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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 months ago

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The House Guest 2

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Bucky Barnes

Summary: an old acquaintance calls in a favour, leaving you with an unexpected house guest.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

“Where can a man get a beer around here?” Bucky’s voice distracts you from watching the starchy boil of potatoes.

You step back look at him as he fills the doorway. The house was built in another time. People were smaller. Or maybe he’s just big.

“Oh, the beer stores about fifteen minutes away.”

“Great,” he says. “Phone can’t find it. Map’s blank.”

“Ah, yeah, up here, that happens,” you say. “Fifteen minutes driving. It’ll be at least an hour on foot.”

“Right,” the disappointment is crisp in his voice.

“I got a case of Molson in the fridge. Neighbour’s wife was sick and I helped out. Gesture of kindness... for anyone that drinks. You’re welcome to it.” You take a fork and poke at the potatoes. “It’ll end up in the sink anyway.”

He inhales audibly, “you don’t mind?”

“As long as you don’t. I don’t know if it’s any good. I’m not a beer person. Unfortunately, everyone else around here is,” you turn off the burner and lift the large pot.

You carry it to the sink and dump the potatoes into the strainer. A cloud of steam puffs up and sets a sheen over your face. You grunt and put the hot pot aside. You lift the colander and shake out the excess water.

You look over your shoulder and set it back down. He’s still in the doorway, watching. It must be strange. To be fair, you feel the same. You’re not used to company and he’s a far way from home.

You go to the fridge and break off a tall can from the six-pack. You bring it to him and his lips clamp sheepishly, “thanks. Coulda waited til dinner... you need help?”

“I got it,” you assure as you hold out the can.

He takes it an examines the label. “More of a Heineken man.”

“Like I said, I wouldn’t know the difference,” you shrug.

You return to the sink and dump the potatoes back into the pot. He lingers at the door as he cracks the can. You cross to the fridge again as tension pinches the nape of your neck. You take out the butter and milk. The door sucks shut and you sniff as you back up.

“I... never been to New York,” you say to fill the void. “I hear it smells.”

“Stinks,” he agrees. “Born in Indiana but I ended up in New York. Home to me. Or... was.”

“Right,” you nod as you add some milk and butter to the potatoes and grab the masher. “I grew up south of here. Small town but closer to the city. Compared to this it was a metropolis.”

“It’s quiet up here.”

“Sure it,” you agree. “It’s nice. Most of the time.”

You put a lid on the pot to keep it warm and go to the stove. You turn off the steamer as the lid begins to tremble. The timer on the stove counts down.

“I can take you to the beer store tomorrow. Sorry but I hate driving after dark. The moose don’t exactly abide by the rules of the road.” You explain.

“It’s fine,” he takes a loud slurp. “It’s beer. It’s not...” he sucks his teeth loudly. “You know, I can’t even get drunk. The taste is just familiar.”

“Fair enough,” you hit the cancel button before the time can yell at you. “Dinner’s ready.”

You open the cupboard and take down two plates. You lay them out side by side and work at doling out the portions. His shadow hovers on the other side of the stove.

“Thanks, you know,” he dares to inch closer. “You already put a roof over me, now you’re feeding me.”

“No biggie. Just the way up here.”

He sniffs and gets closer, peeking at the pan as you carve out a hunk of meatloaf, “hadn’t had good home cooking since... well, I been living off the microwave crap or take out.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” you warn him. “It’s nothing special, I manage. As long as the meat’s cooked, I’m not complaining.”

“Me either,” he agrees. You lift the plates but before you can bring them to the table, he stops you. He puts the beer on the counter and brings his hands to the edges of the plates. “I got it.”

You let him take the food and he brings it to the table. You watch him then scoop up the can and follow him. It’s going to be an adjustment. For both of you.

You put the Molson next to his plate as he’s reluctant to claim his seat, “dig in. It’ll get cold.”

You go back to grab cutlery and come back. You sit and hand him a knife and fork. He reaches with his left hand and hesitates as you look at his metal digits.

He clutches the cutlery and quickly retracts. You don’t mention it though you do wonder if he’s embarrassed. Why? Isn’t that what makes him special? A hero? Or whatever he is.

“This place is old. My ma had the same lintels on her doors in 1934.” He points with his fork to the door frame.

“Old on top of old. Those are actually from the twenties. No one was doing renos in the thirties, I’m sure you know that. Somewhere back there, one of my great great whatever’s put in a stove and fridge and wired the place up. Kept the fire stove though. Antique now.”

“Antique, like me,” he scoffs.

You nod, unsure how to respond. You hope you don’t think you were implying anything. You get a bit carried away. Your mother and grandmother were always into genealogy and you caught a bit of the bug.

Or maybe he thinks you’re over explaining. He was alive. He would know all these things and could guess the rest. You bite into the meatloaf and stare at the painted trim on the plate.

“Ma’s place was taken down. Lived near the base since dad was there and they flattened it for a firing range. Now the place in New York... drug den now. New York, glamourous, really. You’re missing out,” he tuts dryly.

You look up at him and give a tight-lipped expression, “sorry to hear that.”

“It is what it is. The world changes. With or without you,” he reaches for the beer and swigs. His blue eyes dart to the wall and sharpen. He put the can down with a bit of force and pats his chest. He feels around and grimaces. “I’m gonna have a--” there’s a crinkle and he slides out another sucker. “Well...”

He waves the candy at you and stands. You watch him silently and scrape your fork through the mashed potato. He twirls the stick between his fingers.

“It’s good,” he points to his plate, “really.” He clears his throat and shifts on his feet, “back soon.”

He turns and marches out. You look down at your food and slice into the loaf. The grainy scent of the beer wafts over. You take another bite as your forehead creases in thought. Sam’s a funny guy and this feels a bit like a joke.

#bucky barnes #dark bucky barnes #dark!bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #series #drabble #the house guest #winter soldier #captain america #avengers #mcu #marvel

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the-astronome · 21 days ago

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Apparently unpopular opinion, but what I can judge from the screenshots we got today, the Capital is not just St. Petersburg, it’s more of a melange between St. Petersburg and Moscow. (Tbh, we got just one shot of the capital, so any opinion here is not really objective, but whatever)

Okay, so there is this:

My first thought was “wow is that inspired by Nevsky or by Tverskaya?”. (i. e. Nevsky Prospect in St. Petersburg and Tverskaya Street in Moscow). Consensus on Twitter is that this photo stinks of Nevsky vibes, however, I would like to point out several things, e. g. there are no sunny days in St Petersburg from architecture of the two Russian capitals to game design decisions made to create an atmosphere of a certain time period.

1) Architecture

I recall some people seeing the picture above and instantly suggesting Nevsky as an inspiration behind. I would like to point out, especially to the people who’d never been to either of the cities, that Moscow and St. Petersburg partly resemble each other (dear people of St. Petersburg - I know, sacrilegious of me to compare you with greedy Muscovites, no I’m not sorry).

Moscow is not only the Seven Sisters and modern skyscrapers. Petersburg is not only 200-300 y.o. buildings. Both cities underwent major changes during 19th and 20th centuries, both cities eventually adopted a somewhat similar style, a mix of late empire (1910s) and early soviet rule (1920s-1930s). Moreover, in many cases, these are even the same buildings, with a ground level from say 1913 and other floors from e.g. 1927. I’ll do you one better, if you compare historical districts of major cities of former Russian empire (e.g. Kyiv or Minsk), you’ll see the same thing. Yes, they’re not identical, but you can clearly see this specific architectural style of 1910-1920s.

Coming back to our screenshot above, I definitely can see Nevsky Prospect influence. However, when I saw those little decorative towers, they immediately reminded me of Tverskaya. I did some digging, and hey, there is actually something similar there:

Yes, not identical, but again, imo design of the Capital is done with goal to remind you of something you saw, not a copy, but close enough to understand the influence, to get the atmosphere of the city.

2) Historical aspect

Okay, from now on it’s my deluded gibberish, but hear me out. Considering the technologies presented in Pathologic (antibiotics, that massive ass artillery gun from P1 which honestly suspiciously looks like Schwerer Gustav), the game can be placed somewhere vaguely in 1920s-1930s. Taking into account what kind of language characters speak (for instance, Dankovsky speaks in a very specific manner, such Russian is more found in literature, than in actual spoken language. The same applies for most of the Utopians), lack of soviet-specific abbreviations and vocabulary, we can say that apparently October Revolution never happened. To be honest, Daniil wouldn’t survive the Revolution or early Soviet rule (read about repressions against intellectuals or the infamous Philosopher’s steamer)

You can argue: “but hey, isn’t Pathologic just a theatre play where such details don’t matter?”. Yes and no. Because it’s a theatre play, many otherwise important details are omitted. However, developers drop hints here and there, to set the tone and visually convey what kind of country and society they’re talking about. No offence to non-russian-speaking fans, but I’m still convinced that IPL still considers russian-speaking countries their primary audience. This leads to certain design choices, including architecture of the Capital.

In my opinion, IPL had to mix visuals of Moscow and St. Petersburg in order to convey a certain vibe. You see, since it’s somewhat suggested that revolution didn’t happen, developers have to utilise aesthetics of 1910s culture to show that we are talking about “Russia” from works of Gorky, Chekhov, and Bunin. At the same time, IPL have to add elements of early soviet culture, so the game world doesn’t look like weird 1910s with antibiotics and far too much advanced technologies.

How’s that connected to the Capital? Russian capital in late empire was St. Petersburg. In later years - Moscow. Moreover, if we are talking about Dankovsky as a character, his design (among other things) is heavily influenced by works of Bulgakov. But in Russian mindset Bulgakov is tightly associated with 1920s Moscow, you just can’t escape it. So, consequently, IPL decide not to sacrifice one for another, and just mix the two capitals, stylistically, in order to create the desired impression on the player.

We’ll see if all that is at least partially true from P3. Hopefully, even from the upcoming demo.

