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redstaratmorning · 4 years ago

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Amnesia: The Dark Descent - Astarion

Ahoy there me hearties! It is time to embark on yet another long voyage into the seas of discovery and character exploration, to fill in the details of the blank map with speculation and musings alongside the occasional sea serpent drawing! Tonight we are once more focused on Astarion from Baldur’s Gate 3, and we set sail with navigation logs that include Scents And Sensibilities, or more specifically how both taste and smell might impact Astarion as a vampire and his perception of the world. The second major topic of speculation would be the one that gave this post its title: amnesia possibilities with speculations on the influence of torture and starvation for induced memory loss. This is of course all speculation based on early access content, so beware of spoilers upon the horizon! Content warnings include discussion of food items, consumption of food, consumption of rotting food, graphic descriptions, maggots, insects, emetophobia, vampirism, blood, dark backstories, abuse, torture, horror, and other themes typical of the Baldur’s Gate 3 setting. Spoilers for both Baldur’s Gate 3 and some spoilers for Amnesia: The Dark Descent and Amnesia: Justine included. Google story details of the Amnesia series at your own risk, these tags are intended to be reflective solely of mentioned elements in this essay, not of all potentially disturbing content in those games.

So with the starting fact of how closely the senses of taste and smell are in real life, what does this mean for Astarion and other vampires in DND when it comes to how things smell versus how they taste? Referencing another of Pjenn’s fine posts regarding everyone’s favorite local vampire spawn, Astarion has a line regarding consuming a treacle tart from Auntie Ethel’s cottage: “Hell’s teeth! Was solid food always so foul?” [click here for a link to said post] Now this could just be because Auntie Ethel is a hag and cooks horrible food, and according to tumblr there are poisonous apples to be found at her place as well. [Alas no post citation to confirm the poisonous apples.] If Astarion’s reaction isn’t due to Ethel being a terrible cook, and is more to do with the fact that he’s a vampire, then that’s a horse of a different color. Presumably, through speculation based on his surprise and lack of disgust prior to consumption of foodstuffs, standard humanoid foods likely still smell or at least smell similar to how they used to smell to him when he was alive. An apple still smells like an apple, as it were. It may just be that instead of Astarion feeling hunger at the smell of an apple, it might be more akin to smelling pleasant like apple-scented perfume or such though for him...curiously, that would suggest that he did not try or more likely could not try to eat anything of the sort under Cazador’s rule. On that note, it would be a certain flavor of tragedy for regular humanoid foods to still smell appetizing and edible to Astarion but taste like ash in his mouth, or worse. But how does food fit for vampires smell to Astarion? Namely, blood, of course. Though one might wonder at rare steak or other cuts of meat still bloody to the taste—could he eat beef tartare and enjoy it, for example? Sashimi or other raw seafood? That’s straying into headcanon territory though. Back on topic, in the one camp scene where everyone is feeling ill with the beginning sensations of ceremorphosis, he mentions “I can smell the blood in your mouth” on one dialogue branch. It could be that the two are standing awfully close together while discussing matters, and/or the MC’s bleeding a pretty significant amount and the scent is quite noticeable, or Astarion’s got a pretty keen sense of smell, or a combination of the above. It probably smells pretty good if it tastes as good as Astarion’s reactions and comments would strongly suggest, and if we’re going to go wild with fun fantastical interpretations, I’d put forth the idea of Astarion being able to smell the difference between different people’s (or animals’) blood at close range. If Larian puts the following datamined not-present-in-game-yet scene in, the former idea would tie in very nicely with how Astarion speculates on how the different companions’ blood might taste, from this datamined text post once again kindly provided by Pjenn. [click here for text post link, bottommost “tastingparty” section] Transcription of some of the possible lines in question (not in the game at time of writing, and possibly may not appear in the final game): “Take Gale, for example. He strikes me as someone whose blood is rich, refined like a well-aged brandy.” “Take Wyll, for example. A man of the people, very palatable, like a sweet cider.” Above lines chosen for their more descriptive wording, thus why the other party members (both current and future as of this time of writing) are not added in the above examples. Astarion is quite colorful in his descriptions of how he thinks some of the companions’ blood would taste, based off of their personalities. So what does everyone’s various MCs’ blood taste like? There could be delightful variety based on the details of the various MCs’ personalities and personal life histories, I’ve seen some explorations on the dash here and there which is delightful, and I’d shan’t say no to seeing more. It is a beautiful opportunity for character exploration regarding the MC, Astarion’s perception of them, the reality of who they are (and perhaps Astarion shifting said perception of them), and all around a great potential moment to have some fun writing descriptive prose if one is so inclined. One internet search later, I will say that it appears that reddit and other google search sources do seem to suggest that in real life the blood from various different species of animals looks and tastes different from one another, even without going into factors such as age and health’s impact on blood. If we as normal humans are able to tell the difference in that, it seems reasonable to think Astarion would be able to do that and more with supernatural augmentation as the basis for that line of thinking. What do people smell like to him? Different from one another one might suppose. Is that part of what informs his imaginings and wonderings about how their companions’ blood might taste? Individuals tend to smell unique to some degree, due to body chemistry among other factors. One would expect blood to be a factor in that, seeing as that’s how many hormones and such get sent about the circulatory system—which might mean Astarion (and our potential future weregnome companion) may have more of a time having to deal with the whole party foregoing soap for better or for worse, unless Gale or Shadowheart have a Summon/Conjure Soap spell, or perhaps the MC is a ranger who can find a soap plant. Not a great time to have a sensitive nose potentially, though foregoing soap and thus additional layered scents like floral infusions and such might be beneficial. One can only imagine hunting might turn out better for the entire party’s dinner-scrounging efforts by not alerting the local wildlife that there’s someone about who smells like a potpourri bowl...though that’s another idea, does Astarion volunteer to go hunting moreso for the party in order to be able to drain blood from the kills? One would bleed and gut a carcass anyway as part of the processing, so who would know if he drank it dry versus bled it out with a knife from a tree? Moving on though, imagine what it must’ve been like the first time after he rose up from being turned and he smelled another living person’s blood, only to feel his mouth suddenly start watering. Was he confused? Repulsed? Horrified? Startled, but accepting? There’s potential ripe for the picking to interpret that in any number of ways, including conflicted and complicated in multiple directions all at once, which his actions and emotional depictions might suggest so far in early access. Imagine the torment of being ravenous every night—and I am personally impressed that Astarion actually can keep his mental faculties and presentation together well enough to seduce someone given potential speculation of his physical state,—and knowing only a meager portion of the most putrid, rotting rat flesh awaited him back at Cazador’s mansion, while he had to interact and seduce with people who smelled just so good to his vampiric senses. Consider the added twist of the knife in Cazador’s torment of Astarion with the fact that one can consider saliva to be filtered blood—if one headcanons Astarion as actually being quite physical with his seduction up to and including kissing of any kind. Consider also, the fact that if Astarion has shared a kiss with one of the unfortunate victims-to-be, he might have more of an idea of what they might taste like but must also now sit and SMELL their fresh-spilled blood right from the vein, right there in front of him, and watch while Cazador enjoys his own supper, while being forced to down a disgusting rotting carcass under threat of punishment. [in-post content warning: Graphic description of rotting dead rat carcass, food, maggots, etc in the next paragraph] Did Astarion throw up the first several times? Cazador would’ve surely punished him for so “rudely” rejecting a dinner all set out especially for Astarion and everything. To get to the point where one can consume let alone look at and smell a plate of rotting food,—specifically a dead rat with the fur still attached, the guts bloating up and putrifying from within, that very well might have live, wriggling maggots in it,—and not vomit? It must be one hell of a potent cocktail mix between primal hunger-driven desperation and fear of punishment applied over a prolonged period of time for Astarion to actually be able to consume that, let alone look upon it. This essay by the by will not be doing any in-depth exploration of the overarching situation relating to the victims’ point of view, as I feel that’s been implied in previous meta posts by both myself and others on Astarion, in the “Clearly The Other Victims Have It Bad Too And No One Deserves To Suffer Cazador” thread of implications. We are however acknowledging that all of this experience for everyone else, aside from Cazador, is Fucked Up And Very Very Bad. Continuing past acknowledgements of the large moral cluster of ideas over yonder, let us move forward into the “present” time when Astarion has joined the party, and no one is as of yet aware that he is a vampire. Consider the scenario where he can smell their individual scents, but it’s nothing he hasn’t handled before, even if he seems to be...curiously free of the immediate need to get back to Cazador right away, while still wrapping his head around this bizarre new reality of walking in the sun. The inescapable reality of how different everything looks bathed in the all encompassing colors of sunlight, compared to moonlight and lantern light. Be it the blinding yellow, white, and blue of the noon time sun, or the violent golds, oranges, reds clashing against the violently deep blue shadows of night’s approach during the fall of twilight, or the brilliant and mellow pale grandeur of all the world’s color coming to life as the dawn breaks forth...it has been so long since last he saw any of that. Do you think he sat up specifically to watch that first dawn, while the other companions slept? It’s a beautiful thought. But I would follow that with the unfortunate potential consideration that he is starving—and when hunger eats away at one’s mind for long enough and in a demanding enough fashion, it can be remarkably difficult for a person to feel much of anything save very faint echoes of emotions or on the other extreme end only the strongest emotions, and more often than not those emotions are very likely to be the negative ones. Just about nobody’s happy when they’re starving after all. Astarion may very well feel awe at seeing the dawn again, but how deep does that feeling go, when instinct is screaming and gnawing at his very bones to insist that he is hungry? Famished. Starving. Appreciation for beauty is a privilege that is hard to enjoy at all in any degree of depth when the basic needs are wailing inside one’s head so loudly. And he can smell his companions’ blood, even when they’re not bleeding. He has also smelled their blood spill out into the open air too, during fighting. How does that eat at him, how does that sharpen his appetite so? Does it make his stomach twist in pain to smell what his senses are clamoring for and labeling as food so close, so near, as he slowly loses his mind waiting all day for the party to break camp so he can try to slip away and hunt? Does he catch anything? He does find some animals canonically in some encounters, but there is no guarantee he will find enough without expending strenuous effort, assuming he finds anything at all on a given night. And his luck does run out eventually it would seem. One night he just doesn’t have any reserves left in him to go hunt down another animal, to take another gamble that’s stacked even higher against him with how badly off he is. Does he feel an uncomfortable chill set in, cooling his blood and rendering his flesh even colder than his normally low body temperature standards as his undead form slips just a little bit closer to a semblance of true death, whether or not he can starve to death as a vampire? Do his hands shake? Can he think at all as thoughts fade in and out from hunger-induced weakness? Can he think through the haze of sensation and awareness if he breathes in through his nose, his open mouth, inhaling a lungful of the smell and taste of living blood right there? The smells that he’s grown familiar with over these last few days? The companion origin for Astarion definitely seems to spin it towards needing to know if he can resist Cazador’s orders now, but consider this thought: imagine the progression of realization that Astarion might have as he considers the idea that he could resist Cazador’s rules, with the lack of magical-compulsion to return to Cazador’s side right away. That if Astarion himself is no longer bound by those supernatural, unyielding, magically-enforced laws, he can also drink the blood of thinking creatures. He can drink the blood of people. He can drink the blood that he’s been smelling the enticing scents of this entire time. The blood that is right. There. And he is starving. Imagine how that must feel, that pupil-dilating moment of realization as muscles tense and the next breath