

Adventure hooks:

Many arcanists seek a path to the astral plane, as a sufficiently powerful will with access to the right preparations can shape the raw material of the plane into anything they can imagine, creating island in the astral sea or cathedrals out of stardust. After these architects die or grow bored with what they’ve made their creations drift aimlessly, slowly dissolving back into the aether or being colonized by the creatures that drift through the infinite starscape. There’s fortunes to be made in looting the dream-mansions of long dead wizards.

When magic goes wrong, it evokes a phenomenon that learned types call “ astral bleed”, and adventurers call “ wild magic”. Space shifts and warps in on itself, objects randomly become enchanted or animate, and creatures from the astral sea begin to scuttle through dimensional cracks. Often dangerous magical experiments can be found by following a trail of increasing weirdness that leads to their secret laboratory.

Sometimes a dreaming mind will get lost in the astral plane, their consciousness getting lost in the vastness while their body sinks into a coma. The traveller will have to dodge psychic predators, while formless nightmare things seek to find their way back to the empty vessel that is the traveller's body.

One also can’t mention the astral sea without discussing the spelljamming ships that skirt across it from world to world, trading and raiding like star-spanning pirates.

#dnd #dungeons and dragons #d&d #5e #dm advice #dm tip #dm tips #dm tools #writing advice #pathfinder #planescape #astral #setting

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elegantduelliste · 3 months

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Epistles of Saints & Sinners

Chapter Summary:

The morning after Tav and Astarion have sex brings up old memories and complicated concerns.

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Story Summary:

When Astarion meets the humble bard, Tav, he soon finds out he's the only one between them that knows they are bound as soulmates through their marks. Deciding it's more trouble than its worth, he refuses to tell her along the course of their journey across Faerûn.

But, unbeknownst to him and their companions, Tav is harboring a gruesome secret that she only thought was nothing more than a traumatized period in her life.

As they both come to face to face with their pasts and presents, will they choose to move forward or let it consume them?

Healing isn’t linear—after all.

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Chapter 10: After

Ao3

Next Chapter

Previous Chapter

Main Page & Chapter List

Word Count: 2.9k

Pairing: Astarion x female bard Tav

CW: Torture, Abuse, Mention of Torture Devices, Sexual References, Act 1 Spoilers

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The spawn will need rules—lessons—to follow by. Just as Vellioth handed to me, so shall I hand to my creations. My future, beautiful thrall. The time grows near to choose who will do my bidding, to usher in the rite. Ones that value their lives beyond mortality’s chains. Even to exchange it for an eternally damned life. It will take time. Centuries worth. But, they will do my bidding. My dark children. My slaves. My sacrifices.

Let my first lesson guide them:

First, thou shalt not drink of the blood of thinking creatures.

— Cazador Szarr ‘The Avid’, journal entry 1280

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Astarion Ancunín.

From the moment he was turned into a vampire, he was reminded by his sire that he had been chosen. Chosen for his rare picturesque appearance. Chosen for the allure of his social noblesse towards mankind. Chosen to masquerade as a courtesan.

Over and over again was it repeated, until the pale elf believed it to be a treasured gift from his master.

It had taken the better part of six years, forcing Astarion to learn how to control his hunger for thinking creatures. Cazador kept his spawn held captive within rooms—he affectionately referred to as ‘the kennels’—of cages and torture devices. A claustrophobic scent of blood and decayed animal fluids, had long permeated into the floors like a sedative sitting beneath a tongue.

But, his creations had a role to play! Obedient mutts to play fetch for his fertile ghastly mechanisms. He trained them with bugs and rats to curb their appetites, whilst feasting on mortals in front of them. When the spawn would flinch or show their hunger towards a human, Cazador wasted no time in having his servant of bones ready a pair of red-hot pliers.

Twist, pull, burn. Twist, pull, burn.

Fingers. Nipples. Eyelids. Tongues. Cauterized and ripped open in the room that would be their confessional.

“I am your creator. Your father. The priest to hear your penitence. CONFESS! Hast thou lusted after the blood of thinking creatures?” Cazador would scrutinize.

Eventually, the vampire spawn learned. Oh, they always learned. Who they belonged to. Who held the leash that tightened around their mendicant necks. Always sniveling until they learned to smile and appreciate their master for the welfare he bequeathed upon them.

Astarion's fear and resilience drove him, unlike the other spawn. He would not relent to slip entirely into the madness of the night. And because of his choices to defy his master—when he was not around to compel him right away—the consequences for disobeying the coven’s lessons would result in a barbarity far worse than he could ever imagine.

Lacey and Wymonde were their names.

Two victims within the first decade of Astarion becoming a vampire spawn.

Two victims he became enamored with.

Two victims that would create two of the worst memories in his immortal life.

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Lacey. Good-humored, sunny, feisty, Lacey. An unmarried half-elf woman at the age of 42. A baker who inherited a pastry shop in Baldur’s Gate from her human mother.

During year eight of Astarion’s new unlife as a vampire, he noticed her for the first time on his way back to the Crimson Palace after a failed hunt for Cazador. Hauling poorly sealed bags of powdered sugar into her business from the alleyway, it looked like snow was falling in the middle of summer. She was covered in it—angelically so.

He stared at her from the shadows for far longer than anticipated, wondering if the wings of aasimars resembled such purity as the woman’s ringlets garnished in the soft confection. And then, she greeted him roughly, voice lively as a worker bee.

”Saer—are you going to just stand there drooling like a lout or are you going to volunteer to help?”

Astarion shouldn’t have helped her that night. Her bold humor in acknowledging his presence and asking for such a brainless task made him feel more human than nearly every evening he spent in his immortal life thus far. She never once addressed his handsome face, instead taking a genuine interest in him as a man.

Lacey rendered him speechless with her intellect. She belonged in a college as a professor, teaching the youths of their age! Yet, this life was the one that she chose. Perhaps for her it wasn’t ideal, but he admired how she made the most of her situation. There was a degree of strength Astarion tore from it, like a bandit running off with fortunes in his pockets, until he realized he had become genuinely attracted to her. She retained care behind her shining eyes he wanted to own—to sequester beneath the soils of his spirit.

Five nights in a row he visited her. Conversations often leading into topics the vampire slowly started to forget about from his previous life, but she managed to temporarily unearth them for him to relish. Everything she spoke about was wrapped in her warm positivity. She had unintentionally given him hope.

It was the beginning of a relationship. A forbidden intimacy only they knew about. One to possess as his alone; one to nourish.

On the fifth night, he brought her a bouquet of fresh flowers: an invitation for romance. After she closed up for the day, he slept with her in the back room of her shop. Propped up on the edge of a table, corset haphazardly unlaced, Astarion thrust into her slowly. They kissed each other in a display that seesawed into a fit of inferred emotions until dawn.

The next evening she disappeared.

And he knew.

The following night, Cazador shackled Astarion to the prayer cross torture device. His limbs were not allowed to straighten; he was sleep deprived for several more evenings. Punishment for allowing himself to belong to another aside from his master.

Until she finally appeared.

His angel of hope: Lacey.

Brought secretly to the palace by his siblings. A reparation for his sins.

Cazador drained Lacey wholly of her blood, compelling the spawn to watch as his lover died before his eyes. Then, he flung her body to the creatures in the foul sewers of the undercity to consume.

Through Astarion’s exhaustion, his screams became hoarse recollections. Those that were attached forever to the brief season of possible love, now belonging to the destitute plane he started to feel within his oppressed consciousness.

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Wymonde. Loyal, persevering, darling, Wymonde. With paladin oaths scarred upon his hands and a wondrous sense of courage. A young human man with a naivety typically carried over into the early stage of adulthood.

Ah, was he ever beautiful. Skin smooth, unblemished, with the faint trickling of rosiness upon his cheeks. Tall and muscular. His virginity—not yet taken. The perfect victim for the master the spawn were enslaved to serve.

It was at the end of Astarion’s first decade as an undead, that he bumped into the man—quite literally. Wymonde had been sitting on steps leading down to the docks, gawking at the stars above, when the vampire tripped over him in the dark. Instead of offering a wayward apology to him, the human conceded with his knowledge of astrology; a strange bid given Wymonde’s nature as a country bumpkin from some distant farmland.

With the stars as their guide, the man extrapolated upon his preferred constellations and what they meant to the denizens of Faerûn. Astarion mostly sat in silence, listening to legends of the pictorials in the back-lit canopy beyond their reach. The paladin expressed the weight of his loneliness he carried with him since he entered into duty with the blade. They squeezed one another’s hands knowing of their shared sentiment resulting from their hardships.

In the moment, they were just allowed to be.

This would be the last time Astarion felt a sense of connection to the living.

Impulsively, he kissed Wymonde tenderly. He had not attempted to jeopardize himself with the fanciful whims of indulging in an affair since Lacey’s death. The act scared him in such a way, that he ran in lieu of delivering the unsuspecting man to his demise.

But, he belonged to Cazador. There would be no escape.

And as the djinn of malevolence danced on his master’s back—aiding him with instructions of scourge—it was decided Astarion would be sealed, unfed and alone, inside of an ancient tomb for a year.

Buried alive. The vessel of his body, raw out of desperation to scratch his way out. Silence. Wishing for death. Months of nightmares. Starvation.

There would be no heroes to rescue him. No mercy granted. No gods that would answer his prayers. Sadistically imprisoned for the contrition of his conscience.

Astarion would never disobey again.

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The sun’s fountain on his skin had become a verb for Astarion.

It would not mend his centuries of torture, but it was the harbinger of a freedom he thought no longer existed. His hope disintegrated in that impenetrable tomb all those years ago; he didn’t understand the meaning of the word anymore. Not fully. Astarion’s story was no longer about hope: it was about self-preservation.