#also note the pre-reform orthography!!#and the electrotheatre right there #do you know what’s also on Tverskaya?#you guessed it! Stanislavsky Electrotheatre!#pathologic #pathologic 3 #daniil dankovsky #даниил данковский #мор утопия

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silkentine · 26 days ago

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PLEASE TELL ME ABOUT BAT VALENTINE PLEASE

Bat Valentine is new to the city. He’s spent his whole life chasing the next “change of pace:” new haircuts, new schools, new names… new friends. It’s not that he isn’t sociable or kind; rather, he’s just one of the unlucky kids that has never had a best friend. Not for lack of trying! After his roommate told him he was clingy, he found a new apartment. After his coworker got a girlfriend, he didn’t have anyone to go out with. After his mom became catatonic, he had no one to talk to. So he shoved everything he needed into a steamer trunk, bought a one-way ticket to Dentona, and got a change of pace.

With no money (YET!) and no job prospects (YET!), he turns to a matchmaking service called Zippr that pairs people looking for new friends with each other. Everyone in the Zippr ads is having fun meeting up at cafés and drinking beers on the beach but he’s mostly hoping he’ll find someone who will let him crash on their couch. He’s so fucking tired. The only thing that keeps him sane is pretending that he’s a vampire who’s been alive for hundreds of years and has a ton of friends that have unfortunately succumbed to their mortality, just like the moody, heart-throb love interest from the Crepuscular Saga novels, Anthony Slater.

Seriously, something might be wrong with him. When you have to role play every day to get out of bed (in a tiny capsule hotel that is rapidly sucking up your dwindling savings), you might just have to admit that you’re properly depressed. Bat, however, will be damned if anyone finds out he’s having a rough time—and that he might have been hasty moving across the country with no safety net��so when he goes to every Zippr LinkUp and announces that he’s a vampire with a forced smile on his face, it doesn’t take long for people to suspect him of being the local brutal serial killer that tears their victims’ throats. The news has dubbed them “The Dentona Vampire” (that’s their best work? OK.), and Bat really couldn’t have picked a worse time to get into LARPing.

Luckily for him, the angry mob is not the only one who’s noticed his suspicious vampirism; a bright-eyed young woman takes Bat under her wing, vowing to teach him how to “live among mortals” and grumbling about “masters not taking care of their newly-turned.” She seems more into the vampire gimmick than even he is, but he won’t look a gift friend in the mouth (even if they have fangs.) FYI: This is Camille, who you can find out more about by looking at the “sanguine” tag on my blog.

That’s my elevator pitch for Bat Valentine. He’s a huge sad dork and he desperately doesn’t want anyone to find out even though he can’t stop wearing his heart on his sleeve. Some characters that I draw inspiration from are: Portgas D. Ace from One Piece, Bella from Twilight, Okarun/Ken Takakura from Dandadan, Adrien Agreste from Miraculous Ladybug, Chloe Price from Life is Strange, and Haejoon Goh from No Home.

#sanguine #oc #character design #original concept #vampire #in case it’s not clear: he is totally 100 percent human and he has no idea that Vampires are real.#bat valentine #camille boucher #transgender #elevator pitch #fiction #writing #comic artist #sketch #hehe also I couldn’t resist drawing him in the OP art style #I drew that Luffy on a whim and didn’t have the heart to erase him so bonus Luffy!#one piece #monkey d luffy #piercings

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oliversrarebooks · 3 months ago

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The Rare Bookseller Part 72: Alexander's Resolve

Previous > Masterlist > Next

tw: mind control, dehumanization, possessiveness, sickness, doctor examination, drugging

October 1925

Lex's joys never lasted long.

The night was cold and clear, unlike the thick fog that had accompanied his and Fitz's reunion, and the bright moon overhead didn't suit Lex's dark mood. He was trying to fake high spirits, not wanting to mar Fitz's last night in the city, and as usual, he was failing.

"You look like you're heading to an execution. Actually, no, I think you would be more cheerful if you actually were heading to an execution," said Fitz. "I'll be back again before you know it."

That was a lie, and they both knew it. Lex keenly felt every moment they were apart. In the brief time they'd had together as master and thrall, they'd formed a deep bond, and turning Fitz had only strengthened it. Fitz living halfway across the world was like cutting out one of his lungs and flinging it across the ocean, or keeping half of his brain on the moon, unnatural.

"I know," said Lex, acquiescing to the lie. "But is it too much to hope that you'll visit sooner next time?"

"That's the first time you've asked me that."

"Is it?" That didn't seem right. But then, perhaps it was. He'd never been good at simply telling Fitz, or anyone else, what he wanted, for fear of being denied.

"It is. And since you've asked so nicely… I think it can be arranged," said Fitz. "Perhaps I could come for New Years."

"That soon!"

"Why not? You did say I should --"

"Yes," said Lex, fearful that Fitz would take it back. "Yes, come for New Years. That sounds perfect." This winter might actually be bearable if Fitz would be returning in just a few short months. And in the meantime, he'd have Oliver for comfort.

Oliver coughed politely behind his hand. Lex suspected that he might be feeling under the weather, as his eyes looked unusually tired and the smell of his blood was slightly off. He'd have to worry about that after seeing Fitz off.

"We should board soon, sir," said Roger, who once more had been relegated to dragging along the steamer trunk.

Fitz pulled out his pocket watch and glanced at the time. "Unfortunately, you're right."

"I'm glad you're still carrying the watch I gave you," said Lex, trying to shove down the nasty cocktail of emotions brewing in his gut. "I understand if you have to go. I wouldn't want you to miss your --"

Cold lips were pressed to his as Fitz pounced upon him. One final moment of having his Fitz in his arms where he rightfully belonged, before his precious sired was torn away from him once more, separated by an ocean.

No, it was his sire who separated him. If it weren't for his sire, it would be safe for him and Fitz to be together, and nothing would separate them again. It was his sire who ripped away every joy he had in this wretched eternal life, no matter how small, and one day, he knew, he'd come for Fitz again, no matter how far away he lived. And perhaps even sooner, he'd come for Oliver, break his mind and spirit and rob the light from his eyes.

It couldn't be allowed. It wouldn't be allowed. This time, Lex couldn't fail.

Lex's anger at his sire mixed with the bittersweetness of Fitz's departure, and Lex returned the kiss with ferocity, backing Fitz up against a wall -- and the sound he made when Lex pinned him was beautiful.

God damn it, he would miss this.

It was over too soon, as it always was. Lex had to loosen his hold on Fitz and let him go, even as every instinct in his body screamed at him to take what was his. His fist clenched, nails digging into his skin, as Fitz walked away with Roger in tow.

He could stop Fitz, if he wanted. He could sing to Fitz, a sweet song of love and obedience, and watch his expression dissolve into a dreamy smile and glassy eyes. He was so gorgeous when he was under Lex's spell, swaying helplessly in Lex's arms, filled with bliss as Lex poured his power into his ears. It was his right as a vampire lord to do what he would with his sired -- he could take Fitz back and have him as blissfully enthralled as Oliver, and never have to suffer this wound again.

Except he couldn't, not when his sire was still there. And when Lex finally achieved his goal, was finally free, he wouldn't need to enthrall Fitz to make him stay. They could live together freely, go where they wanted and do as they pleased and keep their thralls safe, and maybe…

Maybe things could be good. Maybe Lex could be happy. Maybe Lex could begin to erase the decades of pain, and take back some small part of what he'd lost that night when the Maestro first took hold of his body.

It was that thought, more than any other, that stopped him from doing something he and Fitz would both regret.

And so he allowed Fitz to go once again.

"We should go home," said Lex, taking Oliver's arm in his. Despite wearing a fine woolen coat that Lex had provided, Oliver was noticeably shivering, and as they walked from the docks, he began to cough violently.

There was no ignoring it. Oliver was ill, hopefully with nothing serious. It had been some time since Lex had cared for a sick human, but he thought he still remembered. The first order of business was to get his poor thrall off his feet. Lex swept him into a princess carry, amused at Oliver's squeak of surprise.

"Sir -- what are you -- " His body was wracked with coughs again.

"You're clearly not feeling well at all. Why haven't you said anything?"

"I didn't want to worry you, sir. I'm sure it's only a cold."

"Only a cold or not, you're my thrall. I'm very invested in your health and well-being, as I hope you realize."

Oliver nodded weakly. "Yes, sir, I appreciate it."

Lex pressed a hand to Oliver's forehead and was not surprised to feel it hot as a furnace. Oliver leaned into the cold touch, closing his eyes. "You seem to be running a high fever, and your cough sounds bad. What else is troubling you?"

"I'm sore and tired all over, sir," said Oliver, cuddling against Lex in a way that he normally didn't. "My throat is awfully sore, and I'm congested. That's about all."

"You must have caught something from the other humans at the Tiger's Eye. There's always some irresponsible vampire who doesn't take proper care of their thralls. Now I regret taking you, especially with how distressed you were over Jessica's thrall."

"I'm glad I got to see what had become of her, sir."

"I suppose so." Lex pulled up what information he had about human illness from dusty corners of his mind. He should probably just call on Edith. She'd know the correct thing to do. "I'll take you home and get you into bed. Is there anything you'd like to eat or drink? I bought you some cans of soup recently, didn't I?"

"Yes, sir, there's still some canned soup in the pantry. Water to drink would be fine, or a cup of tea, if it isn't too much trouble."

"It isn't trouble at all. Just as you serve me, it's my responsibility to serve you when you need it."

"Thank you, sir." Oliver leaned into Lex's chest and closed his eyes, clearly exhausted.

As concerned as Lex was, he couldn't help but be endeared at how much his thrall trusted him. Fitz may have left him for now, but Oliver was right here, and he needed Lex.

And Lex needed him. He'd tried so hard to avoid becoming attached to another thrall after Fitz, buying very ordinary thralls with low quality blood that wouldn't interest his sire at all, keeping Henry and unfortunate Paul at arm's length. Lex hadn't fully appreciated how his lack of decent blood and decent service was diminishing him, not until he had no choice but to acquire Oliver. Oliver, whose blood was rich and full of life; Oliver, who fell under his spell so easily and completely.