comes in as a sharp inhale at the instantaneous, primal understanding that you can have food, real food, good food, right then and there when you feel like you’re dying for something, anything to stop the hunger from eating you alive from the inside out. And all you have to do, is take it. Humans in real life can potentially have very predatory responses to hunger at times, especially when it comes to hunting down prey animals, and when it comes to spotting an easy meal when one is working on empty reserves. Imagine how that can scale up for a vampire...and for Astarion, this is the first time he’s been free to actually choose to act on those instincts. Cazador’s rules have always been the backbone holding him in place as surely as the mindflayer prison pods kept everyone well and truly trapped—until our merry lot was broken free. Now though? The only thing standing between Astarion and his sleeping, delicious-smelling companions’ blood, is his own will and choice. That has to be equal parts exhilarating and terrifying. He’s never been free like this—free, with vampiric needs clamouring for his attention. Free, as a vampire, spawn or otherwise. But does he want to? I would actually suspect he feels conflicted about that on multiple levels, given a possible line Auntie Ethel might say should you fight her. ”You’re one thirsty night away from betraying everyone!” [One of Auntie Ethel’s taunts when using Vicious Mockery during her potential fight, linked here in astarions-ears’s post.] On the one hand: the power to take what he wants, what he needs, is at his fingertips. Much like how the power of the tadpole is. It could help him protect himself, be stronger, do whatever he wants...just like the tadpole power. This whole situation is a mess of temptation in the long term for Astarion in so many ways. On the other hand though...I suspect based on that line from Ethel above, assuming it makes it into the final version of the game, given that it’s used during a casting of Vicious Mockery, I would say there’s fair grounds to assume Astarion does have at least reservations about betraying the party, at the very least with the hesitation given rise from self-serving desires such as wanting to have a group of people in his corner. I would say though, it wouldn’t cut so deep, and wouldn’t be so vicious a mockery, if he didn’t care that it was betrayal. I think it safe to say that if he truly didn’t care in some shape or form, Ethel would’ve ended up mocking some other aspect of Astarion’s personality or insecurities, likely something along the lines that everything he does is futile as he will still end up killed or enslaved by either Cazador or others (such as the party and MC having so much sway over his life and choices), rather than needling him about betrayal of all things. Another reservation he might have from lack of experience is that he’s never hunted other people for his own food before. He might never have hunted for someone personally of his own free will before this point, either. That little nuance could be a hook on which he hangs onto for dear life—or unlife—in order to keep what remains of his perceived identity. Who does he want to be, and among those details, what must he be, in order to survive? What can he avoid doing? Does he want to be what he perceives as a monster? Is he hoping not to become a monster, to validate that he isn’t one already, based on his conversation after you catch him trying to steal some of the MC’s blood? “I’m not some monster!” There’s also the line from the post-Raphael first meeting, “If I keep the tadpole, I risk turning into a monster.” which all seem to imply that Astarion draws a line between what he thinks is and isn’t monstrous, much like in the first meeting with Astarion where if you tell him about the tadpole, he laughs bitterly and goes, “Of course it’ll turn me into a monster.” Isn’t that an interesting turn of phrase? It implies so much fertile ground for speculating on what he thinks of both his own vampirism, and what precisely makes someone or something a monster. The MC has come into Astarion’s life at such a fascinatingly crucial point in time, beyond just Astarion’s sudden new freedom, however fragile, from Cazador. Because of that freedom, this is also the time of exploration and self-definition for Astarion to decide who he is, and who he will be, a coming-of-age if you will, which is hysterically ironic and well-played by Larian Studios in my opinion given that he is almost assuredly going to be the chronologically oldest member of the main party. This dovetails so very neatly into the MC’s already obvious potential influence on how Astarion views his condition, other people, the world around him, his own self and morality...it’s really just so rife with potential. This particular part is nothing too new, just added detail and layering on top of previous musings in past posts, but there are elements of interest to examine I think. Personally, I was inclined to guess Astarion as being older, even as elves go, based largely on the fine lines one can see upon his face when he’s emoting, some elements of his attitude and dialogue—(“A fine effort, but I’ve seen it all. I was walking this land while your ancestors were learning to crawl.” - said if you fail a skill check during his recruitment scuffle)—but looking at some of these other elements has me reconsidering that. Perhaps he was more on the young adult side of the elven age range, rather than middle aged prior to being turned? If he can retain scars as a vampire under the living conditions Cazador subjected him to, perhaps he also has stress-related aging tells, since it seems from other DND materials (Curse of Strahd I believe has a vampire locked in a basement that’s largely starved of blood if I recall correctly? I am uncertain of the details regarding the situation unfortunately) that vampires can at least show physical deterioration when it comes to being starved for blood. It would be an entertaining take in my personal opinion to see an older character having a coming-of-age growth type arc, since those are almost always strongly associated with a relatively narrow range of ages from teenaged-to-middle-twenties-ish protagonists and characters. Whichever way Larian goes with it though, it is looking quite promising just based on the overall quality of the various game elements so far. To build on that possible theme interpretation though, there is another element that I think ties into Astarion’s uncertain age as well—how much he remembers of his life before Cazador, and how much life there was to remember to begin with. One might generally presume that the older a character is, the more time they’ve had and thus more opportunity to learn, to be exposed to life experiences, to garner wisdom. Often, this also tends towards a certain amount of cementing of a person’s outlook, personality, and other core traits along with potential varying levels of self-awareness regarding those elements. It goes without saying that people do still change sometimes dramatically other times gradually over the course of their lives, but typically the more easily-influenced vibes commonly go with younger and/or more naive character builds, though not always of course. Without addressing significant or otherwise notable exceptions, specific nuances or variations though, there is something of a vague expectation and template starting-base that older characters and personalities are typically more “put together”, “collected”, and less likely to be outright mutable. Astarion though? As a character in an RPG that is built upon the foundations of choices, in a DND world where choice IS the defining feature in both character expression and storytelling? His core will remain as himself I’m sure, but by the very nature of the game attempting to make this an enjoyable experience for the audience, odds are very good that Astarion will be heavily influenced in his outlook into a set number of branched endings based on what the MC chooses to say and do. But I have some potential suspicions now that Astarion might actually be a touch more malleable in some parts of his outlook and manner beyond the influence of just the aforementioned elements above. Consider the following lines Astarion currently has in Early Access, including one mentioned previously: “Hell’s teeth! Was solid food always so foul?” [Said in the previously posted link above when eating a treacle tart for presumably the first time, stolen from Auntie Ethel’s before illusion is lifted.] “I’ve seen so little of the world. Still, there’s time now.” [Looking at a globe, post linked here, from Pjenn’s blog] “I haven’t spent much time with helpless old ladies. Was that normal?” [If you kill Mayrina’s brothers and Auntie Ethel disappears into thin air. Video from Danaduchy on youtube linked here] “Probably wise. No one gets that old and crooked playing by the rules.” [Same conversation as above mentioned in the video regarding Auntie Ethel if the second option “I’m not sure. We should watch ourselves around her.” is chosen in response to Astarion’s question.] While one could certainly retain youthful or what one might call immature or dramatic inclinations even through to one’s golden years, I am on the fence on how far Astarion’s presentation is strictly personality-based versus influenced by a possible lack of diverse life experiences. Nature versus nurture, as it were. The first of the above quotes seem to suggest he hasn’t done much traveling, and may have some wanderlust in him (potentially hinting at moon elf wanderlust leanings?), but then why wasn’t he out traveling? Why did he become a magistrate? There is much life to be lived in great depth and diversity when one stays in one place, true. But we really know so little about Astarion’s past before Cazador, all in all, and that intriguingly puts him back in step with most of the other companions at this point of backstory reveal, I’d say. If we include Cazador’s influence, I’d say we’ve seen quite a bit more of his story than most of the others because there’s a lot more visibility and immediately-threatening emotional tension in his story, even when compared to Gale’s, surprisingly, followed by Wyll’s, Shadowheart’s, and then Lae’zel’s as of what I personally have seen of their stories (my knowledge may be lacking, even as far as Early Access content goes.) To be fair though, Astarion is the one who thus far shows the most visible, dramatic expressions of fear and trauma regarding his backstory than all the rest, so that would be a major factor as to why it feels like we’ve seen more of his tale, among other factors. Regarding life experiences within a more geographically limited area though—that puts some of Astarion’s comments as even more markedly odd to me. Specifically those comments of his after Auntie Ethel poofs away into thin air, should the party slay Mayrina’s brothers for Ethel, “I haven’t spent much time with helpless old ladies.” Perhaps his specification is the helpless part, but even if he was spending time with powerful old ladies, who asks “is it normal for the elderly to disappear into thin air like that?” He must have met some older people, ladies included, as Baldur’s Gate is not a strictly elven city, according to the wiki its demographics are mostly human but widely diverse. [Link to wiki page here.] This is especially strange if he’s of a noble background and was ostensibly working with other government officials, one would expect a range of ages with plenty of older individuals present both in his work and social circles, even if only in passing. That’s just not adding up, especially if it’s a genuine question, which his expressions and tone of voice during his inquiry in addition to his responses afterwards to the MC’s various dialogue options all seem to suggest if not confirm. If that question was coming from a young character who hasn’t seen the world, one would assume they were just incredibly sheltered. What does it mean coming from Astarion? What’s even stranger is that Astarion is the one who baits the MC into a trap using a similar disception upon meeting—”Hurry, I’ve got one of those brain things cornered!” One would think Astarion would recognize a ruse like that as one of the oldest tricks in the book: pretend to be helpless to get someone else to do the dirty work for you. Such a trick often is pulled off well especially when the pretender is either a) pretty/handsome, b) innocent looking (young or otherwise), c) dressed in a uniform or clothes that have helpful connotations for snap judgements in one’s favor (e.g. wearing good-aligned clergy garments), d) helpless looking (young, old, specific subgroups depending on culture, disabled, etc), or has other elements to their advantage there. If Astarion doesn’t recognize that particular ruse, which he doesn’t seem to, that has additional implications going on for him. If he did recognize the ruse, one would expect his reaction to be much more in line with Shadowheart’s. If he recognized it and was hiding it, one would think he wouldn’t want to play stupid, if only for pride’s sake—for all that Astarion has done things that have unquestionably humbled him, his penchant for verbal wit and criticism (various insults aimed at the MC and others regarding their intellect/stupidity) and touchy ego makes playing stupid seem like a very emotionally taxing and potentially painful thing for him to do, and thus not worth the mental/emotional effort in what looks like a very low-stakes situation. He seems too impulsive and reactive to be planning out a long-term con of hiding his intelligence, he makes far too many quips to pull that off at this point. Assuming Astarion does indeed not recognize the ruse beforehand, some of the possible implications for that could speculate on his overall awareness of his techniques when it comes to deception and manipulation. He definitely can spot it on occasion based on a narrated internal monologue line presumably from his origin— *I gave her a hard look. Never play a player.