So, he stood beneath the kindling sphere of flame to soak up the authority and knowledge that predated mankind, that the sun was the only natural force in the universe he would allow himself to trust. No longer was it gods he made his supplications, but it was this daystar he could worship above all else. Should he decide to fly towards its rays of luminescence with wings made of wax, he would gladly allow them to melt for one final grace of its burst of gold upon his flesh.

With dusted flakes of gold printed into his hands, Beneath the watchful gaze of the fiery star, He finds respite in its rusted hues. The realms aglow, kissed by its streams. A catharsis found, until the shadows do rage.

“Good morning,” Tav yawned from behind him.

With his arms outstretched, eyes closed, he continued to bask in the lustrous beams. “And here I was thinking you’d sleep longer after last night’s activities.”

“I mean, I did pass out as soon as I—we were done,” she laughed.

Astarion could hear her heart speeding up. She was most likely blushing, perhaps remembering their passionate evening together.

“Yes, well, when you’ve had a lover such as me, it’s only natural you’d overexert yourself,” he boasted.

The bard shuffled on the ground, leaves crunching from her movements. Her breathing seemed changed, as if she were deciding on her next move in a game of lanceboard.

“Astarion? Maybe I was mistaken, but you didn’t seem fully there during the act. The first night we fooled around in your tent, I thought I saw the same distance in your eyes,” she hesitated with her voice considerately. “And gods—I’m embarrassed to even bring this up—but you also didn’t…you know…finish. Which is fine and there’s nothing wrong with that whatsoever, it’s just—”

Bedding a bard was a rarity for him. They were able to spellbind with their lyrical flattery, even better than he at times, acutely aware of his trickery with his soothing tongue. A troublesome group better left in the dust.

Except, for her.

She was far too intuitive for her own sake, lacking the ignorant tact to have less perception about the world around her. The explorer with a fine-tooth comb, running it through the varied remnants of him.

He craned his neck to acknowledge her, eyes indifferent. “You wish to talk? As in, having a conversation about sex? Adorable. Darling, there is nothing to say, except that, yes, I held back intentionally to focus on your pleasure before I lost control. Need I remind you that during your orgasmic relief, it was my name you cried from your lips. So, apparently, it must not have been too much of a concern.”

“It is a concern to me though. Your thoughts and emotions mean something. To put it more plainly: If I’m not what you want or if this isn’t what you’re interested in after all, we can end it right now,” she replied firmly.

Astarion sighed heavily, moving further into the sunlight. “See, this is exactly why your little meddlesome ploys seats us in the predicaments they do. There is no need to ruin our little ventures into each other's portfolios. We’ve already stated what this is meant to be—let us leave it at that.”

“But, ‘Starion—,” the songstress started before he interrupted.

“Tsk. Now, none of that. Shall we get on soon? I’d like to depart before those dreadful tieflings come back to my tent again to thank me for saving their tails.”

Suddenly, he felt her looming near him. He knew by that stuttering heart drum of hers, that she was not done with her interrogations. That she had seen in full view the raised scars etched on his back, like a crest he carried for the Szarr family. Damn her all to hell.

Tav studied him, lightly stepping nearer. “This—this is what I felt last night?”

“A poem from my old master. He fancied himself as quite the artist and carved it with a lot of revisions over the span of a night,” he told her hallowly, trying to restrain the anguish in his tone.

“Have you ever seen it? The script looks familiar…Inferno maybe?”

The vampire sharply turned to face her. She looked disheveled—a sloven mess. Astarion frowned. Hair wild. Dried blood smeared on her cheeks and neck. The fluids of their lust, still preserved on her inner thighs. It was unlike him to leave a tryst in such a state. Providing thorough aftercare had been an essential rule to follow when it came to seducing his conquests.

Yet, he was prepared to leave her alone in the forest, naked and dirtied. Why?

The answer was transparent. So much so, it consumed him, making his blood run colder than chilled bones. People didn’t see him, not really, but Tav, she wanted to see him. Beyond the fog of his existence that lurked in passing witching hours. And it bothered him. Enough to leave her there to turn tail and put as many miles between them as he could muster.

“Inferno? Gods. The bastard was demented, so who knows. Oh, but I’m sure grabbing a mirror to look at it will solve all my problems!”

The bard bit at her lips—as she was wont to do—acclimating to a serious matter. “Maybe if I took another look at it, I could help you somehow.”

“I think not. You’ve seen enough already,” he snapped.

But, she was the Bathsheba tempting him with her bathes to wipe parts of him onto her. To behold his burdens. It nearly forced a piece of him to crack.

“No one is going to harm you here,” she softly reassured him.

Rich scarlet flooded his vision as it orbited around her. She waited patiently in front of him with that same pitiful kindness behind her eyes that she extended to nearly everyone! He turned his head away, uninterested in bearing the weight of her concern for him.

Then, their worms were twisting together, forcing a psionic connection without their permission.

“No! Do not try to dredge up the past, Tav,” Astarion absconded with prickliness as he severed the link.

Disoriented, she shook her head. “The tadpoles must have done so of their own volition. I wouldn’t have ever tried to pry into your past without your consent, Astarion. I swear it.”

“You seem to have misplaced your accountability, my sweet, or have you already chosen to shoo away our other recent incident when you tried to connect during our pleasant encounter with Raphael?” He snarled defensively, throwing up his hands.

“That was different. I was trying to protect you,” Tav urged, inching closer.

Astarion backed away from her. He didn’t know how to communicate to her what was coursing rabidly through his mind. But, there was the trickling of his body feeling an unknown he could not recall ever harboring. A reclamation of his autonomy he was straining to identify.

“Well, nothing to sate your entertainment like the tragic backstory of the beautiful vampire. How blatantly cliché,” he deflected sarcastically. “Perhaps you can write about it in an upcoming song! Please do remember to give me some credit.”

Her face was covered in splotches of reddish pink. A mist wettening over her sight. Remorse filled the fine lines around her mouth, but she also seemed… frustrated.

Did he really mean to widen this chasm between them while trying to maintain his security with her?

“I’m sorry about the incident with Raphael; it will never happen again,” she admitted coolly, avoiding his gaze.

Tav dressed herself quietly, doing what she could for her appearance. Astarion watched her intently. She was a fool to linger around him. He was a fool to allow her to probe to the extent she had.

“We should head back to camp.”

She nodded, smoothing down the last parts of her skirts. But, before she turned to leave, she stood before him in her observing stillness. Her empathetic valor crashing against him with the tremoring cadence of her cardiac organ. An unparalleled flicker in their time together.

Astarion blinked several times, processing what he had just witnessed. Yes, he could be a crude and brusque man; he was aware of his derisive tendencies. Yet, while she stared at him, he saw his sorrow eclipsing her eyes like the ashes from palm leaves. And for a second, he could have sworn his hunger for blood was replaced with a longing for affection he had locked away in that burial chamber, along with his memories of Lacey and Wymonde.

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lorei-writes · 1 month

Text

Lost Nightingale

Full artwork by @wordycheeseblob can be found below the story.

Chevalier x OC (OC Chart: Esther) Romance / Comfort / Political Intrigue (hinted) ~2.4k

A story that got out of hand. I can't thank Saki @wordycheeseblob enough for the wonderful gift she's prepared <3 So... I just finished this as efficiently as I could. I can only hope my care shows.

Author's Notes: The fall of Amber did not mean the fall of its nobility. However, the ongoing serfdom proved to be a fertile ground for discontent. An Obsidian-backed uprising of Amberian peasantry occurred, leading to near complete annihilation of the former Amberian noble houses. Being of both Amberian and peasant origins, Viva and Esther face backlash from the Rhodolitian royal court.

Additionally, Lady Lavigne is briefly brought up -- she's a character previously introduced in Roots of Deception.

Content Warnings: none

Esther watched as Chevalier stood by the desk, shoulders tense and frame rigid. He was the weary sort of stern, gaze gliding over the documents delivered in his absence as his brow bravely resisted furrowing. The information, however, must have been like a spring shower to a dirt road – for the ground to split was inevitable, very much as it was impossible for Esther to stay there and merely watch. She approached him, the soldier, the knight, the commander, the diplomat, the prince… The man smothered underneath all those layers of titles, stunned by her undoing the clasps of his cloak and taking its weight onto herself.

The ballroom buzzed, idle gossip and the talk of daring ventures both swarming low above the heads of lords and ladies in attendance. A thousand candles kept the golden chandelier aglow, each flame burning twice – once, over the wick, and then voraciously through its resplendent reflection. Molten wax flowed down their sides, few stray drops tainting the marble floor. Heels plinked like glass. The crowd split as conversations prematurely met their end, noble hands latching onto equally noble arms to be escorted away.

One thing, however, remained unchanged.

“Your appeal has been rejected. If that is all you had to say, clear out.” Chevalier’s voice shattered any frozen hope still present in the inquiring stares, the last of ice being crushed to none under the weight of his words. His eyes turned chilling, frost advanced to claim any grounds for objections before they had as much as managed to sprout. Wayward snowdrops still flourished under the nourishment of youthful ignorance, however. The nobleman suppressed a shudder, his fist clenched.

“Your Highness, excuse my impertinence, but I implore you reconsider the —”

“The decision is definite.”

The man withered at once, the initial flush over his cheeks fading rapidly on behalf of a ghastly white, promptly progressing into bloodlessness. Caught unprepared in an imaginary blizzard, he stood, lips trembling helplessly, icy fear of his own creation shackling him to the floor. Chevalier turned his face away, a whisper of a sigh nestling in his throat.

Voices began to die down, hushed themselves and huddled closer to the walls. Violins, cellos, flutes, clarinets, oboes, and any other instruments that felt courageous enough – at first quietly, politely, they merely swept the floor with their sound, slowly growing more brazen with each released note. Another type of excitement entered the air. A woman approached Chevalier, the troubled smile on her face easing some of his frost.