That was why he had refused Fitz's last minute offer to take Oliver overseas with him. Certainly, it might spare Oliver from the looming threat of his sire, but Lex simply couldn't stand to see his new thrall taken away along with Fitz. He knew that without Oliver to keep his spirits up, he'd fall into cowardice and inaction once again, his weakness allowing his sire to press him firmly under his thumb.

When they arrived home, Lex carried Oliver upstairs to his own bedroom, which was only occasionally used now that Lex had given into the temptation to have his thrall warm his bed on cold nights. He stripped Oliver of his heavy coat and set him down on the side of the bed, and his thrall blinked at Lex slowly with bleary eyes. "You don't need to do a thing, Oliver. Just relax," said Lex.

Lex made quick work relieving Oliver of his shirt and pants, and Oliver's complete lack of resistance as he was undressed was an indicator both of trust and of how out of it the poor human was. He fetched some light pajamas from the dresser and a washcloth doused in cold water from the bathroom, to wipe the sweat from his too-warm skin. Soon, Oliver was bundled safely into his bed, his heavy eyes drifting shut even before Lex could sing to him.

Satisfied with his work, Lex went to the kitchen to heat water for tea. There was a loud knock on the door, and Lex groaned, in no mood for visitors. He peeped through the spyhole to see Lily.

"If this is a social call, I'm afraid I'll have to turn you down tonight," said Lex as he opened the door. "Oliver's taken ill, and I'm going to need to go fetch Edith."

"Jessica's dead," said Lily.

"What?"

"Exactly what I said, Jessica's dead."

Lex stared in shock. He'd never exactly been friends with Jessica -- their interests and personalities were far too different, and Lex couldn't stand her habit of discarding thralls that bored her. But they'd known each other for a very long time, and it seemed impossible that she could be dead. Lex let Lily into the house wordlessly, and they went to the music room to talk. Oliver's tea would unfortunately have to wait a few minutes.

"When did it happen?"

"The night we all went to the Tiger's Eye, apparently. No one's sure what went down, but her carriage was found empty the next morning. It was even in the human papers," said Lily, fiddling with her hair. "It seems likely it was a hunter who got her."

"But Jessica's been untouchable all these years. Any hunter who gets close enough to stake her falls under her power. Unless…"

"That's exactly why I wanted to be the one to tell you, because I knew what conclusion you would draw." Lily leaned forward, glaring. "Everyone's saying that it must have been the witch-hunter."

"Jessica knew about the witch."

"But she didn't believe the witch was real. Besides, you know how drunk she was by the time we left the club. Don't you think she could've been caught off guard?"

"I guess she must have." Lex's mind was working a million miles an hour.

"You need to be careful, Lex. I mean it! Jessica only lived a short walk away from here. You could so easily be next."

"Then I'll have to be ready for it."

Lily groaned. "I'm serious, Lex. At the risk of being disgustingly sincere… I don't know how I'd deal with it all if something happened to you. So just don't do anything stupid and reckless, okay?"

"I won't be careless like Jessica. I promise," he said, his face softening. "I don't want to get dusted. Not now, when I feel so close to having an existence that's worth it." Truthfully, Lex thought that Lily would be perfectly fine without him. And she'd certainly take Oliver if anything happened to him, and hopefully she'd send him to Fitz if she didn't want to keep him herself. Still, Lex was surprised at how vehemently he didn't want to be killed. That hadn't always been the case.

With her warning delivered, Lily left Lex to tend to his thrall, and Lex put the kettle back on. He took the hot tea up to Oliver, who was sleeping fitfully. Lex touched his forehead and found that it was still burning hot.

"Master?" said Oliver, his eyelids fluttering open.

"Shh, it's okay, Oliver. I brought you some tea if you'd like. Or if you want to just sleep, you can do that."

"Mmm." Oliver closed his eyes again, sinking into the pillow.

Lex's mind couldn't help but turn. The witch hunter was so, so close, and with her, a possibility of freedom, the spell to render his sire's control over him ineffective. All he really had to do was go out at night as though calling on friends or visiting the club, making himself a tempting target…

He hated to leave Oliver home by himself, but he'd only be a liability in the fight that Lex was seeking. He'd be perfectly safe locked up at home while Lex did what needed to be done, much as he was forced to leave Fitz behind when enthralling the guild, so many years ago.

It was exactly the sort of plan that Lily was warning him against, but he had to try. He couldn't let another opportunity to be free of his sire slip through his fingers with so much on the line.

His mind was made up.

"I'll protect you," Lex whispered to his sleeping thrall. "I'll protect you no matter what it takes. I promise I won't fail you."

---

Oliver was running, running through endless hallways, not getting any closer to his goal -- not that he was even sure what his goal was. He was late, he knew that much, and his efforts were inadequate, and he was in so much trouble --

There was someone calling for him. He wanted to respond, but his throat felt so dry and scratchy that he couldn't get the words out. He fell to the ground, coughing so hard he felt his ribs would split.

The coughing fit woke him up. As awareness returned to him, he realized that he was in his own comfortable bed and not some dingy hallway. Unfortunately, the burning pain in his throat was real, along with his headache, itchy eyes and sore muscles.

"Easy, Oliver." His master was by his side, rubbing his back so gently as Oliver coughed. "Here, drink some water. Slowly."

Oliver gratefully took the glass of water, and it took all his restraint to follow Alexander's instructions and not gulp it down. The water soothed his cracked lips and tortured throat, enough that he could croak out words. "Thank you, sir."

"Shh, you don't need to talk," said Alexander. "And you don't need to thank me. It's the least I can do, to take care of you when you're ill."

Oliver nodded, comforted to have his master near. Of course Alexander had every incentive to care for him, having paid so much money for Oliver, but Oliver was still relieved that the vampire was so dedicated. He'd been sick frequently his whole life, and he'd always had to suffer through his illnesses alone, huddled in his little bunk in the apartment above the bookstore, dragging himself a few feet to fetch water and whatever food he happened to have in the pantry. Having someone look out for him was a welcome change.

"I've brought Dr. Edith to see you. Will you let her examine you?"

Oliver hadn't even noticed the older woman standing near the doorway, the vampire doctor he'd met a few weeks ago. She was wearing a black walking dress and carrying a medical bag. He couldn't help but be a bit apprehensive about being examined by a vampire other than his master, but with Alexander right here, he should be fine. He nodded.

Alexander stepped back a few paces to allow Dr. Edith to sit by his bedside. "Hello there, Oliver. Your master tells me that you're running a fever and have a sore throat and a cough, is that right? You don't need to speak if it hurts."

Oliver nodded again. Her aura felt soothing, almost like a cool breeze. It made him want to close his eyes and go back to sleep.

She produced a thermometer from her bag. "Be a good boy and open your mouth. Here, I'll just put that under your tongue… and hold it there. Good." As Oliver lay there with the thermometer sticking out of his mouth, she opened one of his eyes wider with her fingers and looked in. "Follow my finger with your eyes, now. That's a good boy."

His eyelids were drooping as he tried to watch her finger up and down, back and forth. He couldn't help but wonder if she might be mesmerizing him, but then she stopped.

"Eye movements are normal. Let's see that temperature reading." She relieved Oliver of the thermometer and took a look. "No wonder you aren't feeling well, dear. We need to get that fever down, don't we?" She rummaged in her medical bag and pulled out a brown bottle and a small metal spoon, pouring out a generous amount of what was within. It smelled foul.

"What's in it, sir?" Oliver managed to say.

"It's medicine that will help with your cough and fever. You'll probably go right to sleep after you take it -- not that you need help sleeping with your master's abilities. But it's very important to reduce your fever."

Despite the compulsion to follow her words, Oliver balked a bit at the disgusting smelling medicine, glancing over at his master. "You should do as she says," said Alexander.

Left with no choice, he gulped the medicine, swallowing it as fast as he could and nearly gagging on the taste. Dr. Edith mercifully gave him some water to wash it down.

"That's a good thrall," she said. "Now I need to examine your chest. Just lie back and try to relax and breathe deep."

She began unbuttoning his pajamas with a no-nonsense attitude, and all Oliver could do was lie there as she exposed his chest and pressed a cold stethoscope to it. "Breathe in, dear. Now breathe out. Big deep breaths for me. Good boy."

She put the stethoscope down and began gently palpating him around the neck. "Nothing abnormal. Let me just see your bite scars. Alexander, are these his only bite wounds?"

"They are. I've only ever fed from his neck."

"Very good. Well, they don't look infected. Healthy and normal for a thrall."

Oliver was starting to feel strange as she pulled out another instrument to examine his ears. It was almost as if he were floating away from his body, watching himself on the bed from a distance.

"It's all right, Oliver," said his master, who was suddenly by his side again. "That's just the medicine kicking in."

He looked up at Alexander as his vision blurred, his eyelids threatening to close. He hadn't even realized that the doctor had finished her examination. He lay there, fighting to stay awake as Alexander and Dr. Edith discussed his condition.

"…give him a spoonful every eight hours or so. If his fever gets worse…"

"What would be a suitable thing to feed…"

"He's otherwise healthy, so he should…"

The next time he opened his eyes, Dr. Edith was gone, and Alexander was perched on the side of the bed, stroking his face and humming softly.

"You're going to be all right, Oliver. You should get some rest."

His master began to sing, and it wasn't merely a lullaby to put him asleep. In the notes of the song, Oliver could hear his master's commands to feel safe and to know he was cherished, and it put him at ease as he slipped back down, down, down into oblivion.

Previous > Masterlist > Next

There will be no new Bookseller next weekend, because I'm getting married. I think that's a fair enough excuse!

I may have other things to post in the meantime though, so don't touch that dial.