* [Linked to the audio of this line here from scionsandsinners’s blog] That he spots it in the potential origin line above, but presumably not with Auntie Ethel, might suggest that his experience is likely limited to within certain restricted lanes of behavior, likely seduction were one to guess based on what we know of his backstory and some datamined emotional directions/descriptions for voice acting, along with speculation based on his in-game behavior and demeanor. That would potentially push him moreso towards appearing when being manipulative to be doing so out of either self-perceived need (e.g. defending personal interests, inquiring after information of interest, etc), learned response, social norms, and other short term motivations that are more situational than long-term planning. I admit I’m still personally not of the opinion he’s playing a long-term game, and is playing it by ear as he goes—both honestly and not-so-honestly, as mentioned in previous posts on the subject. [Mentioned past essay post of mine linked here] In regards to short-term machinations, I think they’re all largely emotion or survival driven, as far as we’ve seen. I would include the voice acting direction for the romance scene where it’s noted that this is a power game for Astarion and that he’s an old hand at seducing others. Specifically from the synopsis: “For Astarion, this is a game of power - one he’s played many times before in the taverns of Baldur’s Gate, trying to lure people back to his master. He’s an old hand at seduction, very self-assured at first, but the player might not go along with the script he expects them to follow.” [Link to Pjenn’s post here.] I’ve seen intriguing, angsty, and fun takes on what this might mean all around tumblr, so allow me to offer up an additional one that might either compliment some of the already circulating pre-existing ones, or stand on its own depending on personal preference. Consider what power means to Astarion in the context of seducing someone specifically when it’s to lure them back to Cazador’s mansion under orders. It truly isn’t power in the sense of anything one might consider meaningful even under broad definitions. It’s a short-term deception, appealing to someone enough to get them to do what he wants for a short time, likely just enough time to flirt and then bait them back to Cazador’s estate (we’ll be skipping over speculation of anything else Astarion and company might get up to between point A and point B in this essay for simplicity’s sake, though there is much to consider on how it might impact his behavior and outlook there.) One of the specific words of interest I would say is the use of “script” in there. I’m sure others can hear it too when they listen to his dialogue during the party romance scene, but it really does sound like he’s putting on a tried-and-true act that might come across as a little over the top in romantic-dramatic-flair. One potential inference that can be gleaned from this might be some of Astarion’s expectations regarding how people perceive him, and most specifically how people perceive him in a desirous way. I will admit, Astarion’s romance scene makes me laugh, I'm impressed he and the MC both can avoid laughing at his lines in-scene, no disrespect intended. To me, he sounds like he ripped those lines straight out of a torrid romance novel, the kind where women might have a momentary description of heaving, delicate bosoms barely constrained by their bodice laces, while the men have had their shirts ripped open to display rippling muscles in a moment of romantic daring do. It makes me wonder if someone will go with a modern AU idea of BG3′s main crew that includes Astarion moonlighting as a much beloved romance/erotica writer under a nom de plume—the man has lines and characteristics that would shift well in such a verse-transposition. With that comparison in mind, I would suggest that Astarion is very, very used to playing the role of the illicit lover, the tempter of passions and other archetypes wherein he is the one confidently enticing people to cross the line of propriety with him for the implied, unspoken promise of a night filled with unparalleled ravishment. It might be he is fully, intentionally playing up to people’s fantasies about the passionate lover who falls madly in love with them at first glance. The fantasy of being so madly desired, as put forth by some romance stories. Then we have this other portion of the acting direction for the scene, “... very self-assured at first, but the player might not go along with the script he expects them to follow.” Isn’t that interesting? “Very self-assured at first,” why only at first? What changes? Does he have little doubts springing to mind then, because the realization that he knew, but didn’t really know until this moment when he feels the difference, that this isn’t just another routine night like all those other countless nights over the past two centuries where he had to tempt some poor, unfortunate soul back to Cazador’s waiting clutches? That this is someone he’s picked to spend the night with, solely for his own motivations, with no one else pulling the strings? Is it another moment of the realization of freedom, wherein he feels a touch terrified? Suddenly there is no script, there is no expectation of what he’s seen happen time after time after time after time to each person who’s looked at him the way the MC is looking at him now. Is it anxiety? Is it trauma? Is he feeling a moment of distant, cognitive dissonance that this time, this time, this person whom he’s picked, won’t be dead at the end of this? That he doesn’t have to hold them at arm’s length with the they’ll be dead soon or worse mentality he may have had previously...but can he afford to care? Does he dare? Whether he does or does not, it could be such a scary little moment of epiphany, that he even has the option to do so without immediate, horrendous repercussions. But can he really care, even without Cazador looming overhead as an immediate threat? Even if Cazador is slightly more distant now...there’s still the matter of the tadpoles. There is so much uncertainty potentially. Could this be the last chance he gets at having as close to a normal night of fully consenting, fully aware, mutual passion with another person as he can ever have, as a vampire spawn? Astarion could be interpreted as a character who is very strongly ruled by his emotions, in particular his fears and his desires. Does it befit his fears or his wants more to engage as he does in the romance scene? I’d guess moreso his fears, but it’s a fun back-and-forth he’s got as a character, zigzagging between those two extremes. He fears trusting as denoted in the dialogue from him if you fail the persuasion check asking him to trust you and to talk about who he dreamed about, but since you can persuade him...does that mean he wants to trust? If he speaks truthfully in this following scene, he does trust the MC to some degree out of necessity and/or the want to trust, as mentioned if you use the illithid powers in the camp bite scene where he’s revealed to be a vampire. He has likely been alone among the crowd of Cazador’s other spawn, given the lack of mention of anyone else, friend or otherwise, in his banter with Shadowheart regarding if there was anyone waiting for him back in Baldur’s Gate and other general conversations and discussions. That’s rather concerning truth be told, to go two hundred years with what might be a complete lack of positive or healthy social connection. Another thing Cazador has ripped away intentionally, it would seem. Does he want connection, meaningful friendship or otherwise? The fact that his approval rating has an impact on his manner of address of the MC or other selected origin character seems like it could be read as a suggestion that he does show whom he likes and dislikes openly in fairly standard socializing behaviors. That he does want to spend time around people whom he likes, who like him back. What would’ve been terribly clever of Larian (said without being able to compare all the different levels of approval shown via dialogue general greetings from the different companions), is if they had a character whose greeting was still amicable, polite, and most importantly friendly even when their approval of you was low. What if such a theoretical character’s greetings never changed, or changed very little aside from some variation at higher approval levels? That could be a great little twist of game mechanics to show either Something Isn’t Right, or that the character is a great liar, through meta knowledge on the player’s part of comparing all these disparate little details to compare and contrast. That kind of tell could be used to show that a character lacks either a degree of empathy and care for the main character, or that they are keeping the MC at arms’ length regardless of what the MC does (barring some potential high-approval impact and side-quest-completion that leads to influencing such a character, who might otherwise be a betrayer, into remaining loyal.) Seeing as Astarion lacks those major tells as of yet and that he does engage honestly either through persuasion or eventual revelation (such as if you fail the first dream-convo persuasion check, you find out from when he wakes up from nightmares regarding Cazador “reading poetry” what his dreams really were about), one could assume he does, in spite of all he’s been through, despite all the reasons he’s been given to fear, all the repetition beaten into his head to never trust another person ever again or to ever be trusted ever again... ...in spite of all that, perhaps a part of him still wants to reach out and engage with others. That some part of him still wants to interact as most if not all people do, in an emotionally meaningful and honest way. He says to the MC that he thinks they want to be known—and as I’m sure many of you clever lot who are in the shipping business alongside the rest of us have already thought or written out into fic, it very well may be that Astarion wants to be known too. Not just in the romantic or impassioned-love-affair manner of speaking, but simply for who he is, with both the MC and the rest of the group too. Accepted. Does he enjoy the little quips and barbs (assuming he actually is allowed to drink humanoid blood) such as from Shadowheart regarding his vampirism? Does that feel like a new, pleasant normal to him that he likes after a while? A joke between friends? Like the line “You know? I’m a little proud none of you were stupid enough to trust him!” [Linked here from scionsandsinners’s blog] while definitely still sporting his current insultingly low bar of expectations, it could be a nice potential build towards actually getting attached to the group on the whole as friends. Did he have that before he turned at all? Did he want that before? It seems likely given what we’ve seen of his raw emotional drive, that his potential desire for meaningful connection however obscured behind quips and barbs, that those elements were always a part of him in some way, shape or form. Does he remember, though? Or is it potentially something he’s forgotten, to some extent or other? Does he remember vaguely what friendship was like as another hollow memory among many, after so many years of torment wearing away at his mind? Do his friends from life if any still live? That could be bittersweet, if he did leave someone behind from when he was alive, that we might meet in Baldur’s Gate. He calls that Before—that time when he was still alive, before he lay dying and accepted Cazador’s offer of eternal life and was thus turned into a vampire spawn—so long ago it’s ancient history. “Everything before that is so long ago it’s ancient history and everything that came after…well uhm–I’d rather not reflect on it.” [Link here, from scionsandsinners] In some lines, tentatively guessed as post-vampire-status-reveal casual dialogue regarding his past before Cazador, relating to his days as a magistrate, he says he can’t remember what happened too clearly. “I…can’t remember much, truth be told–centuries of torment will do that to you.” [link from scionsandsinners blog] According to google searches on the internet for DND rules regarding the turning of vampires and vampire spawn, they do seem to retain the memories of their life even into undeath. Astarion certainly could be obfuscating and lying about how much he remembers from back then...but consider this alternative as a possibility: What if he isn’t? [Spoilers for some of the Amnesia game series ahead, specifically Amnesia: The Dark Descent, and the DLC Amnesia: Justine.] What if he does have a certain degree of memory loss? Enter the comparison of Daniel and Justine both from Amnesia: The Dark Descent and the game’s DLC. Astarion, unlike the main character for Amnesia’s main campaign Daniel, did not technically volunteer for memory loss...unless one counts agreeing to take Cazador’s deal as volunteering, specifically without full and knowing consent of what he was getting into. Daniel in comparison knowingly and willingly ingests a potion to erase his memories, and leaves a note to motivate himself and thus the player to follow the course of ensuing events that make up the game. Justine does so in a similar fashion to Daniel, but her memory loss is intentionally temporary, whereas Daniel seems to have meant for it to be of a more permanent fashion. What if part of Cazador’s intentions regarding torturing his spawn, including Astarion, was to break down memories of happier times until those spawn could only remember that they had ever been happy once, not the actual memory, not the actual feeling—only the bitter, hollow forgetfulness and knowledge that they had known, once? Starvation is devastating in many, many, many ways. Ways that are so rarely fully explored in fiction beyond the feeling of extreme hunger. Few, after all, would consider the impact of malnourishment or a constant caloric deficit upon mental faculties unless they have observed it, experienced it, or studied it. It is possible to suffer actual physical brain damage from starving, so one must ask is it so surprising that the ability to think, comprehend, and process information, memory or emotion also falters when under the very real physical stress of prolonged famine? The brain eats up at least a fifth of the baseline caloric intake required for the average person’s bodily needs. It does not compromise well for less without the person in question suffering consequences for most if not all individuals. We know Astarion has not had more than enough to barely survive under Cazador, and the quality has been well below subpar at best. What if, after all he’s been through, with the exhaustion of constant fear and extreme pain, of unending ravenous hunger, and so much more...what if Astarion can’t remember much of before at all? What if he has forgotten chunks of his past? He does remember large, broad brushstrokes yes, the shape of ideas and what he once knew. The home he might long to see that he has not laid eyes upon in centuries [mentioned in the conversation with the Ornate Mirror if Astarion is the one talking to it (or does it require he be the chosen main origin?) I have