“Are you done now?” he asked, faintest traces of weariness lingering in the crease between his brows.

Esther nodded. “Thank you for waiting for me… And may that be the son of count de la Roche?”

“I — Yes, my l-lady,” the nobleman stuttered, and stuttered only harder once Chevalier put his arm around her waist. Esther let her gaze drift from her fiance, to the stunned nobleman… to one of the ladies stationed by the wall, whose gaze seemed to pierce her. Whatever she could observe over the face half-hidden behind a folding fan, Esther didn’t dwell on it much. She clasped her hands.

“I think I may owe you an apology, Sir.” With practised honeyed sweetness, Esther enveloped the scene in the warmest of her smiles, thwarting the blizzard to announce a spring thaw. “I’m afraid I’m not as competent as my fiance or any of his brothers. I hope the list of missing documents I’ve prepared did not cause any confusion? I’m certain the petition will be reconsidered once those are submitted, although I cannot speak to the result of that.”

“F-fiance? I was unaware.”

Esther clung to the composure hinging on the upturned corners of her mouth. “Yes. We got officially engaged five months ago.”

“I see. M-my congratulations, Your Highness —”

Chevalier’s grip at her waist tightened, the nobleman and the noblewoman fading away as she searched his face for the answers. Her eyes widened as they often did, eternally awestruck with the most mundane of mysteries hidden in any of his mannerisms, studiously examining the surface of his indifference. Esther watched him, and in turn, he watched over her; Chevalier measured any wrinkles in her features, took in the shade of her complexion, made it a point to pay attention to the state of the whites of her eyes…

Esther leaned into her love’s warmth, some of her worries getting tangled in the periwinkle tulle flowing down the length of her legs. She let them go, however, one steady breath interlaced with one barbed murmur at a time. The music grew louder, although never loud enough for the buzz to be snuffed out. The dance began.

***

A thousand flames shrunk to one, a stud of a wick submerged in tallow sitting proudly in the cresset. Thin light licked along the walls, its feathery tongues just barely swiping the winding staircase, lacquered wood of the old bannister sighing heavily under the faintest touch. Impatient footfall rushed ahead, climbed its way up to the very ceiling in a whispered orchestra of ricochets.

“Mind your step. The servants’ passages are rarely maintained past the base point of usability.”

“Thank —”

Chevalier caught Esther by the waist, her foot slipping as if on command. The flame trembled on behalf of her smile, a weary sigh crawling out of her lungs. “I’m sorry.”

“Just be more careful.”

“You know this is not what I’m sorry about.”

“Do I.” Chevalier’s voice echoed up the staircase. The carrier of light, he had Esther walk in front of himself, her hand clutching the bannister as she stepped just at the edge of darkness. It was fine, however; it was not the climb that bothered her.

… wench…

Have you heard of the uprising in Obsidian?

They say peasants slaughtered their own nobility… From Amber… a single golden coin a head…

She’s got to like the smell of blood.

… so that’s what we have for a Queen?

I bet they can’t even read, not to mention write…

… perhaps the king has other uses for her…

That twin? Do you think they switch them sometimes? Surely, they wouldn’t mind.

… That beast, probably no other would touch him.

The walls buzzed, each brick a hive saturated with syrup brewed on waspish remarks. Esther stared ahead, lifted her skirts, disregarded the throbbing in her feet and pressed onwards, scolding herself all the while. She knew things wouldn’t be easy. So… Why?

Why?

The mouth of the staircase spilled into a – narrowly avoiding a title of narrow – corridor, crisp evening air seeping inside through the small windows, a thin coat of rust coating the iron hinges on the frames. The space smelled of musty disuse, moist stench of mould wafting from the old wallpaper. Chevalier scrunched up his nose. Their fingers interlaced, he pulled on Esther’s hand, although to no effect; Esther stood anchored, those mellow eyes of hers widening yet once again, cautious of the oval imprints in the thick layer of velvety dust padding the sills. She ran her fingers through it.

“Esther.”

“Aside from the anti-monarchy faction…” She shook her head, a single wayward curl falling over her forehead. “Do you think they’re connected to Lady Lavigne?”

Chevalier did not reply. The flame painted his face in shadows; hardly brighter than dark starshine sieved in through dirt-covered windows, what little was there of its lustre sinking at the bottom of his eyes. Esther stared at him, intensely enough to evaporate any doubts or uncertainty.

“De la Roche outlines many particulars regarding Lavigne’s imprisonment that shouldn’t be known to the public eye. His petition is likely to be written off as an act of philanthropy, however, it is highly dubious he has no agenda of his own,” Chevalier recounted. He pulled on her hand again and they resumed walking, the floor creaking as they did.

“That would explain Gilbert’s visit.”

“He certainly isn’t here to hear about the working conditions of his spies.” With a scornful snort, Chevalier turned the old bronze knob, the door giving in to reveal the furthest corner of the residential wing of the palace. Esther breathed the clear air with relief, the old passage – purposefully left unattended, as she surmised – closing behind them as if it had been but a nightmare to begin with.

All that remained was, in comparison, just a short walk, just a few carpeted staircases and safe brightly lit corridors, a few moments she would later be hardly able to recall. For Esther, it happened in less than a snap of fingers; one second his warmth was there, clinging to her skin, and then it ceased, disappeared. It slipped away. The knob turned again and with it, they revisited the dark, their very own bedroom appearing rather desolate when devoid of light. Something scratched the wall. Chevalier marched onwards.

“Bambi,” he called. The shuffling stopped on behalf of a content whimper, a newly alight candle enveloping the beast in its glow. The dog wagged his tail before lying his head down again, the bedding underneath him having moved from its original place by the bed up to the very door. Esther crouched down to tug at his ears.

“Sorry, Bambi. We can’t have you bite any nobles now, even if they are mean,” she whispered and offered him some pets, more whimpers following… But her eyes were elsewhere.

“That’s been enough work for today,” Esther wished in a whisper, eyes cast down. Almost apologetically, her palm pressed against his heart. “Let it go until morning.”

His fingers hooked below her chin. Chevalier forced her to look at him.

“Will you?”

Something flickered over her face, tied her lips shut and had her avert her gaze. Esther stared at the collar of his shirt, at his neck, his Adam’s apple, dared to venture up to the corner of his jaw. But no further. Chevalier let his hand fall by his side.

“Will you help me out of my dress?” Esther asked.

Metal clinked against the wood as the candleholder came to rest atop the vanity. “Then sit.”

“It’d be more comfortable if —”

“Do not think I have not realised that your feet hurt.”

The mirror seemed to have harnessed the flame, diffused glow softly enveloping their reflections. Esther sat, her back straight and hands folded in her lap, face unusually – although openly – troubled. She sneaked a glimpse at herself, or whoever was wearing that disguise. Gloves fell on the table in front of her, goosebumps raising over her skin as decisive hands swept her hair aside. Blonde locks tumbled over her shoulder, rough fingers brushing against the nape of her neck, spilling lightning down the length of her spine… and so he began working on the lacing at her back, dexterous hands pulling and tugging at the silken ribbon, the complexities of various knots falling apart. Esther plucked the decorative pins out of her half updo, wayward curls rushing into her face. The jewels and precious metals she had worn returned to their casket. And he had done nothing to upset her. He had done nothing to betray her trust. He had not even said a word she could doubt… Chevalier merely dragged the fabric down, yanked at it so hard Esther could almost hear the seams groan. She looked up.

Esther could not resist the mirror anymore, and into the mirror she did fall, to be completely captured by her lover’s gaze. His thumb stroked her cheek, powder falling off to reveal faint freckles. Chevalier did not seem to want anything more, his touch fading too soon yet again, cold rushing in as if winter itself sharpened its icy teeth to sink them into her flesh and —

“Would you help me out of my corset too?”

Chevalier nodded. Slowly, like a tiger stalking his prey, he leaned down further. His breath spilled over her skin, so hot it melted away any frost. Esther sucked the air in sharply. He merely watched, the laces needing little prompting.

“If there’s something you want to say, say it,” Chevalier demanded from over her shoulder and her lips pursed in response. Esther stared as he smoothed her hair down with a gentle sort of awkwardness, usually reserved for terrified animals.

“I —” she hesitated. He just watched. As still as a statue, his eyes never once moved away from her reflection. Esther searched for the right words, articulated them as if tasting each for poison, “If… If people did not approach you with fear… would you still choose me, even knowing what trouble it would cause?”

Chevalier seized her by the chin, just short of causing her pain. He forced her to look at him, at him in the flesh and bones, and blood that had turned cold to then boil in his veins, rampant bewilderment leaving behind only scorched thoughts. His lips remained firmly sealed, yet… his grip loosened, apologetically. Esther put her hand over his.

“That’s a pointless hypothetical.” You know the answer.

“Is it?” She brought his hand away from her face, absent-mindedly tracing the lines over his palm with her thumb, soothing his callouses. She did not dare look away, did not dare weigh her words lightly and let go of the flicker moving over his face, the slither of truth she so needed for herself. “I can’t read minds the way you do, Chevalier.”

Esther did not shy from him, but he could not bear being seen. Certainty interlaced with hesitation, all his talents, his strength, knowledge and accomplishments fading away at one meagre question. Chevalier leaned down, touched his forehead to hers so that her eyes would close and his heart could pretend it was not exposed.

“Your fearlessness is not what makes you precious to me.”

Esther held back her breath.

“I do not require for your presence to be favourable to the state. To keep you by my side is just my selfish wish.”

She put her arms around his neck – and he hoisted her up, out of her gown and the riches, bared down just to the thin linen chemise and her freckled face. She was the trill of nightingales, the hard thudding of her heart chirping him a promise, assuring him that she’d stay.

“And you too are my beloved,” Esther whispered against his lips before claiming them as hers, the foreign lilt being replaced by another kind of melody.