@d-cs @latenightcupsofcoffee @thecyrulik @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @wanderinggoblin

@whumpyourdamnpears @only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are @pressedpenn @pigeonwhumps @amusedmuralist

@vampiresprite @irregular-book @whumpsoda @mj-or-say10 @und3ad-mutt

@sowhumpshaped @whumpsday @morning-star-whump @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl

@steh-lar-uh-nuhs @pirefyrelight @theauthorintraining @whump-me-all-night-long @anonfromcanada

@typewrittenfangs @tessellated-sunl1ght @cleverinsidejoke @abirbable @ichorousambrosia

@a-formless-entity @gobbo-king @writinggremlin @the-agency-archives @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi

@enigmawriteswhump @bottlecapreader @whump-on-a-string @whumpinthepot

@cinnamoncandycanes @avvail-whumps @tauntedoctopuses @secret-vampkissers-soiree @whatamidoingherehelpme

@strawbearydreams @ghost-whump @tippytappytyping @natthebatt @fire-bugg14

@fuckcapitalismasshole @slightlydisturbedbeans @paperprinxe @demetercabingreen-thumb @the-broken-pen

@pokemaniacgemini @jumpywhumpywriter @basica11ywhumped @anoontjecanush @cepheusgalaxy

@whump-me-harder @whump-till-ya-jump @the-monarch-whumperfly

#whump #whump writing #vampires #mind control #sickfic #vampire whump #rare bookseller #alexander #oliver #fitz #lily #edith

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fayes-fics · 11 months ago

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When The World Is Free: Chapter 5 - Sans Y Penser

MASTERPOST PREV | NEXT

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, WW2 AU.

Warnings: none really... mildly angsty situations, some flirting and interesting proposals.

Word Count: 2.9k

Author’s Note: Multi-chapter fic based on a request by the lovely @amillcitygirl! Please see the masterpost for a synopsis of this story. HERE BE PLOT. A lot of things happen in this one afternoon. Thanks to @colettebronte for beta reading. Enjoy!

Le Havre, September 1939

The port city of Le Havre is bustling with travellers hauling suitcases and steamer trunks, all walks of life converging on this point of exit. You weave through the crowds from the train station as a trio, headed for the bright red awnings of the company sailing to the USA. Benedict and Eloise hang back as you approach the ticket window.

“Name?” the brusque man in the booth opens with a crisp American accent.

“Y/n y/l/n,” you smile politely.

“You are not on the manifest,” he sighs after a pause to scan down the paperwork, impatience colouring his tone.

“But I must be,” you frown, “I was given this here…”

You push your ticket under the window, clearly marked with today’s date.

“Fraudsters,” his economic response.

“But… they were from your company? Outside your offices in Paris? And wearing your company livery? They… They said I could bring forward my sailing date from August to today. They took my original ticket and gave me this! It looks the same!” Panic rises in your voice with each sentence, dread churning behind your ribs as you realise you have likely been duped.

“I'm sorry, ma’am, but that is not a valid ticket,” is his monotone reply.

“Oh god. What can I do? May I buy another ticket now?!?”

His responding laugh is a loud bark, “Hah! Ma’am, we are booked up for weeks in advance. There is a long line every day of people hoping for last-minute availability,” he signals to a line of weary-looking, luggage-laden folks under a makeshift shelter.

“But I….” you feel your eyes watering and dread in the pit of your stomach like you are falling down an endless chasm.

“Ma’am, please step aside; I need to ensure valid passengers can board this ship…” he warns in a tone that is wholly without sympathy.

With a weak nod, you stumble away, back towards Benedict and Eloise. As you draw closer, their faces are a picture of concern, realising something is amiss. As you tearfully recount what happened, Benedict seethes, and Eloise wraps her arm around you, looking pained.

“I’m going up there. This is unacceptable!” Benedict grits out, righteous indignation fizzing from his very being.

You have to hold out a hand to physically stop him. “It's likely no use,” you appease.

His ire deflates a fraction at your hold on his coat sleeve. “At least let me try, y/n,” he modifies after a few beats.

“Alright,” you relent, dropping your hand, “but I do not expect a different answer.”

You and Eloise cling to each other as you watch Benedict remonstrate with the same man and then a different one at the window. All the while, your stomach is in knots, equal parts fear and hope.

It's five or more minutes before Benedict returns to you, his face pinched.

“I was not successful,” he screws his mouth, looking away as if he cannot meet your eye as he says it. “They don't seem to care that criminals are posing as agents for their organisation,” he rubs his eyebrow in irritation. “I would report it to the police, but it's not their jurisdiction here, and it still does not solve our dilemma…”

“Thank you anyway…” you breathe, “for trying at least…”

There is a long silence as the three of you stand there, stupified by the conundrum before you. The chime of a clock on the harbour building breaks your thoughts.

“It's 3pm. Your sailing back to England is in less than an hour. You should go. You two leave without me,” you demure.

“NO!” they both exclaim in almost comic sibling unison.

“I’ll be fine, seriously.”

“I’m not leaving you alone here for god knows how long until there is room on a ship to America. You can’t be alone. This isn’t Paris; this is a port city. It’s definitely not safe,” Eloise rattles off, looking at you imploringly.

“She’s right,” Benedict concurs. “You were safe in Paris together before the war. You are not safe here. A beautiful young woman. You are a target for thieves or even worse. You cannot stay here alone.”

You try your hardest not to let Benedict calling you beautiful derail your whole thought train, but it’s futile. Your mind is scattered like a pile of wooden toy railway coaches.

“I... I could return to Paris?” You finally suggest after what feels like an eternity of buffering. “I could call to check for last-minute availability every morning. It’s only a couple of hours by train. I’ll be always packed and ready to go…” you argue, not as yet realising the naivety behind your own idea.

“Paris will be the first target for Hitler’s invasion,” Benedict says gravely. “It could be much worse to remain there…”

“So what am I to do? I’m damned if I do, and I’m damned if I don’t…”

“There is only one solution, and that is for us to remain here as well until you can secure passage out of the country,” Benedict shrugs.

“Agreed,” Eloise nods emphatically as you go to protest.

“There are many more sailings back to England, and tickets are easier to come by,” Benedict points out. “We can move our tickets up. At least by a few days until we can devise a plan.”

“Wait… if there are no ships to America, why don't you come to England with us?” Eloise pipes up in a lightbulb moment.

“I have nowhere I could stay…”

“Nonsense! You will stay with us at Aubrey Hall. Won’t she, Benedict?”

“Oh yes, of course. There are plenty of spare rooms,” he assures.

“Gosh, umm... Maybe? I…” you hesitate. The whiplash of the last few minutes and the generosity of their offer momentarily overwhelm you. “That's very generous of you. The problem is I don’t know for how long it would be, or even if I should. My parents only agreed to me living in Paris under the watchful eye of Solene. This… this is entirely other…”

You startle as Benedict places his hands on your shoulders, pulling your attention to his sincere expression. “Y/n, you need to worry less about what your family thinks and more about yourself - what you need and your safety. This is escaping impending war; it’s a completely different circumstance from how you arrived here. The decisions you make right now have to be selfish and unburdened by expectations. It’s easy for others to judge from the distance of safety. But look around you. This town is teeming with people clambering to leave the country before an invasion. We do what we have to in unpredictable circumstances to survive.”

“You sound like a soldier,” you murmur.

“It’s what my father was,” he replies, releasing his grip but not moving away. “As a very young man in The Great War. He was lucky to survive, being an officer away from the front lines, but he taught me many things before he died. And one was about always making the smart choice if you can see one, even if it feels uncomfortable. The smart choice here is to escape by any means necessary. We all know Hitler has his sights set on France, especially Paris, as the figurative and cultural capital of Europe. You must get out. You must come with us.” You are captivated by his hazy eyes as he speaks, your heart beating fast as his face and voice grow softer. “Please. I could not live with myself if we left you behind,” he admits in a much quieter tone, but the plea is no less impassioned.

You cannot help it. You stare up at him, transfixed. Stanley has never been so eloquent. Or indeed so invested in your well-being.

“Alright…” your hesitancy soft, “but you must let me pay you for my ticket…”

His face seems to light up at your acquiescence. “One day… maybe,” he smiles.

And so that is what he does - leaves you and Eloise ensconced in a nice bistro overlooking the harbour with a large bottle of white wine as he walks over to the ticket office for the ferry company and swaps their tickets for a few days hence and purchases an additional ticket for you, steadfastly refusing to tell you the cost for it even for many weeks hence.

While you are in the ladies' room, Eloise strikes up a conversation with a young man in uniform at the adjacent table; you fondly roll your eyes as you retake your seat and leave them be. Your gaze, however, is never far from the window, to where Benedict last left your line of sight, somehow anxious for his return. When he reappears, striding purposefully towards the cafe, your chest flutters hard, his coat swishing around his legs, his hat at an attractive slant. If there is one thing you swear you could spend a lifetime doing, it’s watching Benedict Bridgerton just… be.

“Any luck?” you ask as he arrives and doffs his hat, taking a seat on your other side, throwing an exasperated glance at his little sister and the uniformed man.

“We are set to sail Thursday,” he smiles and signals for the waiter, ordering a glass of Beaujolais. “I also stopped in the post office to call Solene. She has said we can stay as long as we need to at her sister’s cottage a few miles from town.”

“Oh, that's wonderful news!” your shoulders relax for the first time in what feels like hours. “But wait, I remember she said there is only one bedroom,” you point out. “You’ve been sleeping on our sofa for days now… you deserve a bed. I’ll take the sofa…”

“No. Also, I’m not sharing a bed with my sister,” he shudders, “she kicks in her sleep!”

“Oh, thanks. So I guess you want me to have bruised shins, then??” You laugh with gusto, the ricochet day making all your emotions heightened, seemingly bouncing from one extreme to another. Right now, a strange bubble of joy at this lighthearted exchange.

“Not at all. In fact, I’d happily share with you instead to save your legs from the abuse!”

You know it’s said in jest, the comedic relief of the moment evident on his face, but still, a shot fires in your chest at the thought of sharing a bed with him. You decide to make light of it, even as your heart quickens.

“How do I know this kicking is not a problem that runs in the family? And you’re way stronger than her!”