no source available at this current time alas.] How much of that home does he remember in full? I’m sure he can recall some details...but are they the abstract knowledge of those details of what he knew they were like, or the actual memory? Can you imagine the added layer of pain for an elf, if Larian is working with any of the racial features involving trancing, or the Reverie, if it’s built based off of the 2e DND Complete Book of Elves excerpt as mentioned in the following linked thread? [Posted by Remathilis, key word phrase is “The Reverie” or “The reverie is akin to sleep”, linked here] Specifically if these elements are at play: “The reverie is akin to sleep, yet is very much unlike it. When elves enter this state, they vividly relive past memories, those both pleasant and painful. Like the dreaming of humans, elves have no control over which memories rise to the fore when they relinquish their bodies to the reverie. Occasionally, elves do actually dream, but this is not a frequent occurrence and mostly occurs only when they truly sleep.” “Although the reverie provides rest, it is primarily an important memory tool that helps the elf maintain a strong sense of identity. Since their lifespans are so great, elves must periodically recall the events in those hundreds of years that were integral to the making of their personality.” This is from older versions of DND rules it’s true, but if it still applies, and applies to Astarion? This man has had over two hundred years’ worth of memories full of suffering and torment that, if he’s having traumatic PTSD nightmare episodes also helping to induce a higher frequency of recalling his torment at the hands of Cazador both during those centuries and afterwards, are potentially shaping his personality not only through the channels we can recognize in both fiction and the real world in psychological and physiological terms, but also supernatural or magical influences due to his being an elf and potentially shaped by the influence of what memories his reverie might dredge up. And the larger the number of traumatic, dark, fearful memories he has, the more likely he is to encounter them, especially if they’re coupled with a constant, ongoing fear of knowing these memories will be made anew each night unto infinity if he is stuck bound to Cazador’s service forever. Who wants to bet Cazador knew about this aspect of elven psychology/biology? Or at the very least speculated it, as far as having elven vampire spawn went? It will be interesting to see if there are other elven vampire spawn among Cazador’s underlings—either for the route of Cazador taking a particular extra pleasure in breaking elves because they are supposedly harder to influence in such a manner if he had others before Astarion, or if Astarion was the first elf Cazador turned, then perhaps Astarion received particular, special attention for being seen as an added challenge due to being an elf. Alexander from Amnesia however had to use a slightly defter touch to manipulate Daniel, having not so concrete a hold over him as Cazador over Astarion. But the torture of others, of fleeing to Alexander’s or Cazador’s promise of safety from an impending horror or threat of death, followed by a descent into the dark, unyielding despair of what Daniel or Astarion have done to survive? They do have potential parallels enough to make for a possible AU exploration in fics, certainly. One question that arises in this scenario of comparison though, is how much is Astarion aware of? How much of Cazador’s insidious influence does he recognize, in particular the more subtle parts that have seeped in over the years? Consider then the added layer of stark, blinding contrast, that he now has new memories, of new people, new experiences, in particular ones that are not torture or the anticipation of said torture, and it’s all in the daylight. Memories of daylight the likes of which he’s not had in two hundred years. Consider the mere color contrast from the lighting difference of daylight versus night time, like in the line where he asks “Was the sky always this blue? It’s magnificent…” [Link here to the audio, presumed triggered after vampire status reveal] If he dreams in reverie and the memory that comes to mind is set in the daytime...would he feel a bit safer in hoping that it will be a safer, better dream, than if it’s set in the night time? Consider how much of a horrible, terror-inducing surprise it might be to dream of a sun-filled garden, only to see an idealized version of Cazador show up, a la the tadpole. That has to be the meanest surprise-twist Astarion could have for a dream setting there. But on other nights if he does not have memories of Cazador or tadpole dreams plaguing him, does he dream of the camp, the companions, the MC, the actions their group has undertaken? What does he think of those dream-memories? Are they only relatively restful compared to the other dark memories lurking in his head, or are these new daylight-filled memories actually objectively restful for him? Perhaps one additional group of reasons he’s willing to join up with the party, is to get away from the memories. With people, there is the added unknown factor of complexity and chemistry, of lives and histories not his own added to the mix of any situation they come across. Of interaction. Of not being left alone to his own thoughts and nightmares. This group’s members aren’t victims meant for Cazador’s fangs and thirst, nor are they Cazador’s spawn, fellow damned souls and torturous devils both who alternate suffering upon the rack and potentially being the ones to turn the rack’s wheels for whoever is tied down upon it that night. Mayhaps Astarion wants to remember more of the things he’s forgotten in the darkness of all the years he’s suffered under Cazador—to make new memories of things he would associate with living, with being free. To fill in the hollowed out abstract memories with fresh, new details of life lived in the sun, in the here and now. Is he aware of just how much he’s forgotten? Even if he isn’t fully cognizant of the full tally of all that he’s potentially lost...it must still hurt to have an idea of how much he’s lost even if he’s only partially aware. In this, he might hold more comparison to Justine from Amnesia’s DLC moreso than Daniel, depending on what choices Astarion makes if he’s the chosen origin, or on the MC’s choices if it’s a custom origin playthrough—with Justine, her choices are all setup and intended to be an exploration of who she is as an exploration of character, to find out if she is capable of mercy and compassion still—while exercising a great deal of monstrous cruelty for her own amusement. With Daniel there is still the solid comparison of thematic elements in that his quest is a desperate pursuit of revenge while trying to outrun a great evil, all while acknowledging that he himself is horrifying as well. Justine’s story would parallel Astarion far more so on the dark path through Baldur’s Gate 3, naturally, whereas Daniel, if one selected the Revenge Ending at the end of Amnesia, has more in common with Astarion’s tentatively projected good route—revenge, while also ending a greater evil than himself. The parallel with Daniel may possibly even include a comparison to Amnesia’s Good Ending depending on what direction Larian takes Astarion’s story in. I doubt Larian would have Astarion become self-sacrificial, but I could see him potentially becoming much more inclined towards helping his friends and party members on a good-aligned path, as he seems at least not entirely unwilling to engage in do-goodery, particularly if bribed enough. There’s also certainly the idea of comparing Daniel being “tainted” as Alexander put it by the Shadow to Astarion’s potential point of view on his vampirism, given some of his expressions at times in emotional scenes relating to it. Then also the comparison of all the horrors Daniel has inflicted upon people, as have Justine and Astarion, and the fact that after the amnestic-influence of their specific story elements in this build, they are ultimately all able to be influenced towards better or worse endings dependent upon more immediate influences, namely the people surrounding them, and less so from long-standing influences of their past such as tradition, upbringing, and other core elements of identity that memory so often brings to the table, or at least helps formulate the detailing of. Justine admittedly does not really have “better” endings, but her horror story’s core could be interpreted as “was truly a monster at heart all along” from start to finish. Will Astarion prove to be similarly corrupt at his core, something that had always been true deep down regardless of Cazador’s influence on him, ultimately sowing harm and ruin upon the world and people around him, like Justine? Or will he turn out to be leaning towards being more of a good-inclined, flawed character with a bloodstained history he regrets and seeks to overcome, like Daniel? As a disclaimer though, Daniel is not a Good-aligned personality. He did many horrifying things to preserve his life, and Astarion certainly has done terrible things canonically under Cazador’s direction, though we still wait to see what Astarion did back when he was free to choose. With the attention to detail Larian Studios is applying as is to just what we’ve seen in Early Access, I would expect a fairly nuanced backstory for Astarion with murky morality, based on what we see of his opinions and character traits now. Another idea just to let loose an additional fox among the chickens: Consider the added layer of potential morality conflict in the scenario where Astarion might actually have very well been pursuing his idea of justice as a magistrate— coupled with his low opinions of others which he may have had before Cazador turned him, along with his racist/discriminatory comments and behaviors (re: Gur, Goblins, Gnomes, Kobolds, etc), likely suggests he could very well have been very biased in his perspective on how he meted out justice. I would not be surprised if Larian Studios kept the story idea that he was selling criminals off, but I also would not be at all shocked if they added details where it made what Astarion was dishing out closer to overly-harsh street-justice—he makes a fine murder-hobo adventurer as it is when the watchword of the day for many an adventuring party is “Murder Is An Acceptable Solution If Words Aren’t Working.” I also wouldn’t bat an eye should we find out he was as judgmental and cynical before Cazador as he is now, albeit perhaps with a different bend to his outlook from life experience influences. This all really ties in well with the usual game build of everyone starting at level one, as brand new, green adventurers—barring past adventuring experiences for backstory like Wyll, Lae’zel, and Shadowheart do or potentially have—at the start of their journey, off to explore the world and grow into the world-savers (or world-enders) they’re destined to be in a given campaign. Astarion fits this very well on many levels, among them given the fact how new everything is to him with this sudden change of the rules altering the very fabric of his existence. He has to deal with figuring out how to deal with his vampirism under his own agency and all the ensuing complications that come with that, has to figure out how to socially interact with others in all new ways, has to level up to go on his personal quest to save his own hide and eventually his friends’ and the world—it’s all so new and different, even the things he’s experienced before with such a drastic perspective shift and a change in power. It ties right back into his tagline so nicely too if that ends up being a possible theme of his, the whole memory-loss/memory-informing-his-identity element of being an elf: “ Astarion prowled the night as a vampire spawn for centuries, serving a sadistic master until he was snatched away. Now he can walk in the light, but can he leave his wicked past behind?” Can he leave those memories behind and forge himself into a better version of himself, if that is what he wants? What choices will Astarion make, if he does indeed have warped memories due to Cazador’s corroding influence to the point of some degree of memory loss? How will this flood of new sensory and social experiences change him as he goes forward? Who will Astarion choose to be, at the end of the day when they reach the road’s end? Will he let those dark memories twist and shape him, or will he try to make new ones among new friends, and follow their lead back into the sunlight? So many potential questions! Speaking of potential good-versus-bad-paths, this line isn’t in the game yet, but I feel it suggests Astarion might have a certain tolerance or perhaps even willingness to at least consider going out and saving the world, beyond lines we’re all familiar with already at the Tiefling celebration party: “Don’t you think we have other priorities right now? We need to save ourselves before we can save the world.” [Link here from Pjenn’s datamined post, dialogue theoretically occurs after a currently locked-off from Early Access encounter with a drow servant of the Absolute in the Underdark] It makes for a lot of intriguing possibilities, I dare say, all of which could make for marvelous variations in core character trait builds and influences for different interpretations of Astarion as a character. So many choices and gradients to play with, he and all the rest of the main cast have such nuance, it’s fantastic. The cast of characters all so far seem to have a wide variety of wants and motivations, and Larian seems like they might be quite determined to blur the line and inspire more rich exploration opportunities regarding perceived morality among many other potential topics of discussion—we have good characters with on-going flaws and darker motivations, evil characters with recurrent virtues and sympathetic appeal, and quite a few in-between when non-party-member NPCs are included in the mix. I do think Astarion along with all the rest of the party fit into those kinds of complicated-morality situations we’ve seen play out and be hinted at so very nicely, and it will be such fun to see how they grow through these experiences! It’s marvelous writing, directing, animation, acting, and just straight up work all across the board it looks like from over here. Anyway, thank you all for coming along on this literary ramble with me, I hope you had a fine time and that you all have a lovely day or night as befits your current timezone. Happy tidings to you, and stay safe everyone, and see you next time! :D