Tag List: @lancelotscloak @violettduchess @pathogenic @fang-and-feather @tele86 @rinaririr @keithsandwich @cheese-ception @bis-enti @claviscollections @queengiuliettafirstlady @sh0jun @lucyw260

+ @chandeliermichel

+ @starlitmanor-network

Tell me if you'd like to be added to my tag list :)

#chevalier michel #ikepri chevalier #ikemen prince chevalier #ikepri #ikemen prince #ikemen series #ikepri oc #ikemen prince oc #ikepri esther #starlitmanornetwork

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reverieparacosm · 9 months

Text

Bondrewd x GN!Narehate Reader

Synopsis: You, an adventure, are rescued by Bondrewd after a serious injury. But is it worth it?

Warnings: Yandere, kiddnaping, violence

Note: Oh well, did I write an open ending? Oh hell yea.

Alright, buckle up for a wild ride! But hey, before we dive into this crazy fiction, let's get one thing straight: I am absolutely, positively, and emphatically NOT on Team Bondrewd. It's just fiction!

The last thing you remember is the chilling grip of those villainous hands, dragging your helpless body into the bowels of that godforsaken dungeon. Panic surges through your veins as your vision fades into an abyss of darkness, the ominous sound of a heavy door slamming shut echoing in your ears.

A timeless void engulfs your consciousness, until a spark of awareness flickers within your core. Your eyes flutter open, and you are greeted by a world utterly transformed. A strange sensation courses through every fiber of your being. It's as if your very cells are awakening, shifting and rearranging themselves to a mysterious symphony.

With trembling hands, you reach out to touch your own body, only to recoil in astonishment. Instead of the familiar contours of human flesh, you now possess a new form, a creature of untamed power and primal beauty.

Fur and leathery skin envelop your limbs, imbuing you with an otherworldly grace. Gone are the trappings of your former existence, replaced by dark brown pants that cling to your agile frame and a cloak the color of shadows, billowing around you like a shroud of mystery.

Confusion storms through your mind, a tempest of unanswered questions. Who or what has wrought this metamorphosis upon you? Why were you chosen for this bewildering transformation? Fear and curiosity dance within your soul, intermingling with a burgeoning sense of awe.

In the dimly lit corner of the room, a haunting figure materializes, and your instincts scream out that it can be no other than Bondrewd himself. A surge of determination courses through your veins as you gather the remnants of your strength, and the words spill forth from your trembling lips, "Bondrewd, what monstrosity have you unleashed upon me?"

Bondrewd slowly turns to face you, his eerie mask emitting a ghastly purple glow that cuts through the oppressive darkness. He meets your gaze. "Ah, so you still recognize me. Remarkable. It seems you have not entirely succumbed to oblivion," he remarks, his voice dripping with a sinister satisfaction. "Allow me to enlighten you. I have bestowed upon you a transformation of unfathomable magnitude. Through intricate and perilous surgical procedures, I have forged you into a new type of Narehate. The results, I must say, have surpassed even my lofty expectations."

The weight of his revelation crashes upon you like a relentless tempest, and disbelief engulfs your being. A surge of anger intertwines with the overwhelming sense of betrayal pulsating within your chest. "Why? Why would you subject me to such horrors?" you demand, your voice trembling with a mixture of fury and anguish.

His voice drips with a chilling nonchalance as he explains, "My dear, naive adventurer, my motives were simple yet ambitious. I sought to fashion a Narehate possessing an unparalleled array of powers. And to achieve that, I required a subject of extraordinary physical and mental fortitude. You, with your illustrious history as a formidable adventurer, were the epitome of perfection in my eyes." He pauses, a macabre satisfaction permeating his words. "You should consider yourself fortunate, for you have become my most potent creation."

As Bondrewd speaks, you feel the passion and determination in his voice, the room lighting up with his energy. You sense an almost obsessive aura surrounding him as he steps closer to you, placing his hand on your shoulder, his touch almost electric. "I have fallen in love with you," he whispers, his mask close. "Your strength, your beauty, your bravery - they are unlike anything I have ever seen. You are one of the most amazing people I have met, and I will never stop loving you."

As Bondrewd continues to explain his reasons for transforming you, his voice grows more excited, speaking of your qualities in detail, with a passion and reverence you have never experienced. Your determination, heroism, and strength in the face of danger are, in his opinion, absolutely unique. All of these qualities have captivated him, and he is certain he will never stop loving you. But even in the middle of his speech, he seems to forget the suffering and pain you have experienced. His love for you is so all-consuming that it blinds him to anything else.

As you stare up at him, feeling hopeless and helpless, you can't help but feel a wave of anger rising within you. The pain, the confusion, the lack of understanding - it's all too much to bear. And yet, your captor only seems to get more enraged with every word you speak. Finally, you ask the question that's been burning on the tip of your tongue.

"You call this love?" you say, your voice shaking. "You turned me into this creature, a Narehate. I can't even recognize myself in the mirror anymore. And yet, you dare to say that you saved my life? Do you have any idea what you've done to me?"

Bondrewd's fingers constrict around your throat, constricting your airway and lifting you effortlessly off the ground. The vice-like grip sends shockwaves of agony coursing through your body, threatening to collapse your very essence. Desperate for release, you thrash and struggle against his unyielding hold, but his grasp remains unrelenting, unyielding as the cold touch of steel.

"How dare you challenge me?" he says. "You, a pitiful Narehate. You should be on your knees, thanking me for the mercy I have bestowed upon you."

His words strike you with a heart-wrenching force, each syllable a blade that sinks deeper into your wounded spirit. Amidst the searing pain, you summon every ounce of strength to respond, your voice a mere whisper, yet infused with determination.

"Your… twisted… benevolence," you manage to gasp, the words a struggle against the suffocating grip around your throat. "It… is no… salvation… but… a… curse."

He drops you to the ground, and you feel the air rush back into your lungs as you gasp for breath. He crouches down, his mask inches from yours.

"I did what was necessary to save your life. My special surgery left you with a weakened mental state and a poor memory. And yet, here you are, questioning everything I've done for you. You really need to learn to appreciate all the good things I do for you."

"We found you in the fourth layer. You were in a very bad condition, suffering from many wounds. We managed to heal them, but you got a bad fever, and the only way to save you was to do a surgery."

As Bondrewd speaks, his voice gradually transforms from a cold, detached monotone to a softer, more empathetic tone. Gone is the rigid, uncaring scientist; instead, he now appears almost paternalistic, his aura occasionally flashing with the same madness as before.

"Please, let me go," you beg, trying to hold back tears as the realization sinks in that you are now truly at the mercy of this madman.

Bondrewd shakes his head, his anger returning. His voice is cold once more, and his grip on your chin tightens.

"Do you not appreciate that I saved your life? Or that you are now more powerful than you have ever been before?" he asks, his voice dripping with disdain.

His tone becomes threatening; he leans closer to you, and the violet ether light is reflected in your eyes.

"You belong to me, you will obey every command I give without question," he says, his grip on your chin relaxing as he stares directly into your eyes. "Am I clear?"

You respond with a simple "no," knowing that you are never truly safe until you are as far away from him as possible.

As you stare at the ethereal purple light, you feel a sudden burst of determination coursing through your veins. No matter the cost, you are not going to let this madman control your life anymore. You take a deep breath and steel your resolve.

"I will not obey you," you state firmly, your voice steady despite the fear that still rages in your chest.

"You will obey me," he says, his voice laced with a menacing tone that sends shivers down your spine. "Or you will suffer the consequences."

At that moment, you realize that you have two choices: you can either continue to live in fear and obedience, or you can take a stand and fight for your freedom. Without hesitation, you choose the latter.

You reach deep within yourself and summon all the strength and determination you can muster. You know that it will not be an easy fight, but you are willing to risk everything to escape the clutches of this madman.

With a burst of energy, you break free from his grip and bolt towards the door, your heart pounding against your chest like a thunderous drum. Behind you, his voice echoes through the hallway like a haunting melody, but you refuse to look back. You just keep running, each footstep propelling you further and further away from danger.

As you sprint down the dimly lit corridor, every breath you take feels like a struggle. Your lungs burn, your legs ache, but you push through the pain, your determination unwavering. You round a corner and catch a glimpse of the end of the hallway. There's a door in sight, and your heart leaps with hope.

With a shaking hand, you turn the handle and push the door open, expecting to see the light of freedom on the other side. But what you see instead stops you dead in your tracks.

#bondrewd #made in abyss #made in abyss bondrewd #made in abyss fanfiction #メイドインアビス #bondrewd x reader #bondrewd headcanons #yandere bondrewd #oneshot #bondrewd oneshot #fanfiction #fanfic

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creepycr4wly · 1 month

Text

BOOOORIIIINGG!!!!!

#my ghastly creations #flowey #frisk #undertale

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forgottenroisin · 3 months

Note

Brigit x Rosie “It could be worse.”

FLASHBACK

"The important thing," said Brigit. "Is that we remain calm. It could be worse."

"I don't see how!"

It had been a sweet notion. First, Brigit, Aoife, and Rosie had arranged for Eithne to take the day off, it being her birthday, by claiming to Valentina (who had no earthly notion when any of her stepdaughter's feast days fell) that she had a 'pox,' and vague and ill-defined malady which they had cobbled together expressly for the occasion (having lain some foreshadowing of the illness down in the previous fortnight, saying about how Farmer Tom's wife and boy had it and how it was said in town everyone in the are would have had it at some point, come the summer, and knowing well and good that Valentina would never fact check them as it would require stooping to speak to such 'low' personages as Farmer Tom). Second, Aoife and Cillian would take Eithne out to town on a few fun-filled errands while, thirdly, Brigit and Rosie prepared the cake.