“You can tie me down if it would make you feel better!” he chuckles loudly.

You flush all over, the very thought so beguiling yet scandalous. And yet you cannot stop your mouth running away with you, this flirtatious banter too tasty to resist, the wine you’ve been drinking far too quickly for the last half hour loosening your lips.

“I think you would enjoy that far too much, Mr Bridgerton,” you volley back, raising an eyebrow with a giggle.

His cheeks turn the most adorable shade of pink even as his eyes dilate rapidly, a corner of his tongue flicking out to pull his bottom lip under his teeth. It makes you want to sink your teeth right there, this impulse to be so physical with someone discombobulating. You've never had such errant, feral desires for Stanley.

“You're probably right…” he rumbles quietly after a pause.

You dare to hold his gaze even though you know it’s a mistake. This nightmare of a day makes you uncaring of propriety. He looks as wild as you feel inside, a glint in his eye that is at once permission and danger.

“Theo here has been telling me all sorts of helpful information,” Eloise leans in, breaking the spell between you, a slight slur in her voice from her wine.

Theo nods to you and Benedict. On closer inspection, he appears to be in a British soldier uniform.

“I have to get back on duty,” he explains apologetically as he rises from his seat, “but I hope the information I’ve provided to your sister here will help.” He adds with a tiny salute.

You look surprised at Eloise as she just shrugs. You thought her up to her usual flirtatious banter, not researching. Benedict looks impressed too. You both, however, don’t miss the note he slips to Eloise before he takes his leave. Perhaps not purely intelligence gathering, then.

“Theo is helping process entry to Britain for foreign nationals wanting safe harbour. The numbers have spiralled since the war was declared.” She begins to explain when he is out of sight. “There is sadly a waiting list. But there are a few ways to skip the queue…

“Those being?” Benedict prompts before you can.

“Having family relatives residing in Britain already or, top of the pile, being the spouse of a British national.”

You slump your shoulders. “I have no relations there. Uncle Robert was visiting, but he was already at sea returning to America when the war was declared,” you explain, wishing he had stayed a few weeks longer.

“I wonder if we can find any paperwork forgers around?” Eloise ponders aloud.

“Eloise,” Benedict's tone is one of brotherly warning and disapproval, “we will not be taking that route.” his tone striking a chord of finality.

“But… how else can we get her into the country without bending the rules?” she exclaims at him, frustrated, gesticulating.

“I’m thinking…” Benedict grouses back, rubbing his chin and looking deep in thought.

Eloise leans back in her chair and twists her mouth into a pout. She takes a swig of wine before twisting to you and casually making a suggestion that flips your entire being.

“You could marry this one,” she jokes, shrugging and gesturing at Benedict.

Your eyes dart to Benedict and his to you. A tidal wave of a hundred different feelings crashing through you at once.

“I’ll do it…” he offers, quick and quiet.

“El, don't be ridic…” your denial, spoken over his, dies on your tongue as you process what he said.

You can't help it, you gape open-mouthed at him. As does Eloise.

“You would?” you stutter.

He nods, mien sincere, but you could swear there is more, too, a rousing intensity.

“I was joking, brother,” Eloise frowns.

“It's the only solution that guarantees her passage out of France,” he argues, “that's the most important thing here…”

“But marriage? That is such a sacrifice… I could never ask that of you…” you shake your head, even as your stomach feels like a rollercoaster.

“That's why I'm offering, so you don't have to ask,” he shrugs as if this is not a big deal. “It is not me who has to make the sacrifice. It is you who has an intended…”

Stanley.

Your face falls as you think of the consequences. Marrying Benedict, if only for escape, would wound Stanley beyond belief. Your father, both your parents, in fact, would vehemently disapprove.

“We can annul it as soon as we get to England…” he assures.

“French marriages can be annulled, brother, yes, but in France. Not in England,” Eloise pipes up, ever the font of knowledge.

“Then I will grant you an immediate divorce,” he amends.

“I can't believe you are taking me seriously,,,” Eloise mutters, but both of you seem to ignore it.

“I’d still be a divorcee, damaged goods as my father would say…” you wince at the phrase but know it to be accurate in Long Island, as much as you hate it.

“I don't know how else to help you escape, y/n,” Benedict implores, slightly alarmed.

“Keep thinking!” Eloise interjects hotly. “I won't have my poor best friend here shackled to a Bridgerton brother. She has done absolutely nothing to deserve such a sentence, however short.”

“Eloise!” you scold without thought, “don't be so rude about your brother! He's wonderful….”

You immediately flush with embarrassment as she looks at you suspiciously. You dare not even look over to the subject of your praise, but you can feel the weight of his stare.

“But umm yes, let's keep thinking…” you mumble, embarrassed, looking down and picking at your cuticles in your lap.

“I need a bloody cigarette,” Eloise pronounces, suddenly standing up, her chair scraping loudly over the tiled floor.

“Sister, you do not smoke,” Benedict frowns up at her, again with that air of elder sibling forbearance.

“Sometimes I do,” she shrugs, her tone defiant, “and this situation definitely warrants one.” She jabs her finger by her side to emphasise her opinion.

With that, she marches up to the bar and orders one but does not return to the table, shooting you both a look before heading to the wall outside and sitting alone, staring out at the horizon and taking deep draws.

You and Benedict sit in silence, heads bowed in thought for what feels like an age, only interspersed with small sips of wine.

“I honestly can't think of another way out of this mess…” Benedict sighs, breaking the hush. “But I understand it's such an enormous decision; you need time to consider it.”

You are scared by how much your heart and mind are screaming, ‘I really don't, I will marry you,’ even if your gut churns with the idea of how you will explain it to everyone. You look up, and again, those blue eyes bore into yours. Sincerity, concern, empathy, and something that looks dangerously like desire. You could get lost in that look. Forever.

“I’ll do it…” you whisper, knowing you are playing with fire… and yet yearning to be burned.

Benedict taglist: @foreverlonginguniverse @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @truly-dionysus @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @desert-fern @starkeylover @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @amygdtjhddzvb @sya-skies @balladynaaa

#benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton fluff #benedict bridgerton imagine #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton #bridgerton fluff #bridgerton imagine #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x female reader #benedict bridgerton x you #benedict bridgerton x y/n #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x female reader #bridgerton x you #bridgerton x y/n

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fatehbaz · 7 months ago

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"The most fashionable bathing station in all Europe". British industrialists and American mining investors plotting the colonization of the Congo, while mingling at Ostend's seaside vacation resorts. Extracting African life to build European railways, hotels, palaces, suburbs, and other modern(ist) infrastructure. "Towards infinity!"

---

In 1885, King Leopold II achieved an astonishing and improbable goal: he claimed a vast new realm of his own devising, a conjury on a map called [...] the Congo Free State. [...] [A] fictional state owned by the king, ruled by decree, and run from Brussels from 1885 to 1908. [...] This was [...] a private entrepreneurial venture [for the king]. The abundance of ivory, timber, and wild rubber found in this enormous territory brought sudden and spectacular profits to Belgium, the king, and a web of interlocking concession companies. The frenzy to amass these precious resources unleashed a regime of forced labor, violence [millions of deaths], and unchecked atrocities for Congolese people. These same two and a half decades of contact with the Congo Free State remade Belgium [...] into a global powerhouse, vitalized by an economic boom, architectural burst, and imperial surge.

Congo profits supplied King Leopold II with funds for a series of monumental building projects [...]. Indeed, Belgian Art Nouveau exploded after 1895, created from Congolese raw materials and inspired by Congolese motifs. Contemporaries called it “Style Congo,” [...]. The inventory of this royal architecture is astonishing [...]. [H]istorical research [...] recovers Leopold’s formative ideas of architecture as power, his unrelenting efforts to implement them [...]. King Leopold II harbored lifelong ambitions to “embellish” and beautify the nation [...]. [W]ith his personal treasury flush with Congo revenue, [...] Leopold - now the Roi Batisseur ("Builder King") he long aimed to be - planned renovations explicitly designed to outdo Louis XIV's Versailles. Enormous greenhouses contained flora from every corner of the globe, with a dedicated soaring structure completed specifically to house the oversize palms of the Congolese jungles. [...]

---

The Tervuren Congo palace [...]. Electric tramways were built and a wide swath of avenue emerged. [...] [In and around Brussels] real estate developers began to break up lots [...] for suburban mansions and gardens. Between 1902 and 1910, new neighborhoods with luxury homes appeared along the Avenue [...]. By 1892, Antwerp was not only the port of call for trade but also the headquarters of the most profitable of an interlinking set of banks and Congo investment companies [...]. As Antwerp in the 1890s became once again the “Queen of the Scheldt,” the city was also the home of what was referred to as the “Queen of Congo companies.” This was the ABIR, or Anglo-Belgian India Rubber Company, founded in 1892 with funds from British businessman “Colonel” John Thomas North [...].

Set on the seaside coast, Belgium’s Ostend was the third imperial cityscape to be remade by King Leopold [...] [in a] transformation [that] was concentrated between 1899 and 1905 [...]. Ostend encompassed a boomtown not of harbor and trade, like Antwerp, but of beachfront and leisure [...] [developed] as a "British-style" seaside resort. [...] Leopold [...] [w]as said to spend "as much time in Ostend as he did in Brussels," [...]. Ostend underwent a dramatic population expansion in a short period, tripling its inhabitants from 1870–1900. [...] Networks of steamers, trams, and railway lines coordinated to bring seasonal visitors in, and hotels and paved walkways were completed. [...] [A]nd Leopold’s favorite spot, the 1883 state-of-the-art racetracks, the Wellington Hippodrome. Referred to with an eye-wink as “the king incognito” (generating an entire genre of photography), visitors to the seaside could often see Leopold in his top hat and summer suit [...], riding his customized three-wheeled bicycle [...]. By 1900, Ostend’s expansion and enhancement made it known as “the Queen of the Belgian seaside resorts” and “the most fashionable bathing station in all Europe.” Opulence, convenience, and spectacle brought the Shah of Persia, American tycoons, European aristocrats, and Belgian elites, among others, to Ostend.