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maskydoolovesmasseffect · 4 years ago

Text

Mass Effect Tag

Wellio, I’ve been tagged by @berryshiara. Passing this on to @grummel83

Gunna answer my questions now. Y’all feel free to tell me what you think of these answers.

I’m a fan since: 2008. I was just out of high school and still not over KoTOR. I was fresh in the army and got to talking to some other dude fresh to the army about video games. He asked me if I played Mass Effect. I said no. By the next day I just about totally forgot about him, then he suddenly appeared out of nowhere sat in front of me in the chow hall and pulled a copy of ME1 for Xbox 360 out his pocket like he was a magician doing a magic trick (ACU pockets are huge.)

Anyway turns out that guy was a romance option and I must have picked the right dialogue options. I’m still with him, too.

Favorite game of the series:

Mass Effect 2. It seemed like that’s the one where choices mattered most and you really got to know your squaddies. Also MAJOR gameplay improvements over the first game. And that game gave me the most freedom to do basically whatever I wanted and wasnt afraid to give me consequences for it.

MShep or FShep:

FShep. Nothing against MShep, but for me the real Shep is FShep. Can’t beat Jennifer Hale’s voice.

Earthborn, Colonist, or Spacer:

Colonist. I like having the background of knowing just how dangerous the galaxy can be and how the Alliance can’t be everywhere at once so sometimes you need to manage your best on your own.

Biotics or Tech:

Both.

Paragon or Renegade:

Paragon, mostly. I tried being renegade but some of the actions are just so pointlessly dickish, or even outright unhinged in a way that would make it impossible to believe the Alliance would ever promote Shepard as an officer or even keep her in the Alliance at all, especially in the first game.

That said, there are times where a renegade action is more expedient and practical than a paragon one, like in 2 when you stab a dude in the back to prevent him from repairing an enemy gunship, so even with a paragon playthrough, my Shepard will have no issues taking that opportunity. She’s already seconds away from betraying all those guys anyway.

Paragon in treatment of others, renegade in combat pragmatism.

Favorite Class:

I play as infiltrator and vanguard.

Infiltrator is great for using a sniping and opening loot, and then for going invisible, and if I remember right AI hacking too. That’s cool and I wish there were more genuine opportunities for stealth.

Nowadays I play as Vanguard in my playthroughs mainly just so my Shepard can be canonically biotic for story reasons. From 2 on when looting no longer needs a special skill and I get to charge around the map. I don’t really care much about using biotics (that’s what the squadies are for) but the movement is super useful (when Shepard actually does the thing instead of just standing out in the open soaking up bullets until the ability decides to actually work.)

Favorite Companion:

Garrus. I like to set him up in sniper positions. When he actually STAYS where I put him instead of running straight up to enemies to try to snipe them at point blank, he’s great.

Also his quips in 2 on are pretty entertaining.

Least Favorite Companion:

Garrus, Oh my god. Go back to the sniper position where I put you. Leave tanking to krogan; you do not have the HP for this.

Also Kaidan in ME1. He can not shoot to save his life - literally.

My Squad Selection:

For all ME1 playthroughs after my first one, Ashley and Kaidan, just of their comments and because... well... I only have so much time with them.

Apart from that I mainly just pick my team based on who’s likely to have the most interesting commentary on whatever the mission happens to be, squad balance be damned.

Favorite In-Game Romance:

Garrus X Shepard is my favorite love story. They are just so adorable together and always supportive even when they disagree.

But my cannon romance is Kaidan X Shepard for the drama and angst.

Favorite NPC:

In ME1 there’s this random Turian on Noveria who randomly has like a New York accent and I absolutely adore him. He plays basically no part in the story other than some minor information but he’s just so pleasant to speak to.

“If you need anything, I’ll be here.”

Favorite Antagonist:

Morinth, the Ardat-Yakshi daughter of Samara. Yes, she’s a murderous vampire who will absolutely kill you given the chance... but like, it’s a medical condition. And I really can’t help but feel for ardat-yakshi in general when their only options are to spend their whole lives on the run from justicars out to execute them, or waste their entire 1000 year lifespan imprisoned in a monetary unable to experience the world at all. Yeah, Morinth is evil, but Ardat-Yakshi don’t exactly have a good deal.

Favorite Loyalty Mission:

Grunt’s loyalty mission is the best. I get to help my baby boy, reunite with Wrex, enjoy krogan society being fleshed out, have a kickass battle against a thresher maw, and get a breeding request. It’s nice to have a quest that isn’t about family drama and genuinely gets a happy end.

Favorite Mission:

Despite Citadel DLC requiring everyone to have a deathgrip on an idiot ball, and also basically gloss over some really dark stuff, the whole clone storyline with the whole crew is an absolute ride all the way though, with lots of interesting and unique scenarios, a ton of replay-value, and funny party banter that feels like it came straight out of a Marvel movie.

Favorite DLC:

Again, Citadel DLC. Not only did it come with the story above, it also had all those interactions with past and present crewmates, including a memorial for Thane (finally!), a cool apartment to hang out in, a party, an arcade, and an awesome battle arena. It really added a TON. Also, it’s nice to see Bioware figure out that DLC needs characters - I’m remembering back in the DLC to ME 1 the party never had a single thing to say, no matter what was going on. The fun and wacky Citadel DLC is a far cry from the serious and somewhat dark space opera Mass Effect started as, but as the final DLC capping off the end of the series, it gets to do a silly victory lap (and get the taste of the ending out of our mouths.)

Control, Synthesis, Or Destroy:

No.

Favorite Weapon:

Sniper rifles, whatever I have that’s fast and has high damage output. Also that one pistol that shoots tiny energy grenades. Pew pew.

Yeah I wasn’t really big into the weapons so much. I’m here to get my story on.

Favorite Place:

The presidium on the Citadel. It bothered me a lot when I couldn’t explore it in the second game. I know it would have been terribly impractical, but as the presidium is just a huge ring, it would have been cool to be able to explore the whole thing, going past all the little park areas, shops, monuments and so on until you loop aaaaall the way back around to where you started. Like, how cool would it be if the ring had a running track? Maybe C-sec academy trainees would be spotted jogging together along it in formation. And can you imagine grabbing a coffee (I was going to make up a space-related name for Starbucks but it’s already STARbucks...) and taking a nice stroll along the water before finding a nice bench to alien-watch from? Other locations in the game are like great places to explore and do gameplay stuff, but the presidium seems like a nice place to just be.