While the first two parts of the plan had gone smashingly, it was the third for which them were proving not entirely prepared, a fact which stung all the more when one considered how both Aoife and Cillian had expressed doubts on this point while Brigit and Rosie had insisted up and down that they could certainly handle something so simple as a cake and that really the other two ought to have more faith in them as people than to hold such appalling doubts that, Rosie had added -- an argument which had finally convinced them -- were so rude as to nearly border on exposing a doubt Aoife and Cillian clearly held about their characters!

And, with their characters now on the line, Rosie and Brigit now stood side by side, gazing at their creation. The dazzlingly white confection sloped, slumping to one side like a wounded soldier. On the other side, it did stand up (somewhat), but this effect was marred by the attempt at decoration the sisters had effected. In attempting to pipe flowers and vines onto the side, they'd somehow managed to make it look rather as if the poor thing were bleeding AND wounded.

"We've created an abomination," said Brigit.

"I feel like a monster! We should put it out of its misery."

"Put it out of its misery? How?!"

Rosie pressed a knife into her sister's hand. "It's for the greater good."

"What do you want me to do? Stab it to death?"

"Cut it up! It's edible...I think...It can just be ready to be served when she arrives!"

"We can't cut Eithne's cake!" cried Brigit. "It's her feast day, not ours! It's not what's done! She has to make the offering to the guardians, and that starts with the cutting of the cake!"

"Would you prefer her to have to see this ghastly horror we've created? We'll give her nightmares. On her feast day!"

"No. We can salvage this."

"How?!"

Brigit grinned. "I have an idea."

***

"Are you ready?" hissed Cillian, rushing into the kitchen. "I ran ahead but, they're almost here and -- Amestris' head! Why is there a bush in the kitchen?"

"It's not a bush!"

"It's a cake."

"No, that--That, my dear ladies, is a bush."

It was certainly botanical. The kitchen island had been scrubbed entirely clean of the chaotic efforts lately put into crafting the cake by Eithne's sisters, and in its place, stood the mishapen lump they had crafted, disguised under an array of looping vines and flowers that seemed now to grow in effortless coils from a sweetly sloping mountainside.

"It's all edible vegetation," said Brigit.

"Don't you recognize it, Cillian?"

"What?"

"Don't you see?" asked Brigit. "It's the mountainside where our father asked our mother to marry him. Perfectly recreated, even now to the spot where trees and shrubs grow!"

"O--oh," Cillian's brows rose. "I...I do see it. That's genius! She'll love it. But...how did you recreate the exact slope of the hillside so perfectly?"

Exchanging a glance, Brigit and Rosie grinned. "Bakers' secret."

#flashback #brigit malconaire #challenge #ask #drabble #meme #aoife malconaire #eithne malconaire #cillian frost #almost made his last name 'malconaire' SOB #valentina malconaire #i hope you don't mind i made up some ~astairan traditions to make this work aljdsflkjdsjf but obv we can ignore them if they don't work #they were just meant to be ~why they couldn't cut it hahaha

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angel-of-the-moons · 7 months

Text

Nothing Is Lost

Khonshu x Fem!Reader

TW/CW: Blood, nightmares, night terrors, attempted sexual assault (nothing happens), mugging, stalking, religious stuff, mentions some gross af Egyptian lore (reading about that in my textbook was... whew. A lot)

MINORS DNI I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR CONTENT YOU CONSUME

A/N: Obviously inspired by this version of Day 'N' Night from the Moon Knight soundtrack/trailer.

🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑

Chapter 2:

Stressing My Mind (Mind)

After that day, the bag sat on your tiny table. You would spend at least two hours out of the day or night just... staring at it.

And when you fell asleep?

Your previous dreams, confusing, and nonsensical seemed a vacation compared to the ones that haunted you know.

You would hear screams, piercing your ears and causing pain. It wasn't until your senses returned that you realized the screams were coming from you. You would look down at yourself to find blood pouring out of you from your abdomen.

No matter how much pressure you applied, your blood would flow from you like a broken damn, pooling at your feet and running outwards like a river, the end promising a light in the twinkling darkness your dreams often had you in.

You heard the whispers, louder, still indiscernible. It was a man's voice.

You figured it was coming from the light at the end of the bloody river, so you screamed again. Only this time, you made ghastly gurgles, before you would cough violently, blood flowing up and out from your lungs to join the river beneath you.

And that was when you woke up.

🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑

It was after days of consecutive restlessness that you decided to say fuck it.

You unwrapped the "gifts" Jezebel had given you, along with her handwritten notes on what to do, and what kind of offerings to leave once you'd set up your altar. It even included a basic prayer for protection from this god, Khonshu.

You weren't sure how to go about it... so you did some extra research into this "Khonshu".

God of the Moon, indeed he protected those who traveled at night. He was also associated with justice, healing, and even fertility. An odd combination, you mused. But from what you knew of Egyptian gods, they were associated with some weird shit sometimes.

You even unfortunately spent so long clicking on Wikipedia links that you wound up reading about the Contendings of Set and Horus. The stuff Isis did on behalf of her son made you want to rinse your mouth out with the strongest, mintiest mouthwash you had in your cabinet and swear off salads forever.

Well... at least Isis going to the ends of creation for her husband Osiris was romantic... ish.

Once you were done, you decided... hey, what's the harm in offering up a little prayer before you go in for work? You'd be working a later shift tonight, the worst time to walk home was... okay, well any time after the sun went down, really.

You lit the incense, consisting of cinnamon and myrrh, at the base of the statue, along with the fresh fruit your measley budget could afford until you got paid; then you kneeled down and bowed your head.

"Here goes nothing..."

You feel a chill rush through you when you complete the prayer, goosebumps forming on your skin.

A wind blows on the fire escape outside, knocking over your potted plant.

Surely, your apartment is drafty. That's it...

You clear your throat and stand, putting the incense out as you shove your metro card in your empty "work" wallet. It had your name on it, but not your address. So if somebody snatched it they wouldn't be able to track you down.

It wasn't paranoia if it was a very real possibility, after all...

You didn't realize you forgot your mace and taser.

You were so buried in the thoughts of your night that you didn't notice the shadow looming in the dim light of your apartment.

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"Hey, kid, you all right?" Your elderly co-worker, Alec, asked you from his hunched posture. He had told you he was in some sort of accident, and as a result of a botched surgery he had a permanent hunch. He'd been dealing with it for a little over twenty years. In some places he was listed as "disabled" but Alec having his hard-set personality, he wanted to work, earn his keep, not languish in bed somewhere.

He'd taken a shine to you because you were the only one there who didn't treat him like... well. The awful things your coworkers whispered and giggled about behind his back. Sometimes in front of him, too. But never you. Alec felt like family, in the past two years you worked this job. He was like the kindly uncle you wished you always had.

But apparently he'd taken note of the dark bags under your eyes lately, worse than usual and hanging like shadowy curtains over your cheekbones.

"Oh, uh... yeah. I just... haven't been sleeping well, 's all." You mumble, focusing on the particularly dirty spot on the floor from where some idiot made the previous printer that had been there explode.

You would have paid serious money to see the poor sod it exploded on.

"You're working too hard, kiddo." Alec said with a click of his tongue, as he wiped down a nearby table. "Gonna work yaself to death."

You smiled when his accent slipped in. Born and raised New Yorker, you knew. Unlike you. His accent was one of his endearing qualities.

"I'll keep that in mind, Alec." You chuckle, leaning over to scrub roughly with your mop at the ink stain in the linoleum.

"If ya keep hunching like that kiddo," He winked at you. "You're gonna wind up like me, sans the accident!"

"Oh I should be so lucky, Alec! You're resilient as hell."

"Ha, thanks kid. But seriously. You gotta take it easy. If you don't let yourself rest, something else will." He warned you.

And yeah. You knew that much already.

But... money is money.

And money made the world go 'round.

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You hated it.

Hate, hate, hated it.

You felt someone following you, your "feeling" kicking into overdrive. This particular feeling you got well acquainted with. It happened just before every time you got mugged.

Your fears were compounded when you looked in the blacked out windows of the shops you passed in front of, and saw the silhouette of a man marching several paces behind you, this hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, jaw set tight as his pace kept adjusting to match yours.

You didn't have any money. And you were afraid at what he'd do if he attacked you. Would he rough you up and let you go because of a poor mark?

Or would he want to do something... worse?

You up your pace again, the soles of your shoes tapping the pavement.

The chill you felt earlier slipped into your bones, your hair standing on end not from the cold, but from your "feeling".

You all but skid and burn the rubber on the bottom of your shoes when you dart into an alley you had well-mapped by memory, the sound of heavy footfall close behind.

But then it hit you.

If the guy kept following me you, and you ran to where you felt safe...

He could find out where you lived.

Which was worse.

You turned to try and backpedal; fumbling your pockets for your protection, only to realize you left it on your dresser earlier... but the moment you try to turn and escape the other direction, you're clotheslined; splitting your lip and sending you stumbling onto the concrete below.

A taste of copper flooded your mouth and you realized you bit too hard on your tongue when he hit you.

You barely had a moment to recover from your discombobulation before you were hoisted up by your collar, shoved hard against a wall... and felt something cold press into your belly through your shirt.

"L-look... I don't have any money on me. You can search me, and I won't tell anyone..." You say, trying to stay as calm as possible, holding your hands up on either side of your head trying to make the man feel like you weren't worth the effort.

You knew nobody would hear you if you screamed. You knew nobody would come save you if they did. You knew that some people just wouldn't care.

"Well it's a good thing I'm not after cash..." His disgusting breath spewed in your face.

Fuck.

The barrel of his gun slowly rose, catching one of the buttons on your blouse as his knee forcibly parted your thighs.

He used the barrel to undo the buttons one by one.

He tries to force his mouth onto yours, but you turn your head and he raises the gun, pistol whipping you and knocking you down again.

He fists your open shirt again and pulls you back to your feet and throws you against the wall again.