---

Leopold’s interventions and the Congo Free State personnel and proceeds played three pivotal and understudied roles in this transformation, all of which involved ABIR [British industrialists].

First, it was at Ostend that an early and decisive action was taken to structure the “red rubber” regime and set it in motion. In 1892, jurists such as [E.P.] had ruled, contravening [...] trade laws, that the king was entitled to claim the Congo as his domanial property [...]. Leopold [...] devised one part of that royal domain as a zone for private company concessions [...] to extract and export wild rubber.

Soon after, in 1892, King Leopold happened to meet the British “Colonel” John Thomas North at the Ostend Hippodrome. North, a Leeds-born mechanic [...] had made a fortune speculating on Chilean nitrates in the 1880s. He owned monopoly shares in nitrate mines and quickly expanded to acquire monopolies in Chilean freight railways, water supplies, and iron and coal mines. By 1890 North was a high-society socialite worth millions [...]. Leopold approached North at the Ostend racecourse to provide the initial investments to set up the Anglo-Belgian India Rubber Company (ABIR). [...]

---

One visible sign of Ostend’s little-known character as Congo boomtown was the Royal Palace Hotel, a lavish property next to the king’s Royal Domain, which opened in 1899. With hundreds of rooms and a broad sweep of acreage along the beachfront, the palace “occupied the largest space of any hotel in Europe.” [...]

King Leopold met American mining magnate Thomas Walsh there, and as with North, the meeting proved beneficial for his Congo enterprise: Leopold enlisted Walsh to provide assessments of some of his own Congo mining prospects. The hotel was part of [...] [a major European association of leisure profiteers] founded in 1894, that began to bundle luxury tourism and dedicated railway travel, and whose major investors were King Leopold, Colonel North [...].

At the height of Congo expansionism, fin-de-siècle Antwerp embodied an exhilarated launch point [...]. Explorers and expeditioners set sail for Matadi after 1887 with the rallying call “Vers l’infini!” (“towards infinity!”) [...].

---

Text above by: Debora Silverman. "Empire as Architecture: Monumental Cities the Congo Built in Belgium". e-flux Architecture (Appropriations series). May 2024. At: e-flux.com/architecture/appropriations/608151/empire-as-architecture-monumental-cities-the-congo-built-in-belgium/ [Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me. Italicized first paragraph/heading in this post was added by me. Presented here for commentary, teaching, criticism.]

#tidalectics #ecology #multispecies #abolition #this full article has far more info about leopolds obsession with opulence and all the many infrastructure projects in belgium he sponsored #full article also expands more on congolese art and anticolonial art projects that criticize belgian architecture #eflux did several articles focusing on anticolonial responses to belgian extraction and art noveau and modernist architecture #including a piece on spectacle of belgian worlds fair and human zoos #silverman has very extensive research history #ecologies #geographic imaginaries

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reigns-devotee · 1 month ago

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The Substitute Materialist + Chapters

Word Count: 4.6k

Warnings: 18+, language, angst

cover made by me.

It didn’t take Alicia long at all to pack up her tote bag for class. She had the whole process down to a science by now — notebook, laptop, a couple of highlighters, and her favorite cherry-flavored lip gloss tossed in for good measure. As a third-year student at NYU, she'd gotten pretty efficient with her routine. Unlike most of her classmates, she didn’t have to worry about squeezing into a crowded dorm room or sharing a bathroom with five other people. Her parents, who were far from shy about flaunting their wealth, had gifted her a sleek, modern condo right next to campus. No roommates. No RA. Just peace, quiet, and a skyline view that belonged on a postcard.

Today was one of those mornings where everything just clicked. No traffic, no delays, just smooth sailing straight to campus. She pulled into the student parking lot with ease, her white Mercedes purring to a stop like it knew it belonged there. Stepping out, she slid her sunglasses on, the late morning sun already beaming down on the city streets. Her tote bag hung casually off one shoulder as she glanced around, taking in the familiar buzz of students crisscrossing the sidewalks. It felt good knowing she was so close to the finish line — one more year, and she'd be walking that graduation stage.

Before heading into class, Alicia made her usual stop at Brews & Muse, the cozy little coffee shop nestled right in the heart of campus. The place always smelled like fresh ground espresso and warm pastries, a combination that made it nearly impossible to walk by without stopping in. It had become part of her daily routine — a little ritual that gave her a sense of calm before the whirlwind of lectures and assignments.

Pushing open the glass door, she was greeted by the familiar hum of soft indie music playing overhead and the gentle clatter of mugs on countertops. The line wasn’t too long today, which was a win in her book. After a quick scan of the menu (even though she always ordered the same thing), she stepped up to the counter.

“Vanilla iced coffee, light on the ice,” she told the barista, offering a quick smile.

“Gotcha, coming right up,” the barista replied, already moving with practiced ease.

Alicia tapped her nails on the counter while she waited, glancing around at the other students buried in laptops or chatting in hushed voices over bagels. She could hear the sharp hiss of the milk steamer and the familiar thud of the espresso press, all of it blending into the comforting soundtrack of a campus morning.

When her name was called, she stepped forward to grab her drink, the cup still warm against her palm despite the ice inside. She took a slow sip, letting the smooth vanilla flavor hit her tongue just right. Perfect, as always. With her coffee in hand and her tote bag slung over her shoulder, she finally made her way toward class, already feeling a little more ready to face the day.

Pushing open the door to the classroom, Alicia immediately felt the weight of every single stare land on her. Conversations hushed, heads turned, and for a second, it felt like she’d just stepped on stage without knowing her lines. Her heart jumped in her chest, heat creeping up her neck as she clutched the strap of her tote bag a little tighter. Late. Perfect.

Her eyes darted across the room, scanning for an empty seat. The awkward silence dragged on longer than it should have, each step toward her desk feeling like a walk of shame. Just as she reached her row, a voice cut through the still air, smooth and sharp like the edge of a blade.

"You're late, ma’am."

The words weren’t loud, but they had a weight to them — commanding, rich with authority, and wrapped in a deep, velvety tone that stopped her dead in her tracks. Slowly, she turned toward the source of the voice, her breath hitching the moment her gaze met him.

He leaned casually against the front of the desk, one ankle crossed over the other, his arms folded across his broad chest. The black suit he wore fit too perfectly, hugging every line of his frame like it had been tailored just for him. No tie, just the sharp collar of his dress shirt left open at the top, revealing a hint of the strong neck beneath it. His hair was pulled back into a sleek man bun, not a strand out of place. And he was tall — no, huge. Easily 6’3”, with shoulders that looked like they could block out the sun. Every inch of him radiated control, presence, and just a hint of danger.

Her lips parted, and for a moment, she forgot how to respond. “Uh—” She cleared her throat quickly, gripping the strap of her bag like it might keep her steady. “Sorry,” she muttered, her eyes flickering to the floor for just a second before glancing back up at him.

His gaze didn’t waver. Dark, calculating eyes locked on hers like a hawk tracking its prey. He didn’t move from his spot but somehow, he didn’t need to. His presence alone was enough to make her feel seen — like really seen — in a way that made her nerves buzz.

"Take a seat," he said, his voice lower this time, a slow drawl that left no room for argument. He shifted his weight just enough to rest one hand on the edge of the desk. "I’ll run back the lesson."

There was no bite in his tone, no anger, but it still left her feeling like she'd been checked. Heat flooded her cheeks, and she nodded quickly, ducking her head as she made a beeline for her seat. Her pulse thudded in her ears, loud enough that it nearly drowned out the quiet hum of the classroom.

Sliding into the chair, she avoided the curious glances from her classmates, choosing instead to focus on pulling out her notebook and pen. Her fingers still felt a little jittery. She risked one more glance up at the front of the room — at him — and instantly regretted it. He was still watching her, those sharp eyes fixed on her like he knew something she didn’t.

Her heart did a quick, traitorous flip in her chest. Who the hell is this guy? she thought, chewing the inside of her cheek as she forced herself to look down at her notes. She didn't know if she’d survive a whole lecture with him standing there, staring like that.

Thirty-five minutes into the lecture, Alicia's phone buzzed quietly on her desk. She glanced down, tilting the screen just enough to see the message preview light up. It was from Zoe, her best friend, who sat three seats over. “I’m kinda glad Mr. Hayes is gone for a bit. This sub is so fucking hot.”

Alicia bit the inside of her cheek, stifling a laugh as she glanced over at Zoe. Her friend was already looking at her, eyebrows raised, lips curled into a knowing grin. Alicia shook her head, eyes narrowing as she mouthed, “Shut up.” But the smirk tugging at her lips gave her away. Zoe wiggled her eyebrows playfully before pretending to focus back on her notes.

Still grinning, Alicia leaned back in her chair, letting her eyes shift — almost involuntarily — back to him. The substitute. He stood at the front of the room, hands moving slowly as he turned a page of the lesson plan. His gaze was locked on the paper, or so she thought. But then, without warning, his head lifted, and those sharp, dark eyes locked on hers.

Her heart jumped in her chest like she'd been caught doing something she wasn’t supposed to. Her breath hitched, her fingers going stiff on the pen she was holding. This time, his stare wasn’t casual or curious — it was deliberate. Heavy. Like he was sizing her up, studying her with a quiet intensity that made her feel far too seen. For a second, she felt frozen, unable to do anything but stare back.

Look away, Alicia. Look away.

Finally, she dropped her gaze, focusing so hard on her notes that the words blurred. Her heart was still thudding as she scribbled aimless circles in the corner of her notebook. *He probably wasn't even looking at you, stop being dramatic,* she told herself, though her pulse told a different story.

The clock on the wall ticked down the final minutes of class, each second dragging longer than it should. When the bell finally rang, Alicia swore she heard half the class let out a collective breath of relief. Students started packing up quickly, the soft rustle of backpacks and zippers filling the room. Chairs scraped against the floor as everyone made their way toward the door. She followed the crowd, slipping her notebook into her bag, eyes focused ahead.