Favorite Quote:

"Stand in the ashes of a trillion dead souls and ask the ghosts if honor matters. The silence is your answer." - Javik.

This is such a fucking raw damn line. It makes me think a lot about Cerberus. When ME3 wasn’t out yet, I thought maybe the plan was Shepard would at some point choose a side, Alliance for paragons and Cerberus for renegades. It would have been so cool to have morality not merely be good vs evil, but idealism vs that ruthless calculus Garrus mentioned. How fucking raw would it be if Cerberus wasn’t just generically evil for no reason and suddenly indoctrinated but really were embodying that ruthless calculus, determined to defeat the reapers at any and all cost. Maybe Cerberus actions’ were more likely to do terrible things for the sake of ultimate victory, doing whatever it took, whereas the Alliance would be less willing to make the terrible choices and ultimately be less likely to succeed.

Now obviously, that’s not what happened, as it would have required Bioware to basically make two entirely separate games. But that line from Javik makes me think of that concept, and a universe where like Dragon Age party members can approve or disapprove of actions not merely as good or evil but along the lines of their personal values. I think Javik would sit at victory at all cost.

Also that one mission in 2 where some random NPC catches Shepard sneaking around and is all like ‘what are you doing here?’ and Shepard is like ‘What am I doing here? What are you doing here? Get out here before it blows!’ and the guy’s freaking out like WTF and she says ‘RUN!’ then laughs to herself as he flees from an imaginary bomb. Shep you troll.

The thing I like the least about the entire franchise:

The misogyny and objectification that crept its way in, epically from the second game on. Really didn’t like those ass-shot camera angles, or female characters being slut-shamed in-universe for the clothes the designers made them wear. Yikes.

But the biggest yikes for me in that regard is actually the reveal in 3 that the prothians guided asari development. That was fine and all, but the part that bothered me was the characters commenting “ooooh, so that’s why asari are so advanced,” as it was ever any kind of mystery before that exact moment. For one thing, asari aren’t really shown as being more advanced than anyone else, apart from having discovered the citadel first, and for second, why wouldn’t asari be advanced? All the way from ME1 it’s established that 1: Asari live for a really long time, and 2: can instant transmit information directly from brain to brain. That means they have long lifetime in which to accumulate knowledge and experience, and also can easily spread and preserve that knowledge without even the need for books. That ALONE should put them ahead. And even with all that, they only barely beat the salarians to discovering the Citadel first. But no one asks for an explanation for why salarians, who live only a few decades and can’t do mental data-transfer, are so advanced. No, only the success of the all-women race needs explaining. It was just one moment but it still bugs me.

Also the general loss of realism after the second game. First game everyone gets armor, including full-face helmets automatically on in environments that need it. After that, people can apparently just wander the battlefield half-naked and even somehow survive in a total vacuum if they just put a plastic cup (that isn’t even connected to anything) over their mouth and nose. In the first game they at least made up some reasonable-sounding science fiction explanation for things, but after that it’s like F-it everything is just space magic now.

Oh, and those repetitive unlocking stuff minigames. I use a mod to just skip those.

#mass effect #tag

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chelsfic · 4 years ago

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I Fell into Fantasy - Nandor x Guillermo One-Shot

WWDITS Masterlist

Summary: Guillermo admits to a secret desire. Nandor tries to fulfill it without compromising his aloofness.

A/N: The title of this fic comes from a song called “Days of the Phoenix” by AFI. I was inspired to write this fic by the scene in the movie where Viago talks about how he likes to make things “nice” for his victims during their final moments.

Warnings: Blood drinking, a bit of smut, frottage, pining, angst

---

Guillermo really should know better.

How many nights has he spent digging up the garden to dispose of the mangled corpses left behind after the vampires’ feasting? How many bruised, torn throats has he seen? Cracked collar bones and broken limbs? Lifeless, staring eyes?

He knows the victims are in pain before they die. He knows the vampires sometimes like to play with their food, chasing tearful virgins through the house, giving them a taste of escape before tucking into their meal. He knows it hurts. He knows it isn’t sexy.

Really. He knows.

He’s still jealous. He’s jealous when he shows up to yet another sad familiar mixer to find that nearly every other human in attendance has faded puncture wounds and he has to hide his smooth, pristine throat with a turtleneck sweater. He’s jealous when he’s forced to stand in the corner and listen to his master’s obscene, tantalizing moans as he drinks from some random human who isn’t him. He’s jealous when Nandor remarks on how tasty a victim is, licking his lips before discarding their lifeless forms like so much garbage.

He knows it’s wrong. But he gave up caring about right and wrong a long time ago, around the time he dug his first clandestine grave.

He’s wanted to be bitten ever since he was 13-years-old and he first watched Lestat turn Louis on the 18-inch TV in his bedroom. He’d paused the movie, rewinding and frantically beating off as the blood poured onto Brad Pitt’s lips. He wants to know what his master’s lips would feel like on the tender hollow of his throat. He wants to feel the scratch of his beard as he closes his mouth over Guillermo’s sensitive skin. He wants Nandor to hold him close. He wants to feel those sensual moans rumble through the vampire’s chest as he takes his fill.

He wants so much.

Whenever he feels jealousy, lust, longing... he reminds himself that he should feel grateful, proud even, that Nandor has never fed from him. Nandor sees him as more than a meal. He’s a trusty companion, a person, a...friend? This is what Guillermo tells himself. He knows it’s not a matter of taste. How many times has Nandor scolded him for looking too tempting when he blushes? Or warned him to be careful with his sword collection because he didn’t want him bleeding all over the place and testing his self-control?

Whatever his reasoning--respect, boundaries, taboo--Nandor doesn’t feed on his familiar. But Guillermo often wonders if things would be different if his master knew how badly he wanted it.

---

“Guillermo, you’re very serious tonight. Are you having to take a human shit? I can wait until after for you to do the tucking in…”

Nandor stands by his open coffin with an uncomfortable smile on his face that’s akin to a grimace. Guillermo has already helped him remove his outer layers and brushed out his flowing, dark hair. All that remains is for the familiar to hold his hand while he steps up into his coffin.

“No, master, I--I don’t have to take a shit. I’m fine,” Guillermo murmurs with sadness practically oozing out of his pores.

Nandor bristles, his eyes darting all over the room as he wars with himself over whether to press further or simply to ignore Guillermo’s stupid human moods and hope they go away.

The vampire sighs dramatically, “I think you better tell me what is the matter, Guillermo. I don’t want this affecting your work performance. You do a very poor job dusting the paintings and the window dresses when you’re sad. Now what is it? Laszlo and Nadja? Are they giving the guff to you?”

Guillermo is quiet for a long moment, looking up into his master’s fathomless brown eyes as he decides how to respond. Nandor’s whole body is tense as if he’s awaiting the guillotine blade. Maybe he should just get it out of his system and finally admit--well, certainly not everything he feels for his beloved master, but at least about his deep desire to be bitten.

He blushes, lowering his gaze as he finally answers, “I guess...I’m just a little jealous. Of...of the people you feed from.”

Nandor’s face drops into blank befuddlement before his dark brows lift upward and his lips curl in a poorly concealed smile.

“You’re jealous of my victims? I kill those people! You want me to murder you? Is this some kind of death wish thing? Because I find that really annoying!” Nandor sputters, half amused and half serious.

Guillermo’s face is burning with humiliation now and he rushes to clarify, “No! No, I don’t want to die, master. It’s just...I’ve always wanted to know what it felt like to be bitten by a vampire...”

His voice fades to nothingness but Nandor clearly understands him and his face grows pensive as he contemplates his words.

“Are you bullshitting me?” Nandor questions and his tone is just close enough to irritation to cause Guillermo to shrink in on himself as he answers.

“No, master.”

“Well…” Nandor sighs and affects a look of disinterest. “It’s alright to say that sort of thing to me, Guillermo, because you’re my familiar. But you want to be careful out there with the other vampires. You could get eaten up! And then where would I be? Having to make another ad on the Greg’s List!”

“...Craigslist…”

“As I said!” Nandor snaps, holding out his hand expectantly as he moves to get into his coffin. “Now, that’s enough of this crazy talking. Alright?”

“Alright, master,” Guillermo murmurs subserviently, reaching up to release the lid and slowly lowering it, sealing his master inside.

“Goodnight, Guillermo!” Nandor’s muffled voice calls as the familiar moves around the room, blowing out candles.

“Night, master!”

Sealed in the claustrophobic darkness of his coffin, Nandor’s mind races as he tries to process this new information about his familiar. Guillermo--his little Guillermo!--would let him bite him and drink his delicious blood? No, he wants him to do it. Yearns for it. He is jealous of the people he kills just because they get to feel the sting of his fangs and the touch of his lips. Nandor palms himself through his trousers. He’s harder than he’s been in a century just thinking of it.

---

He tries, he really does. Guillermo tries to forget about his shameful admission and go back to normal. Nandor certainly seems unmoved, doing nothing to even hint that he remembers having the conversation. So, Guillermo goes through the motions, dutifully completing his chores, searching for fresh sources of virgin blood, and standing by while Nandor sates his bloodlust with perfect strangers. But now that he’s revealed his secret--part of his secret, let’s be honest--and faced his master’s outright rejection, he just can’t seem to let go of the hollow ache in his chest.

He feels inadequate, pathetic, unattractive. And sad. Mostly sad.

Guillermo might think that Nandor has forgotten all about their little chat, but the vampire dwells on it just as much as the human does in the days that follow. And it’s impossible to ignore the scent of “sad human” that’s begun to permeate the household. Nandor spends several days battling with himself over what to do. He considers killing Guillermo and starting over with a new familiar… Guillermo gets his wish, Nandor doesn’t have to confront his shameful attraction to his servant… everybody wins! But the thought of Guillermo’s sweet little face gone still and lifeless sends a foreign stab of emotion into his chest that is really unpleasant.