You squeezed your eyes shut as you feel his stinking breath on your neck, the barrel of his gun digging painfully into your ribs.

You choke back a sob as his free hand reaches for your jeans, ready to rip the fly down.

Goddamn that stupid prayer. It was fucking pointless. So much for praying to some god to protect you when you walked alone at night.

Some god of justice--

All of a sudden, the weight of the man was lifted off of you. You whip your head around to see if someone had saved you, but you saw nothing.

Your would be-rapist stumbled to his feet and raised his gun at you.

"I don't know how you did that, you little bitch--"

"Please! I didn't--"

You threw your hands out towards him, the moment you did, he hit the ground like something violently slammed into his gut; crumbling to his knees, gasping and retching for air.

He fumbled for his gun again, but it skittered away across the pavement.

"What the fuck." You breathed.

His head jerked back and you heard the crunching of bone, and he fell back, limp.

You breathe ragged breaths, watching and waiting to see if he indeed tries to get up again.

He doesn't.

Your adrenaline takes over and you clutch your shirt against yourself, running through the alleys until you make it home, safe and tucked away into your apartment, shaky hands sliding all the locks into place and snatching your window curtains closed.

You collapse against the wall, breathing hard, lungs and leg muscles burning.

You stare at the statue sitting on the pitiful altar you DIY'd yourself earlier.

It sat, offerings still there and incense half burned, the statue so... serene, it unnerved you.

"...What..."

You took a deep breath to try and ease your nerves.

"...God... what happened?"

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Chapter 3: Link

#moon knight #khonshu x you #khonshu x reader #khonshu moon knight #khonshu #khonsu #my writing

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deliciousbasementtrash · 2 years

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Hopes and Dreams

Art credit: https://hear-the-voice-of-my-soul.tumblr.com/post/159573635579

Summary: you are a new Goddess: Hope. You were made for one of the Endless siblings if not all of them, and humanity. You must figure out which sibling you were made for. But what if they don’t want you?

Pairing: Dream of the Endless x F!GoddessReader, Dream x OC Reader

Word Count: 1285

Warnings: Somewhat harsh language, meanish Dream (let me know if I should add more please)

Note: Sorry this is a little choppy because I hate writing beginnings and want to dive right in. That being said there will be more chapters in the future (not sure how many). Also please, please leave comments.

Part One: Creation, Part Two: Power, Part Three: Roomies with Death and a Deal with Dream; Part Four: Pain and Nightmares

I started existing on March 25th, 1801.

I do not know when nor how I was created. I simply was. As humans live and breathe and love, so do I. My power is them, and they are my power.

And I adore them so.

They are very adorable creatures, and they refer to my gifts, they refer to me, as Hope.

I am Artemea, Goddess of Hope.

My purpose in the human world was unclear at first. Humans naturally have an innate gift to hope. I wondered what I was here for if they could manage it fine on their own. I had no guidance when I came into the world. I only knew three things:

My name

My purpose

My gifts

But I did not know how or why. That was until I meet Destiny the eldest of all the Endless.

I was sitting in a meadow when Destiny arrived. He appeared to me in a large and worn brown cloak. A strange chain around his wrist bound to a large leather-bound book. His face was melted with age, his eyes milky-white.

He told me of Gods and Goddesses; he told me of the Endless. All of which is information of the past. But then he opened his large-leather bound book, and the meadow went silent as he spoke.

“Child, you wonder about your existence. You know you are the Goddess of Hope, you know your purpose is to serve the humans, and you know the plentiful gift of your power. But you do not know why you were created, and you do not know how to use your power. I am here to tell you. Heed my words. You were created as a gift to mankind and to one of my siblings. You will find the sibling and you will devote your power to them. In doing so, both of your power will grow, and mankind will be better for it. To access your power you must listen.”

“What do you mean I am a gift? What do you mean by listening–” I rose quickly, but it was too late. Only a moment, a breath had passed, but Destiny was gone. And I was left with more questions than answers.

Destiny told me he had six siblings: Death, Dream, Destruction, Desire, Despair, and Delirium. I just have to figure out which one I am a gift for, and with luck, my existence will fall into place after.

Perhaps, I should just check them off the list from eldest to youngest. Death could not be so hard to find. But I was so–so tired. The sun was warm, and a nice breeze swayed the trees. Suddenly I grew so exhausted it was though sandbags weighed down my eyelids. I had no choice but to sleep.

“What are you doing in my realm?” A man with fluffy dark hair and a harsh expression asked.

I blinked repeatedly, whipping my head around. I was no longer in the meadow. I was in a large throne room with three stained glass windows, and a large grey staircase that lead to a throne; who sat a man ghastly pale, dressed in all black.

I smiled large and bright at him, “You must be Dream. Your brother told me about you.”

“I have many siblings you will have to be more specific. Tell me quickly or I will have you removed.” His voice was as dark and cool as the deep depths of the ocean.

“Forgive me, Dream of the Endless,” I said in a sweet voice as I bowed low, “I am new to my gifts and living. I do not quite understand the etiquette of living beings just yet, and I am unsure how I got here. The sibling I speak of is Destiny. He told me I had to find which of the Endless I am a gift for.”

“Destiny,” the God who was not a God seemed utterly shocked, “What did my brother tell you exactly? Who are you?”

“I am Artemea; Goddess of Hope. Destiny told me I was made for one of his siblings, that whoever I am made for, both of our power, both of our gifts will grow exponentially.” I said, no longer bowing. I looked Dream in the eyes as I said it.

His eyes flashed bright white as the rest of his body was encompassed in a dark shadow, “And why would you be a gift for me? What would I want or need from you?”

The smile left my face as I fanned out my wings and called to my power. Dream of the Endless was angry, and it set my power, my very being on edge. But I continued.

“I cannot explain it, but I must be drawn to you and your realm. Why else would I be here? I cannot tell you how I will be of help to you. I cannot tell you how my power works. All I can tell you is what Destiny told me. I am no liar, King of Dreams.”

Some of the shadows receded into his body, as he slowly looked me up and down, “Why would you be created for me? Why would it not be any of my other siblings? Who said I wanted you? Who created you?”

“I…I do not know; I wish I did,” I said, my large grey eyes finally breaking eye contact with the Endless.

“I do not know what kind of game you are playing, but I will not have it. Leave now and I will not harm you. Come back uninvited again and I will kill you, Little Goddess.”

I shook my head in anger, “That’s it? You do not heed Destiny’s words?”

Dream’s lips perched into a sneer, “I will not take the word of some trespassing stranger, who appears to know very little. I will not ask again. Leave, Goddess.”

“As you wish, all-knowing, all-powerful, King of Dreams, King of Nightmares, The Sandman,” I mocked and perched my own lips into a sneer. My white feathered wings fanning out behind me. I wanted to look beautifully intimating, so I let some of my power bleed from my skin. The dark room now glowed with a heavenly gold as my light burned the rest of Dream’s shadows away.

A look of shock passed on his face just before I spread my wings and flew away from his realm. I couldn’t help but feel lost. His realm, whether he acknowledged it or not, calls for me. And I don’t think I was imagining the sadness the realm felt when I left.

I looked at the beautiful landscape beneath me of ever-changing greens, waters, and florals. I saw how my shadow crossed over the realm and the creatures seemed to reach for it. I shook my head. That couldn’t be.

A flap of wings and a caw at my side drew my attention.

A raven with a white chest flew side by side with me.

“You are no normal bird are you?” I ask, looking her in the eye.

“No, miss. His highness wanted to verify your exit,” the raven said with a soft voice.

I smiled at her, “I see. What’s your name?”

The bird squawked like she was confused, “Jessamy, miss.”

“Hello Jessamy. I am Artemea. Care for a race?”

I could have sworn a smirk passed on the bird’s face as she flapped her wings harder, flying far faster than I was.

I laughed hard, a free and joyful sound. As I raced Jessamy out of Dream’s Kingdom.

I was breathless as I reached the gate to the human world. I looked at Jessamy and nodded my head.

“Until we meet again,” and with that, I went through.

#the sandman #dream x reader #dream x fem!reader #dream of the endless #morpheus x reader #morpheus x original character #netflix sandman #king of nightmares #dream x goddess #fanfiction #neil gaiman

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i-did-not-mean-to · 29 days

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Fëanorian Week - Caranthir

So...erm...yeah, I don't even know what to say about this one...

Words: 510

Characters: Caranthir & Celegorm, Caranthir x Haleth

Prompts: Childhood, Spouse, Betrayal, Dwarves & Humans, Marriage, Appearance

Warnings: Oh insecurity, sadness, longing, loss...

Anger—diffuse and dull now—billowed through Caranthir’s soul like a pinkish mist.

At times, it felt as if all the other emotions which he’d once been able to feel had been displaced by that singular fire which kept his heart beating by sheer, brute force.

His fingers tightened around worn, threadbare fabric, and he scowled ferociously.

He’d tried to throw away the ghastly ragdoll countless times—it barely resembled anything at all, let alone the cat it had meant to represent upon its creation, and he hated how attached he was to the accursed thing.

For as long as he could remember, Tyelko had disliked him.

Of course, little ill-tempered, red-faced Morifinwë had not been worthy of the incandescent wrath or the formidable hatred of so tempestuous a soul—no, he’d grown up in the bitingly cold shadow of his older brother’s disdain.

Thus, the nameless lump of fabric—made of scraps from one of their father’s old mantles—had been the only gift Caranthir had ever received from Celegorm.

All the stitches were crooked, and the knobbly filling of discarded thread and whisps of clothes his brothers had outgrown had long since fallen out on account of the shoddy handiwork.

Irascible and impatient by nature, Caranthir had decided to take it apart and make it anew at least as often as he’d considered throwing it into the flames, but, ultimately, he never had.

“It’s red, like you,” his sibling had crooned upon thundering into his room in a flurry of dead leaves and mud. “It can be your friend.”