“Enjoy your day, everyone,” the substitute called, his voice smooth but firm as students trickled out. Alicia felt a flicker of relief that she’d made it through without any more awkward moments.

But just as she passed his desk, his voice cut through the noise, stopping her in her tracks.

“Except for you,” he said, his tone calm but absolute. Papers shuffled behind her, the sound crisp in the quieting room. “I need to speak to you.”

Her heart dropped. Slowly, she turned, her eyes meeting his as he stood at the edge of his desk, fingers methodically folding a stack of papers. His gaze wasn’t as sharp as before — not as intense — but it wasn’t exactly soft either. He didn't look angry. No, it was something else entirely. Calm. Collected. Like he’d already decided how this was about to go.

Her throat went dry, her feet rooted to the spot. Students moved around her, some glancing her way with mild curiosity, but none of them stuck around long enough to see what happened next. Even Zoe gave her a subtle, wide-eyed look from the doorway before vanishing into the hallway. Thanks a lot, Zoe.

Alicia swallowed hard, taking a slow step toward him. Her eyes flicked briefly to his hands — large, precise, still folding the edge of a paper with an almost annoying level of patience. Her gaze lifted to his face, searching for any clue about what this was about.

"Yes, sir?" she asked, her voice smaller than she intended.

He set the papers down with a quiet thud, eyes lifting to meet hers once more. This close, she could see the way the faint stubble along his jawline caught the light. His suit still looked immaculate, not a wrinkle in sight. How was that even possible after an entire class?

“Let’s have a quick word, Miss…” he paused, tilting his head slightly, his eyes narrowing like he was waiting for her to fill in the blank.

“Uh, Alicia,” she said quickly, her fingers gripping the strap of her tote bag so tightly it was a wonder it didn’t snap.

“Alicia,” he repeated, her name slow and deliberate on his tongue. His gaze lingered on her a beat too long before he nodded toward one of the empty desks at the front. “Take a seat.”

Her pulse jumped, her feet moving before she even thought to argue. Whatever this was, it didn’t seem optional.

Alicia's steps were slow and hesitant as she made her way to the desk at the front of the classroom. Her heart pounded in her chest, loud enough that she was sure *he* could hear it. The silence felt thicker now that everyone else was gone — like the whole room had shrunk around them. Her fingers tugged at the strap of her tote bag, nerves buzzing under her skin.

Sliding into the chair, she dropped her bag at her feet, hands clasped together on her lap to stop herself from fidgeting. Her eyes flickered up briefly, catching sight of him as he leaned forward on the desk, his palms pressed flat against the surface. He watched her like he had all the time in the world, his sharp gaze unblinking, assessing. No smile. No warmth. Just *control*.

"You know why I called you up here, Miss Alicia?" he asked, his voice smooth but firm, each word rolling out with perfect precision.

Her throat went dry. Why did he have to say my name like that? It wasn’t fair — the way it sounded so... intentional. She cleared her throat quickly and shook her head. "No, Mr. Reigns," she said softly, eyes darting to the floor, but she knew she couldn’t stay down there for long. She forced herself to look back up, even if it made her heart race.

He tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing just a touch. “No clue at all?” he asked, one brow lifting like he was challenging her.

Her lips parted, but no words came out right away. Was it because she was late? It has to be that, she thought. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, feeling the warmth creeping up her neck. "I-I was late," she admitted, hating how small her voice sounded. “That’s why, right?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he pushed off the desk slowly, standing to his full height. It was almost unfair how much bigger he seemed now, every movement deliberate and measured. His gaze stayed locked on her, steady as ever, like he was waiting for something more.

“Late, yes,” he said, his voice slower now, each word carrying weight. “But it’s not just that.”

Her brows pulled together in confusion, fingers curling in the fabric of her jeans. Not just that.She swallowed hard, forcing herself to meet his eyes even though it felt like standing too close to an open flame.

"Do you take your grade seriously, Alicia?" he asked, his voice low but sharp, like the kind of question you had to answer honestly.

Her breath hitched. Her heart did that stupid flip again, and she hated that she noticed how good he looked when he said her name like that. There was no escaping it now. She straightened in her chair, sitting up a little taller. "Yes, sir," she said automatically. Her eyes went wide the moment she realized what she’d said.

Oh no.

He raised a brow, his lips twitching ever so slightly. It wasn’t a smile, but it was close. She knew she’d messed up. His eyes locked on hers, and for a moment, he just *looked* at her — long enough for her to feel it deep in her chest.

“Mr. Reigns,” he corrected, his voice rougher this time, lower. He leaned forward slightly, just enough to make her feel like he was much closer than he was. “Not sir. Mr. Reigns.”

Her heart jumped in response, and she nodded so fast it made her hair sway around her shoulders. “Yes, Mr. Reigns,” she said quickly, her voice firmer this time, though she still felt that embarrassing heat climbing up her neck. She glanced down at her hands, her fingers twisting in her sleeve.

"Good," he said simply, and she heard the shift of his weight as he leaned back against the desk again, arms folding over his chest. “Then prove it.”

Her eyes snapped back up to him. "Prove it?" she echoed, brows lifting in confusion.

“You said you take your grade seriously,” he said, tilting his head as he watched her like she was some kind of puzzle he was trying to solve. "So I’ll expect to see that. No more walking in late, no more distractions in class." His gaze flicked briefly to her phone on the edge of her desk. He saw that? Of course, he did. Nothing got past him.

Her face grew even hotter, and she quickly stuffed her phone into her bag. “It won’t happen again, Mr. Reigns,” she promised, trying to sound more confident than she felt.

“Good.” His gaze lingered on her for a moment longer, unblinking. It was the kind of look that made it feel like he could see straight through her, down to every little thought she was trying to keep hidden.

He pushed away from the desk, walking slowly back to his chair. He didn’t even glance at her as he started stacking the papers in front of him, his hands moving with that same steady control. "I’ll hold you to that, Miss Alicia,” he said, not looking up.

Her pulse jumped at the way he said it — like it was more than a promise. Like it was a warning. She nodded even though he couldn’t see her. "Yes, Mr. Reigns,” she said softly, grabbing her tote bag from the floor and slinging it over her shoulder.

“Dismissed,” he said without so much as a glance, already focused on the papers in front of him.

Alicia stood, every movement feeling heavier than it should. Her heart still thudded in her chest as she walked toward the door. She glanced back at him once — just once — and saw him writing something down, his brows furrowed in concentration.

But just as she reached for the door handle, his voice rang out one last time.

"Oh, and Alicia," he called, his tone calm but sharp enough to make her stop. She turned slowly, her eyes locking onto him. He still wasn’t looking at her, pen in hand, eyes on his paper. But his next words sent a shiver down her spine.

"Don’t make a habit of calling me ‘sir.’” His eyes flicked up to hers, just for a second, and there it was again — that sharp, knowing gaze that made her feel exposed. “Unless you mean it."

Her breath caught in her throat, heart racing for all the wrong reasons. Her grip on the door tightened. Was he joking? Was he serious? She had no idea, but her pulse refused to slow down long enough for her to figure it out.

"Yes, Mr. Reigns," she said quickly, forcing herself to sound calm even though her nerves were on fire.

His eyes lingered on her for just a moment longer, and she swore she saw a flicker of something unreadable in them. Then, just as quickly as it came, it was gone, and he looked back down at his papers, as if she was already forgotten.

Alicia didn’t wait another second. She opened the door and slipped out, letting the cool air from the hallway wash over her like a much-needed breath of fresh air.

Her heart was still racing, her hands still tingling, and her mind was already replaying every single word he’d said. She glanced down the hall and spotted Zoe leaning against a locker, arms crossed with a wicked grin on her face.

“Took you long enough,” Zoe teased, her eyes flicking over Alicia with a knowing look. “What’d he want?”

Alicia opened her mouth, then closed it. *What did he want, exactly?* She wasn’t even sure anymore.

“Just… to remind me to take my grades seriously,” she muttered, pulling the strap of her tote bag higher on her shoulder.

Zoe snorted, bumping her with her shoulder. “Uh-huh. Sure, 'grades.' Girl, you’re redder than a firetruck. Spill.”

“Zoe,” Alicia groaned, covering her face with both hands as they started walking down the hall.

“Don’t 'Zoe' me,” her best friend shot back, pulling her hands away with a grin. “You’re tellin’ me that man — that man — gave you the 'focus on your grades' talk and that’s it? Please. I saw the way he was looking at you.”

“Zoe,” Alicia hissed again, glancing over her shoulder like he might somehow hear them. “Can you not?”

But Zoe just smirked wider, leaning in close. “Nah, babe. I’m gonna need every single detail.”

Alicia sighed, face still hot as they turned the corner. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love me for it,” Zoe shot back with a wink.

Alicia didn’t answer — mostly because Zoe was right.

Alicia sat on the edge of her queen-sized bed, legs folded beneath her, fingers tapping idly on the back of her phone. The glow from the massive floor-to-ceiling window bathed her room in a soft silver light from the city skyline. New York never slept, and tonight, neither could she. Her eyes flickered toward the time on her phone — 11:47 PM.

Her room was a perfect blend of luxury and warmth. Soft cream-colored walls, plush white carpet that cushioned every step, and a velvet blush-colored accent chair tucked in the corner. The chandelier hanging from the ceiling gave off a soft, golden glow, but tonight she’d left it off, letting the glow of the city lights do the work. Her bed, with its oversized headboard and endless pillows, felt more like a throne than a place to sleep — not that she was doing much sleeping tonight.

She tossed her phone on the bed beside her, leaning back onto her elbows with a heavy sigh. No matter how hard she tried to shake it, he was still on her mind.

Mr. Reigns.

Her eyes squeezed shut, her head tilting back toward the ceiling like she could somehow erase the memory. But it didn’t work. The image of him standing there in that black suit, arms folded, eyes locked on her like she was the only person in the room — it was burned into her brain. His voice, that steady, deliberate tone, echoed in her ears.