He could ignore the situation and hope for it to go away on its own. But now that he knows his familiar is secretly lusting after his bite, he can’t get it out of his mind. He’d avoided feeding from Guillermo for years. At first it was a matter of preserving a valuable asset. Guillermo is a good familiar, why risk slipping up and accidentally draining him? After a while, when Nandor started to fixate on his familiar’s adorable smiles, fantasizing about how his soft, little body would feel against his...then it became a matter of self-control and rejecting his disgusting, unnatural feelings for a... servant!

So, that leaves him with one option. He must feed from Guillermo...carefully. So, so carefully so as not to be overcome and either kill or ravish the poor fellow. And if he is going to bite his Guillermo, then he must make it a pleasant experience for his familiar. He can’t stomach the idea of simply ripping into his human and hearing him scream and cry with the pain of it. No, it has to be...special.

---

Guillermo is barely in the door, laden down with shopping bags, when his master’s voice calls to him.

“Guillermo! Is that you?”

“Yes, master! I’m back from the store. I got you some more of those bath bombs you like,” Guillermo answers, wrestling with the bags as he edges towards his room. “Is there something--?”

Nandor appears at his side and interrupts, “The one with the lavender? Very good, Guillermo. Ehm--why don’t you put down those satchels and come with me to my room for a moment. I have a surprise for you.”

Guillermo’s face lights up with a warm smile and he drops the bags on the floor by his closet-room, “A surprise? For me, master?”

“Just for you, Guillermo! Come!” Nandor practically skips at his side as they walk back to his room, his eyes lit with anticipation.

Nandor closes and locks the door behind them, watching his familiar take in the arrangements he’s made. He borrowed Laszlo’s gramophone and set it up in the corner. It’s playing a soft, quiet melody that floats gently on the incense-infused air. A vase of vivid red roses sits on an end table next to his fancy couch, which he’s covered in a layer of bath towels.

“What...what is all this, master?” Guillermo breathes, walking up to the flowers and burying his nose in the fragrant blooms with a smile on his lips.

“Do you like it, Guillermo? I wanted it to be--” he pulls a face but manages to get the word out “--nice for you.”

“But, why?”

Nandor steps up beside his familiar, towering over the smaller man. “I’m going to feed from you. If... if that is still something you are wanting.”

“Oh,” the word comes out on a shaky exhale and Guillermo feels his knees go weak. “I--yes, I still want...that. Thank you, master.”

Nandor smiles, baring his fangs and crinkling his eyes. Guillermo feels his heart do a flip in his chest and wonders, distractedly, if Nandor can hear his heartbeat. They’re standing so close. Guillermo could lean forward just a bit and they’d be touching. He looks up into Nandor’s eyes and finds them melted with warmth. His master has never gone through such an effort for him before. Guillermo feels like his heart could burst.

“You want to take a seat?” Nandor gestures to the towel covered couch and Guillermo snaps out of his daze.

He sinks down onto the cushions, running his hands appreciatively over the terry cloth, “This was clever, master.”

Nandor takes a seat beside him, close enough that their thighs brush together and Guillermo gulps. He’s brushed his master’s hair, helped him dress, helped him bathe for goodness sake, but he’s never felt as close to him as he does now.

“Are you comfort-a-ble, Guillermo?” Nandor asks, staring at his face with a hungry intensity.

Guillermo locks eyes with him and he sees his master’s pupils dilate, his lips part to bare elongated fangs. He gasps out a quivering breath as he fights the waves of exhilaration, lust and fear in order to answer.

“Yes, it’s...very comfy, master. Very nice, thank you.”

“Good,” Nandor responds, his eyes flicking down to Guillermo’s collar. “Why don’t you remove your woolen garment and open your collar. I don’t want to spoil your nice clothes.”

Guillermo feels like he’s in a dream. Nandor is never this...considerate. His mind flashes back to every time he’s watched his master strike out at a victim unannounced, with fierce aggression and even cruelty. It’s pathetic that his standards are so low, but the fact that Nandor isn’t treating him like just another victim to be used and discarded sends a rush of affection and hope flowing through him. He hastily grabs the bottom of his sweater, pulling it up over his head and tossing it aside. Next, he reaches for the collar of his shirt, but Nandor is there first. His long, thick fingers pluck at the buttons, releasing each one until Guillermo’s chest is visible. He pulls the collar aside, revealing the smooth, unblemished curve of Guillermo’s neck and shoulder.

“Are you ready?” Nandor asks with a hiss as he eyes his familiar’s naked skin. He’s never seen so much of the man before and he feels his cock stir with interest inside his trousers.

“Yes,” Guillermo breathes needily, tilting his head to bare his neck even further.

Nandor brings his hand up to cradle Guillermo’s head, letting his fingers sink into his soft curls and cupping his warm cheek in his palm. The pulse point at Guillermo’s throat is practically visible, his heart is beating so fast. Nandor feels his mouth flood with saliva as the rushing flow of Guillermo’s blood reaches his ears.

He wraps his other arm around his familiar, drawing him onto his lap and finally leaning in to bury his face into the warm, inviting crook of his neck. Nandor breathes in the intoxicating aroma that even the human-things-for-smelling and his incense cannot obscure. He moans loudly. He might be embarrassed if he were less overcome with the sensory feast of his familiar’s soft body in his arms and the promise of his warm, thick blood.

Guillermo mewls at the touch of his master’s mouth on his bare throat. His beard is scratchy and rough but his lips are impossibly soft and gentle. It’s like a kiss, he thinks, his heart rushing with affection and joy. Nandor’s arm around him is firm and strong. He knows that he could never hope to escape if Nandor truly wished to restrain him and drink him dry. Putting this level of trust in his master makes him feel like a tiny, frail rabbit in the jaws of a hungry wolf. A delicious shiver runs down his spine at the image. And then Nandor’s lips pull back and he feels the sharp points of his fangs graze over tender skin.

“Oh!” Guillermo cries out.

Nandor growls low in his throat but pulls back just slightly to check, “Is this still alright?”

Guillermo nods quickly, bringing up his hands to run them through Nandor’s soft hair reassuringly, “Yes! Yes! Please, master!”

He feels Nandor’s chest rumble with suppressed laughter and then there’s just the blinding, burning flash of pain that blooms as Nandor finally strikes, burying his fangs into his familiar’s soft, warm throat. Guillermo’s mouth falls open and his hands fist in Nandor’s hair as the first wave takes him.

“Shhh,” Nandor murmurs wetly against his neck, lapping the spilled blood with long strokes of his tongue. “Shhh, you’re safe.”

“Nnghh!” a pleasured groan strangles from the familiar’s throat at the touch of his master’s tongue. Guillermo squirms, his cock filling even as blood drains away from his body.

Nandor tightens his arms around his little Guillermo, pulling him flush against his broad chest and biting down once more as he begins to drink in earnest. He moans wantonly as the sweet blood fills his mouth. He’s as hard as he’s ever been and he rolls his hips against his familiar’s generous backside. He drinks and he drinks.

The pain ebbs enough for Guillermo to lose himself in the delicious feeling of connection with his master. His hands, his lips, his tongue, his teeth are all on him, inside of him, part of him. Nandor’s touch unlocks a secret room inside of Guillermo where he keeps his most tender feelings. For once he allows himself to truly feel the devotion, the affection... the love that he has for his master. It’s wonderful and dizzying. Tears slip from his eyes as he reaches his arms around Nandor’s broad shoulders, hugging him closer for as long as he’ll allow.

Too soon he feels his head start to spin and his grip on Nandor’s shoulders loosens. The vampire senses it immediately and draws back with a feral growl. Guillermo is limp and breathless in his master’s arms. He looks up with heavy-lidded eyes and watches Nandor lick blood from his lurid, stained lips.

“Thank you, master,” Guillermo whispers, snuggling into Nandor’s chest with a contented sigh. His arousal is flagging and he hopes that his master hasn’t noticed. He’d felt Nandor’s rigid erection grinding against him while the vampire drank his blood, but he has no way of knowing if that’s just something that happens every time he feeds. Whatever the case, he’s far too weak and drunk with happiness to do anything but drift along and hope that Nandor keeps holding him.

Nandor’s dead heart squeezes in his chest at the sight of his sleepy familiar burrowing his face into his chest. His plan seems to have failed. He’d wanted to give Guillermo his fantasy while remaining aloof, but instead he’s feeling an annoying rush of warm affection. Worse, he’s shamed himself by...rutting against the human like a street dog. He should push him away, or give him an order to remind him of the boundaries that are still in place. But as he looks down at the sweet smile on his familiar’s lips he can’t find it in him to spoil the moment for him so soon. Tomorrow. Tomorrow night he’d remind Guillermo of how things still stand between them.

“Will you keep holding me, master?” Guillermo mumbles, his eyes drifting shut. The human has read his thoughts!

“Yes,” Nandor replies, leaning down and tracing a barely there kiss onto Guillermo’s forehead. “For a little while.”

#nandermo #nandor x guillermo #guillermo x nandor #nandor the relentless #guillermo de la cruz #wwdits fanfic #wwdits

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tohermcon · 4 years ago

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LINE WITHOUT A HOOK—chapter one

Important: I DO NOT OWN DRACO MALFOY. Draco Malfoy is a character written by J.K Rowling. Also Allison Hale is my OC. I do not agree with JK Rowling on anything yet the characters she wrote and the harry potter books are my favourite. Also this is a crossover between twilight and HP as well so if it isn’t for you; don’t read it. If you did read it HI THANKS FOR READING IT.

Words count: 1477 words

Written from Allison her P.O.V

I didn’t understand what I was doing here. Even when I knew the reason why i was here; the how seemed pretty useless. Given one of the best students was murdered not even two years ago and the thickness of the war coming closer and closer. Everyone had heard it, how the death eaters were recruiting for new members. This had been news; even to my vampire family. Who had no closeness to the wizarding war. Well aside from me then.

I drew my leather bag closer. The letters L.V. Stood in swirly letters on the front of it. It was older than I was. Well I personally guessed it was older than anyone in my school. A sigh left my lips as I checked my bag; hogwarts robes, extra jumper, scarf, chocolate and book. I was loaded. I didn’t bring tea this time, given they’d probably give it to us when we were on the way. As well as pumpkin pasties. I felt a big cold hand on my shoulder. “If you stay taring like this I may take you home. You don’t seem as excited to come back” my grandfather spoke. I let a sigh escape. “That obvious hm?” I asked him as he gave a nod. “Just...tired I guess” luckily Carlisle didn’t have the ability to feel what i felt or he would’ve caught onto my lie. “I will miss you, sunshine” he whispered as I kissed his cheek. “It is Christmas soon enough” i said as he nodded. Wrapping his cold arms around me.