Caranthir, who had gained respect but never love over the years, would have been mortified that he still yearned for friendship so desperately; alas, shame had been burned out of his being along with hope on the battlefield.

Innumerable were his allies; he was feared and esteemed in equal measures by his own kind as well as his trade partners, but none of these brave souls had ever held any real affection for him.

Except…

Despite the betrayals he’d perpetrated and endured, and which had hardened him into something as unrecognisable as the mangled toy he clasped against his aching chest, Haleth had smiled at him as if he wasn’t unlovely and bitter.

She’d been wrong, but that didn’t diminish the sense of wonder and awe that flooded Caranthir’s petrified heart whenever his thoughts but grazed the image of her boundless, reckless joy, etched indelibly onto the last remaining soft spot of his soul.

Wordlessly, he laid down his childhood comfort, a symbol of untarnished love that could never be unmade or marred by dark deeds and terrible times, on the wet earth under which rested the brittle bones of one he had cherished more than he’d ever confessed.

“I give to thee, Haleth of the Haladin, queen amongst mortals, the jealously guarded and honestly dismal craft of Turcafinwë Tyelkormo…along with the wretched soul of one you might have saved had your fate been a different one.”

Desolate and utterly alone, he turned and limped away, blind with tears.

-> Masterlist

@feanorianweek, here is my first submission!

#og post #fëanorianweek #feanorianweek #IDNMT writes #fanfiction #writing #tolkien writing #jrrt #Caranthir #Day 4 #Childhood #Spouse #Dwarves&Humans #Betrayal #Sadness #Loss #Death of a love #Appearance

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drifting-pieces-blog-blog · 5 months

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Breaking down the comics: Committee of Three (Issue #4)

Moon Knight, Issue #4: A Committee of 5

Written by Doug Moench and drawn by Bill Sienkiewicz

I’m back! Took a little break to get caught up on some more modern Moon Knight and now I’m ready to jump back into the past!

Now this is an interesting one because “The Committee” was the original group of people that first hired Moon Knight to hunt down Jack Russell (Werewolf by Night). But back then, he and Jack took down the Committee. What could they possibly want with Moon Knight now? Let’s find out!

"Life is seldom easy for the mysterious man called Moon Knight--And it's about to get a whole lot harder! Five seasoned hit-men are out for his blood! They are a committee of:

One: Boom-Boom, explosives expert.

Two: Razor, blade freak.

Three: Ice. Sniper assassin.

Four: Dragon, karate black belt.

and Five: Bull, just plain animal!

All five are professional killers--and they enjoy their work. So it's rather simple really, either they're put out of business--fast--or the shadows will soon run red and echo with ghastly laughter."

I feel like Moon Knight faced a lot of professional assassins in the early runs. The one with them in the snow, then the one with him in Israel...

Also, LOOK AT THIS ART! I love this! Look how they put the words in his cape!

Also LOL.

We see Moon Knight landing awkwardly next to Rockefeller ice rink while a sniper lines up a shot. He takes aim and fires and we see Moon Knight fall!

He runs down to the rink to check the body. He needs proof of the kill for his bosses. But there is no body!

Moon Knight drops down behind him.

"Still alive--If you believe I have nothing worse than a bullet-hole through my cape... Or still dead--If you prefer to believe that I really AM a ghost. Take your pick, Annie Oakley."

I miss the days when Moon Knight really had a hard time convincing himself that he was alive. He played up the ghost angle so much.

He charges the gunman only to have the gun go off in his face, blinding him! Good job.

The sniper takes the opportunity to smash him in the head with the butt of his rifle. ....Moon Knight sure did take a lot of blows to the head in his early years.

Lucky for him, the gunman is still rattled by the whole ghost thing and flees in a panic, rather than finishing him off.

Recovering, Moon Knight wonders how long the assassin has been stalking him and who sent him.

On the other side of town, The Committee meets to get an update on Moon Knight's status.

Ice, the gunman, tells them that he had him but he's some sort of "spook"!

Ah! It IS the same Committee that hired him to hunt Jack Russel back in his first appearance of Werewolf by Night!!!

One of the guys was apparently on vacation and missed the memos so he asks who they're going after and why.

I love a good excuse for exposition.

"These five gentlemen have been retained to dispose of our personal Frankenstein monster. You DO recall our creation--Moon Knight-- Don't you? He nearly destroyed the original Committee. Now that we've reorganized, we owe it to the committee's honor to settle the score."

The assassins review their plans.

The dynamite guy, Boom-Boom, plans to blow up Moon Kight's vehicle. (Not the cab! Or maybe the Chopper?!) The rest just want to get up and personal.

The guy that was on vacation takes a minute to ask if going after Moon Knight is actually a good idea or not. You know... considering...

The other guy is angry at Moon Knight for taking their money and not delivering the wolf. Also because he turned on them and pretty much nearly wiped them out.

This is just a petty revenge mission.

Back at Grant Mansion!

We find Marlene working out and Moon Knight changing out.

"Well, aren't you the bundle of joy this morning, Mr. Grant? Or is it Mr. Lockley? Spector? Moon Knight--?" She takes playful jabs at him. It's...It's early in the comics so I'm not going to harp on this. Early enough where he himself really doesn't know what's going on and the others are still just him pretending to be someone else.

"Every identity has its place, Marlene, and every identity IN its place. We're in Grant Mansion--Ergo, I've just become Steven Grant." He's a bit snappy about it. He's still trying to compartmentalize and in deep denial.

"Okay, Steven. Bad night?"

"Routine. Seen Frenchie around?"

Frenchie has a place in the committee so he can keep track of their movements. This dates back to WBN.

Frenchie tells him that they've reorganized but he hasn't attended enough meetings since to know what's going on. But he has a feeling that something is going on behind closed doors.

Steven tells him that someone tried to knock off Moon Knight and they weren't an amateur.

The Committee predates Marlene. Or at least they never brought it up to her.

She asks just who these guys are that want him dead so badly.

Frenchie answers for them. "Several years back, Marlene, I learned of a group of international financiers...So I told Marc and we decided to investigate... posing as a French industrialist, I infiltrated them... I told them of a mercenary named Marc Spector who might take zee job, were he provided with anonymity and suitable weapons."

Marc approved the plan and they went back to the committee to introduce Moon Knight, who up to that point hadn't been a household name. Only Bushman had delt with the Moon Knight.

They detail about their efforts fighting the wolf.

"At first it seemed like killing two birds with one stone--Getting to zee bottom of zee committee's crimes while ridding zee world of a monster. But when he saw zee tortured humanity of a young man named Jack Russell locked behind zee horror, he freed zee werewolf and together they destroyed zee committee. This was before Marc became rich as Steven Grant, so he took zee committee's money--ANd left zee werewolf go free to find his own fate."

REALLY?! THAT'S where they got the money from!? What happened to all their money made as mercs? Did they blow it? No wonder Steven's so pissy all the time. He's worked his ass off to make their millions and Marc is just out there blowing through it.

The next day, Jake hits the streets to see if Crawley has any tips.

He does his usual 'gmorning to Gena and asks about her boys.

Then he immediately sides up to Crawley: "Any hitmen in town Crawley?"

Apparently there are five and they all hit the same nightclub in Queens. That's convenient.

He hires Gena's boys to find out the names of all the assassins and if they'll be back at the club.

He loves those kids.

He calls up Marlene and tells her to have Frenchie attend the next committee meeting. He also tells her to "practice your bump and grind, Lady."

Jake's got a way with words.

Oh no. OH NO. I know what issue this is.

The...The night club... It's an airplane. They have a theme.

Gena's sons go to the club to get info.

At the committee meeting, Frenchie busts in pretending to be pissed off not to be included in the previous sessions.

"We were concerned that you might object."

"Why shold I care? I knew zee mercenary Spector, oui, but he was hardly a FRIEND."

Up on the roof, Moon Knight listens in on the meeting as they inform Frenchie of the details.

In the club, the boys get into a bit of trouble but their manage to not only get out of it, but to also get the info they need.

Outside, Marlene is applying for a job in the club.

Yeah... It's...It's this issue.

The meeting over, Moon Knight switches to Lockley to get the info from Gena's boys.

A lot is about to happen here folks. Just…Just get ready for this.

(early Moon Knight tumblr fandom… If you know you know.)

Here we see Moon Knight startled by some firecrackers. He knows it’s a trap. But we see a cat sniffing at a box while Boom Boom waits.

IN A RARE EVENT. Moon Knight is not left fighting a random animal, but being saved by and saving that animal.

Boom Boom makes a run for it and Moon Knight stops another dynamite stick from going off with some sharp Crescent dart action! But Boom Boom manages to give him the slip and get away.

He takes defeat so gracefully.

So next day he heads out as Jake again.

He patrols the streets in his cab looking for news.

I just... I love Jake.

We see Jake come into the mansion to see Marlene heading out to her new job at the club.

Dealing with Marlene, he's instantly Steven. Then the phone rings and it's one of Jake's contacts so he's Jake again. That pose is 100% Jake.

Early issue we see them just cycle through easy peasy but still acting like it's pretend. But it's SO obvious when it's with Marlene. Jake really has no interest in Marlene as anything more than the lady his headmates care about.

It’s something I’ll contend with over and over again. Especially as the much later comics decide that Jake was really the one dating Marlene… But that’s an argument for another day.

We head over to the Madison Square Garden where Marc and Frenchie attend a boxing match.

They spot some that look like they might be the other assassins and move to follow them. Steven heads to the bathroom to change.

There's so much going on here that I love so much.

Steven changes in the bathroom. So a tuxedo man walks into the public bathroom... Probably in a stall... ANd changes into Moon Knight...

He left his tux in the bathroom. Probably on the floor or in the trash?

The jab that Grant can afford it. Poor Steven.