"Don’t make a habit of calling me 'sir.”

Her whole body tensed at the memory, her eyes snapping open. Why did he have to say it like that? The way his eyes met hers in that last second felt intentional, calculated. Like he knew exactly what kind of effect he had.

“Ugh,” she groaned, covering her face with both hands, pressing her palms hard against her cheeks. They were warm. Great. Blushing over a teacher. Real mature, Alicia.

Her phone buzzed beside her, and she snatched it up, grateful for the distraction.

Zoe: "HELLO?? Did u survive Mr. Reigns or r u in his trunk rn??👀"

Alicia rolled her eyes, biting back a grin. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard for a second before she typed her response.

Alicia: "I’m alive, unfortunately."

Her phone buzzed again almost instantly.

Zoe: "ohhh so it’s like that huh 👀👀👀 was he scary or 'scary hot' bc theres a difference"

Alicia snorted, shaking her head. Zoe was so predictable. She knew if she didn’t answer, Zoe would blow up her phone all night.

Alicia: "Both."

The typing bubbles appeared immediately. She could practically hear Zoe squealing through the phone.

Zoe: "OHHH NOOO SHE'S DOWN BAD 😭😭 tell me what he saiddd"

Alicia hesitated, biting her lip. She flopped back onto her bed, staring up at the ceiling. Her eyes traced the chandelier above her, her mind replaying every second of that conversation. The way he leaned against the desk, cool and calm, like he wasn’t in a rush for anything. The way he said her name. The way his eyes lingered on her just a little too long before telling her she was

dismissed.

Her stomach flipped.

Alicia: "He just said I need to be serious about my grade."

She smirked, knowing exactly how Zoe would react.

Zoe: "🙄 LAMEEEE. What ELSE did he say"

Alicia sat up, fingers flying over the keyboard.

Alicia: "That’s it. Oh, and he corrected me when I called him 'sir.'"

The typing bubbles popped up, then disappeared, then came back. She could feel Zoe’s brain going into overdrive.

Zoe: "pls tell me he did it in the hot 'not sir, it’s Mr. Reigns' way bc if he did, i’m SCREAMING"

Alicia’s grin grew, even though she knew she shouldn’t be entertained by it.

Alicia: "Yeah. It was exactly like that."

Zoe: "*SCREEEEAAAAAMMSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS*"

Alicia laughed, covering her mouth with her hand to muffle the sound. Her eyes squeezed shut as she fell back against the pillows, her phone still in her hand. Zoe was too much. But... she wasn’t wrong. It was like that.

Her phone buzzed again.

Zoe: "I would simply pass away. He knows what he’s doing fr."

Alicia sighed, shaking her head, still smiling.

Alicia: "Stop hyping him up. I have to face him again tomorrow 😩"

Zoe: "U should wear the white top. U know THE top 😏"

Alicia's eyes widened. Zoe. She glanced at her closet across the room, eyes narrowing on the exact top Zoe was talking about — a snug little white long-sleeve that fit *way* too good for its own good.

Alicia: "No. Absolutely not. I’m not feeding into this."

Zoe: "FEED INTO IT!!! GIVE US THE DRAMA!!!"

Alicia rolled her eyes so hard it practically hurt. She tossed her phone onto the bed, grabbing one of her pillows and hugging it to her chest. She’s crazy. But... was she wrong? Her gaze wandered back to her closet, eyes narrowing at the innocent little white top hanging on the rack.

“Nope,” she said out loud to herself, shaking her head like she could convince herself. “Absolutely not.”

She knew what would happen if she wore it. She’d walk in, Zoe would give her that look, and the second Mr. Reigns glanced her way, she’d be overthinking every little move she made. Her brain would go into hyperdrive. Is he looking? Is he NOT looking? No way. Not happening.

Her phone buzzed again.

Zoe: "10 bucks says he stares. wear the top."

Alicia threw her pillow at the phone like it was responsible for Zoe’s antics. "She’s literally the worst," she muttered, burying her face in her hands.

But as she sat there, her mind wandered.

“Don’t make a habit of calling me ‘sir.’ Unless you mean it.”

Her lips parted as she remembered the way his voice sounded, low and deliberate, with that little pause between words. Unless you mean it. Her fingers tugged at the edge of her sleeves, her face burning as she sat up straight, shaking her head fast like she could physically push the thought out.

“Focus,” she muttered to herself, grabbing her laptop from the nightstand. Homework. Grades. Focus on that. She opened it up and tried to drown herself in the glow of her assignments, but it was no use.

Her eyes flicked toward the closet.

Then back to the screen.

Then back to the closet.

Her phone buzzed again.

Zoe: "If u wear it i’ll bring u coffee in the morning"

Alicia sucked in a breath, squeezing her eyes shut. Don’t do it. Do. Not. Do it.

Her eyes popped open.

She glanced toward the closet one last time, her lips pressed into a thin line.

“Fine,” she muttered, throwing her legs over the side of the bed and walking across the room. She yanked the top off the hanger and tossed it onto the chair without even looking at it.

Her phone buzzed.

Zoe: "I KNOW U SAW THAT TEXT"

Alicia groaned, picking up her phone.

Alicia: "If I die, it’s your fault."

Zoe: "Plz. u will THRIVE 👏🏽"

Alicia tossed her phone aside, falling face-first onto her bed, letting out a long, muffled scream into the pillows. Her heart wouldn’t calm down, and her mind refused to focus on anything but that stupid conversation with him.

Mr. Reigns.

She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping sleep would come and wash the whole day away. But all she could hear was his voice.

“Not sir. Mr. Reigns.”

Her toes curled, and she shoved her face deeper into the pillow.

"Why is he like this," she muttered, voice muffled. But deep down, she knew the real question was — why am I like this?

#wwe #roman reigns #wwe fanfiction #roman reigns fanfiction #roman reigns smut #roman reigns x oc #the substitute

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oikyskau · 2 years ago

Text

seeing kenji muto, the director of trigun stampede, reading an article about the portrayal of women in media made me want to take a little bit of a closer look at the women in trigun and as i was rambling about this earlier to my partner, they told me to write it down LMAO

as most of us know, in a lot of fiction, women are mostly characterised through common tropes, leading to a lack of complexity and a one-dimensional portrayal: as the doting wife, the femme fatale, the mistress, or the virgin. Their role only amounts to an Other, an extension of the male hero. they’re either the whore or the madonna.

for female characters in anime that usually means they’re either the sexy femme fatale, big badonkers and all to be gazed at, the mother, the helpless damsel in distress, or the child (yet, still sexualised despite the fact that it is a literal child); they’re portrayed through the way they are being perceived by men and mostly sexualised beyond belief.

tristamp doesn’t do any of that.

in fact, the female characters in stampede achieve something that you don’t often see in anime: they are people. and stampede makes that clear in its very first episode by decidedly not going the route that you would usually take with the female characters they introduce:

of course, the biggest example here would be meryl, who i’d argue is the biggest driver of the plot, despite the fact that the plot of stampede is technically determined by vash - vash is an entirely passive character, he doesn’t make things happen, things happen to him and they mostly happen to him because of meryl. she’s the one who unties him, she drags them to the city, she makes them stay with him after ep3, she drives over wolfwood (rip my man), she stops for them to find rollo, she makes them follow the steamer.. you get it. she does all of this, despite being introduced as the newbie, the innocent person who would usually be the damsel in distress, who is helpless and shy and easily manipulated and who will probs be sexualised in her role as the “virgin” (sexually naive young girl who just doesn’t get all this adult sexuality yet hehe)

but she’s not – she wears a non-sexualised outfit, she only gets called out for being a newbie, or for being small height-wise by wolfwood, but not for being a “girl”, she determines the action despite the fact that she does have a mentor figure and is therefore still in a position of a student – she still isnt an extension of roberto, vash, or anyone

in fact, the other characters – Rosa, Elendira, Luida, Rem – all take up roles that would in other media be portrayed in very specific ways: Rosa could just be a pregnant mother, who is also a divorcee, Elendira could be an innocent child beholden to her caretaker, Luida could be the loving motherlike figure and rem the Madonna figure, symbolising all the virtues a woman should aspire to have. – Rosa is a leader, her pregnancy is mentioned one single time and never made a bigger part of her character, Elendira is young but powerful, making choices by herself that are not inherently based on any kind of innocence, Luida doesn’t coddle Vash or prioritise him over her own work and mission (which also serves to inspire another woman, meryl!!), and rem is also just a non-perfect person, with secrets and questionable morality

none of these women are judged on the basis of their gender, none of them experience gender-based violence, none of them are made into a joke, none of them are sexualised (or desexualised – if you compare them to the male characters, who also do not ever make jokes about sexual promiscuity or similar stuff), they have different body types (rem has a very pronounced chest, and yet stampede doesn’t ever focus on it or give her cleavage) – note also that when presented with the perfect opportunity to call a female character a “bitch”, they chose to go with a “witch” instead, in both original japanese and english dub

their femininity is not used as a weapon against them, nor are stereotypical hypermasculine elements used to define characters’ positive traits (vash not being our traditionally hypermasculine hero for example) - the only time we see a semblance of gender-based violence is, you guessed it, at the very end, when knives forcefully takes control and bodily autonomy away from vash and inseminates the plants against their will (also interesting to note that knives, as the character that does exhibit that kind of violence, is the only character to be shown incredibly buff and all muscle)

the women in tristamp are written for women, with the goal to be women that we can recognise, that represent the women that we are and know

anyways, i love all women in tristamp and have not once felt uncomfortable or said “oh look, a panty shot” and honestly i just find that pretty neat

#trigun stampede #trigun #meryl stryfe #rem saverem #trigun meta #ramblings #dont take this too seriously its just me being very nerdy for female characters LMAO #a lot of anime that i like fall into the trap of writing female characters for men and in relation to other male characters and i honestly #expect it at this point but PHEW was i going help WOMEN??? during tristamp #also do i need to add a citation bc im technically just citing my own thesis..... LMAOO

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