The champion boxer being like "Oh man. That's one fast cat. I don't want to tango with that dude."

Also him asking "Wonder if he's got any color under that white mask..." Implying that Moon Knight's so cool that he hopes he's a black man. Which I can respect. He’s got some style.

Then we have Moon Knight jumping into a typical rich person car to tail a cab.

I miss these simple Moon Knight days…

In the next panel we find that he didn't even ride IN the car, but hung onto the side as Frenchie drove.

"Twenty minutes later, North of central park, Moon Knight vaults from the Limo's running board..."

Moon Knight knows that this is another trap. It's a dark and abandoned building.

Yup. As soon as he's inside, he's ambushed by Dragon, the karate guy and the knife guy.

Karate guy pulls out his nunchak. Moon Knight also turns his truncheon into nunchak.

It's the first time we see Moon Knight's new weapon and it remains in the comics for a very long time after this. I love seeing his weapons advance in the comics!

He takes out the knife guy quick then turns to the Dragon.

He comes at Moon Knight, who doges each attack then lands a blow, taking out the blackbelt.

Which is hilarious because he's just a blackbelt in karate. We know at this point that Marc Spector had to learn a lot of different fighting styles in the Special Forces, not to mention his early street Boxing days as a young man. A simple black belt really has nothing on him.

Two down, he gets clocked in the back of the head by the Bull.

Moon Knight lands a few hits but he's still dizzy from the blow to his head. (again with the head).

Frenchie rushes in with a gun and scares off the Bull, who busts through a wall and dissapears.

"I'm getting just a little sick of this, Frenchie--That guy hits like a truck. Why didn't you stay with the limo?"

"I got Board, Marc."

I love Frenchie...

"Now there's a refreshing complaint...But taking there two to the mansion for safekeeping--Blindfolded--Oughtta keep you busy. Then get over to tonight's meeting of the committee."

Back at the club, Marlene has made it in with the head guy of the assassins, Ice, pulling her charms.

Sitting down for a private drink, they are interrupted by a phone call. It's from Bull!

Seems Bull and Boom Boom have decided Moon Knight is more than they really want to deal with.

"We're quittin'. Gonna put the squeeze on the committee instead--easier to just take the money than earn it by tacklin' Moon Knight again. You shoulda seen the way he took out Razor and Dragon!

He's too much, Ice! He's got helpers everywhere--They found Eddie tied up in the back room of Inn Flight--Coupla kids took his gun! They'll pick us off one by one! He's got spies everywhere I tell ya!"

Whoopse. Ice takes note of Marlene who is still sitting right there.

Ice tells them to do what they want. He's still got a job to do.

He tells Marlene he's got a meeting to get to, but she should stay there and wait for him.

Marlene quickly leaves to a payphone (despite a phone being right there in the office. But I guess.) She calls Jake's cab phone to tell him what she just heard.

Ice was waiting and watching the phone. He now knows Marlene is one of the spies.

Back at the main office, Boom Boom and Bull make their play against the committee by rigging the whole building to explode!

Outside, we see Ice climbing the outside of the building next to the warehouse to claim the money for himself!

On the otherside, Moon Knight starts to scale the building itself!

Boom Boom and Bull snag the money and move to make a run for it, but Ice has padlocked the exits! The building is set to explode in five minutes!

Moon Knight figures it out and notes that Frenchie is also trapped inside!

Ice makes it to the roof on the other building and spots Moon Knight on the roof, putting him back in his crosshairs.

Bull manages to bust through the door like before, but Frenchie is still deep inside the building.

Just as Ice takes his shot, the building explodes and collapses, sending the bullet right over Moon Knight's head as he falls with the building.

Gotta love that glider cape. Also gotta love Frenchie’s smarts.

Moon Knight makes a break for Bull.

As he runs, Ice opens fire again.

Moon Knight dives through the bullets, still after Bull.

Yeah he...He takes another blow to the head, knocking him to the floor of the little motor boat.

Moon Knight rolls, trying to knock Bull over. Unfortunately, this puts Bull right into Ice's bullets and he takes one to the chest.

The boat crashes, sending Moon Knight flying. He's having a good night.

Laing stunned on the dock, he's back in the crosshairs. Just before Ice can take his shot....

Marlene kicks the gun away!

And we see Moon Knight again, a sad wet cat crawling on the ground. He does this a lot.

"Like a ragged creature escaped from hell, he stands on the roof, the precious rifle clenched in granite hands..."

Moon Knight snaps the riffle in two over his knee. Then he knocks Ice out.

The cops later find all the remaining assassins on their door steps with a note "Night deposit" nailed to the door with a crescent dart.

He's got class.

Back at the mansion, Grand invites everyone over for a feast.

Which is funny considering that it's not till a later episode that he reveals himself as Jake and Steven and Marc and Moon Knight and that he's rich. But who's keeping track of continuity?

Grant reveals all the money that was supposed to go to the assassins from the committee. He divides it up among the friends, with a good amount going to charities.

I love this issue. It’s fun, it’s quirky, it’s an early issue that is still trying to establish who everyone is and how the dynamic functions, and you have a LOT of Moon Knight getting hit in the head or having the bad guys get away with him getting frustrated over it.

It’s got so much character! And maybe this is just me coming off of reading…the worst issues ever (Bemis, Aaron, Bendis)... But this was much needed. Really refreshing. Even the art style is so clean and just full of everything I love about Moon Knight.

#Moon Knight #Moon Knight comics #Analyzing the comics #Marc Spector #Jake Lockley #Steven Grant #Marlene Alraune #Jean-Paul Duchamp #This was a breath of fresh air you guys #Just a few left to review then we're out of the OG #I'mma cry you guys #I love Moench so much #Sorry this one took so long to put out

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see-arcane · 1 year

Text

Barking Harker Cast Snapshot 8: Barking Harker

To one thing I have made up my mind: if we find out that Mina must be a vampire in the end, then she shall not go into that unknown and terrible land alone. I suppose it is thus that in old times one vampire meant many; just as their hideous bodies could only rest in sacred earth, so the holiest love was the recruiting sergeant for their ghastly ranks.

[…]

Last night he was a frank, happy-looking man, with strong, youthful face, full of energy, and with dark brown hair. To-day he is a drawn, haggard old man, whose white hair matches well with the hollow burning eyes and grief-written lines of his face. His energy is still intact; in fact, he is like a living flame.

[…]

"I care for nothing now," he answered hotly, "except to wipe out this brute from the face of creation. I would sell my soul to do it!"

Harker evidently meant to try the matter, for he had ready his great Kukri knife and made a fierce and sudden cut at him. The blow was a powerful one; only the diabolical quickness of the Count's leap back saved him. A second less and the trenchant blade had shorn through his heart. As it was, the point just cut the cloth of his coat, making a wide gap whence a bundle of bank-notes and a stream of gold fell out. The expression of the Count's face was so hellish, that for a moment I feared for Harker, though I saw him throw the terrible knife aloft again for another stroke. […] Harker had lowered himself from the window to follow the Count.

We men were all in a fever of excitement, except Harker, who is calm; his hands are as cold as ice, and an hour ago I found him whetting the edge of the great Ghoorka knife which he now always carries with him. It will be a bad look-out for the Count if the edge of that ‘Kukri’ ever touches his throat, driven by that stern, ice-cold hand!

[…]

Harker smiled—actually smiled—the dark bitter smile of one who is without hope; but at the same time his action belied his words, for his hands instinctively sought the hilt of the great Kukri knife and rested there.

[…]

—instinctively they cowered aside and let him pass. In an instant he had jumped upon the cart, and, with a strength which seemed incredible, raised the great box, and flung it over the wheel to the ground. —Jonathan Harker, Jack Seward, Mina Harker, Dracula

He has never been a man quick to anger, let alone violence. He has ever been one more ready to sacrifice, to please, to befriend than to raise a fuss, no matter the wrong done to him. Indeed, he would never have passed through boyhood or his adolescence with any sort of peace if he had raised his hackles in defense. Experience has taught him how fine a line exists between the plush arms of friendship and pity versus the colder exile of revulsion. Among worse treatment.

Far better to be known for kindness. For approachable manner. For disarming smiles and charming mien and, as Hawkins and his fellows of the office had so often ribbed, the occasional bat of lashes, ha-ha, to smooth life along. No, there was no violence in him. None.

Not until the Count.

Not until Mina.

And for a time, violence was its own fueling fire, driving the pistons of him forward, forward, onward, onward. To vengeance. To rescue. To the end of the great horror which he had been so easily, damnably hooked into unleashing upon all he loved. Close, closer, closest, knife in hand..!

Until the escape of slaughter was pulled out from under him in a flurry of blood and snow. In the stillness after, violence is made as obsolete as obedience. Moreso. That is the trap of it, he’s shown. He was so ready for Hell, just to protect her; to join her.

What of a better offer, Faustus? A little deal between friends. Won’t you think on it awhile?

He does. He works. He waits.

As he time crawls, he finds himself plunged into morbid new changes with each passing night. Some bad. Some worse. Some harvested whole and shrieking from his deepest nightmares. But of them all, it is perhaps the smallest change that haunts him most.

Something inside him is smiling and wants him to smile along.

It laughs, bays, whispers. Wants.

(Do you have less sense than the dogs? The carrion birds? The moth and the maggot, the grass and the gravediggers? The dead travel fast only when allowed. You have the power to end it all. This castle is a graveyard and its tenants should not be free to feed on what lives. It is all out of order! Follow your instincts, Barking Harker. Smile. Open wide. And put the dead in their proper place—your teeth.)

Barking Harker details here.

Barking Harker teaser chapter here.

#jonathan harker #monster jonathan harker #dracula daily #dracula #barking harker #my writing #my art #minor spoilers #our good friend Jonathan Harker has been through a lot #I intend to put him through much more #happy halloween

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