I boarded the train, as i saw the Draco Malfoy slipping into a compartment alone. He looked tired, and lonely. And even when I knew I probably shouldn’t follow him, i did anyway. We had an eight hour drive ahead of us and I could also use a companion. When I notice neither Pansy or Blaise following him I knew it was okay to go into the compartment. Especially given they all filled up quite quickly.

The blonde haired boy looked up. His skin was pale, and the dark purple circles under his eyes became even clearer because of it. He wore a suit—what fucking student wears a suit to school? I looked at him. “Can i sit with you?” He clearly thought about this. Yet he shrugged as he said “fine” and I got onto the couch ahead of him. I never understood why houses were always seated amongst their own houses, when it could be fun to learn the other houses. Or at least get to know them in a way. Yet Draco didn’t truly seem in the mood to socialise. I grabbed the book I had put on top. Placing it on the table. I got myself comfortable in the corner, close to the window.

I opened the book as I started reading a bit, yet wanted to try and socialise at least. And then the most stupid question left my mouth “so do you like quidditch?’ I couldn’t stop the words. “Yes” he said shortly. He had a nice voice. Not that he was in any way nice, but he wasn’t not nice either. He was pretty neutral. But his voice was pleasant to listen to non the less. “Had a good summer?’ Good was an odd word, especially in these times. But he nodded slightly, though it was a clear lie. Even clearer when he said “it was fine”. And then I remembered the headlines; FORMER DEATH EATER LUCIUS MALFOY PUT IN AZAKABAN. And I realised how rude my question had been. I also noticed how he didn’t return the question and that was absolutely fine. I decided to now just return my head to my book. My summer had mainly been a horrible turn, nightmares and a father that couldn’t be close to me because I bled too much. So it hadn’t been exactly good but just like Draco had just said it was ‘fine.’

We drove silently for a bit before the lady stopped with her trolley. “Anything dears?” She asked. Draco declined as I looked at her. “One lavender tea and a pumpkin pasty.” I loved her pasties as I paid her and enjoyed my tea. “Lavender tea? What kind of taste is that?” It sounded genuinely curious, not even mean. I held it towards him so he could smell it. “You can taste it too if you like. They say i helps with calming people down” I explained. He shook his head, making a face at the scent. “Its so floral” he said as I laughed a bit. “Generally, lavender is a flower” I explained. He rolled his eyes. Yet he couldn’t truly argue me. He wasn’t half as bad as everyone made him be. Yet In had only known him from quidditch matches.

The train continued to drive as I took of my scarf i knew the scars in my neck would now be more visible. And they were still fresh, yet I always knew a lie for them. “I got in a bit of a pickle” “it isn’t as bad as it looks” “I fought a lion cool huh.” Even if they were stupid people usually stopped asking. Yet Draco only glanced at them and looked back outside. Pulling down the sleeves of his overly expensive suit coat. “Whats the slytherin common room like?” I asked. Silence sometimes got under my skin and i had never seen the slyterhin common room. “Green” he explained. “The walls are dark green, the curtains. The furniture is a deep dark wood. Most of the books are green” i could imagine it now. And it seemed elegant. Not like people had said it was at all. “There are two big sofa’s” he then said. “And a small space in the windows.” “The hufflepuff common room is mainly white, with yellow accents. It also has loads of plants.” I explained. It was extremely light always in our common room. “Our furniture is a light wood or yellow.” I explained. It was lucky I liked the colour yellow, given I spent most time in it.

The train stopped faster then I had wanted it to stop. I usually spend eight hours being bored and now I had barely even been bored. It felt sad to have to leave Draco here. I didn’t want to just go back to being strangers; though we weren’t much more now.”walk with me to school” I asked. Grabbing my bag as he shrugged. “Why not?” He said as I almost saw a glimpse of a smile.

The air was cold, even for the month september. Though not half as cold as I had anticipated. We first walked to teachers as i got a glare yet still went “Allison Hale”. Draco too said his name. We then were send on our merry way. I looked around as I then focused on him. “Whats your favourite snack?” I asked curiously. I knew if I would find out what he liked that I would probably take it with me on my next hogsmaede trip. He looked at me “does it have to be sweet? Or can it be savoury to?” “It can be savoury too”m “then pretzels. But I also like caramel apples” he explained to me. I then gave a smile. It somehow fit him. “And drinks?” “Water and coffee. I hate pumpkin juice though” he explained as I got that, I too really disliked pumpkin juice. “Pumpkin juice is...gross” I agreed. He chuckled a bit now. And I loved that noise. I didn’t understand why it just seemed so rare.

The woods were drawing closer and i got more uncomfortable. Especially due to the way the war was undoubtedly coming closer. And because of my promise to Dumbledore. The snatchers were the most notorious werewolves that worked amongst the death eaters— not exactly for them. And I had promised to the watch them. Not fight them, but just keep an eye out. I knew this task was big but it didn’t bring me much fear, even when amongst them were my parents murderers. I felt a shiver run down my spine as that snapped me back to reality. Immediately a pair of silver grey eyes focused on my own. “Are you cold?” I saw Draco said the words before he could even realise it. And even think of it.

Before I could refuse the offer he draped his jacket over my shoulders. The smell of sandalwood was almost as overwhelming as the smell of -undoubtedly expensive- cologne. I thought that the jacket too probably cost as much as most of my trunk. It comfort me; which surprised me. The smells were familiar and i couldn’t remember why. As we paced to Hogwarts, the dread of having to say goodbye drew closer.

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recentanimenews · 4 years ago

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Manga the Week of 3/31/21

SEAN: March ain’t going out like a lamb when it comes to manga.

ASH: True, that!

SEAN: Airship has two print books; Grimgar of Fantasy and Ash 14.5 and Mushoku Tensei 9.

Denpa’s website lists femme fatale: The Art of Shuzo Oshimi for next week. An artbook dedicated to the creator of Flowers of Evil, Blood on the Tracks and more.

They’ve also got The Girl with the Sanpaku Eyes 2 listed.

Ghost Ship has Yuuna and the Haunted Hot Springs 13.

No debuts from J-Novel Club, but we do get the 10th and final volume of The Combat Baker and Automaton Waitress. We also see Demon Lord, Retry! 6, The Epic Tale of Reincarnated Prince Herscherik 4, Holmes of Kyoto 4, My Instant Death Ability is So Overpowered, No One in This Other World Stands a Chance Against Me! 4, and The White Cat’s Revenge as Plotted from the Dragon King’s Lap 4. Desu.

Kaiten Books has a 2nd volume of My Dad’s the Queen of All VTubers?!.

Debuting in print for Kodansha is Chasing After Aoi Koshiba (Kyou, Koshiba Aoi ni Aetara), a yuri manga from Ichijinsha’s Comic REX. It’s got the writer of Masamune-kun’s Revenge (ehh…) and the artist of Bottom-Tier Character Tomozaki (yay!). A girl hopes to meet up with her first love at a reunion.

ASH: Seems like it has potential.

MELINDA: Agreed.

Also in print: Don’t Toy with Me, Miss Nagatoro 6, Heaven’s Design Team 4, The Quintessential Quintuplets 13, and Shikimori’s Not Just a Cutie 3.

Digitally we get two debuts. The first is She’s My Knight (Ikemen Kanojo to Heroine na Ore!?), which runs in Kodansha’s Palcy, and features a popular young man having to deal with falling in love with a girl more popular AND more manly than he is!

ANNA: This sounds amusing.

SEAN: We also get Those Snow-White Notes (Mashiro no Oto). This is a biggie, as it’s already 27 volumes in Japan. It’s multi-award winning, runs in Weekly Shonen Magazine, is by the author of Baby & Me and A Vampire and His Pleasant Companions, and is for the Shamisen what Chihayafuru is for Hyakunin Isshu. It also has an anime this spring!

MICHELLE: I’m super excited about this one!

ASH: I love shamisen so much.

MELINDA: Okay, I’m ready!

SEAN: And we get A Condition Called Love 7, Elegant Yokai Apartment Life 21, How Do You Do, Koharu? 2, I Want To Hold Aono-kun So Badly I Could Die 7, My Unique Skill Makes Me OP Even at Level 1 3, and Saint Young Men 11.

MICHELLE: I need to get caught up on several of these.

MELINDA: Same here.

SEAN: Seven Seas debuts two manga based on light novels they also have. Drugstore in Another World: The Slow Life of a Cheat Pharmacist (Cheat Kusushi no Slow Life: Isekai ni Tsukurou Drugstore) runs in Takeshobo’s Web Comic Gamma Plus, and is about… well, the title.

ASH: So many titles these days are helpful like that, perhaps overly so.

SEAN: And there is also ROLL OVER AND DIE: I Will Fight for an Ordinary Life with My Love and Cursed Sword! (“Omae Gotoki ga Maou ni Kateru to Omou na” to Yuusha Party o Tsuihou Sareta node, Outo de Kimama ni Kurashitai), which runs in Micro Magazine’s Comic Ride, and combines yuri and gore-filled grimdark quite nicely.

Seven Seas also has the digital debut of four more Alice books, which focus on Elliot March and Tweedle Dee/Dum. If I recall correctly, the Twins books were the smuttiest in the series.

ANNA: No thank you!

SEAN: They’ve also got BL Metamorphosis 4, the third and final volume of Ghostly Things, High-Rise Invasion 17-18, Himouto! Umaru-chan Vol. G1 (also a final volume, sort of – it’s a one-shot continuation), the fifth and final volume of How to Treat Magical Beasts: Mine and Master’s Medical Journal, Made in Abyss 9, Miss Kobayashi’s Dragon Maid 10, and Precarious Woman Executive Miss Black General 6.

MICHELLE: Someday I really will read BL Metamorphosis.

ASH: You really should! It is wonderful.

MELINDA: I also need to read it!

SEAN: Two debuts for Yen On. The first is a spinoff. I Was a Bottom-Tier Bureaucrat for 1,500 Years, and the Demon King Made Me a Minister (Hira Yakunin Yatte 1500-nen, Maou no Chikara de Daijin ni Sare Chaimashita) features Beelzebub and her demonic crew from I’ve Been Killing Slimes for 300 Years having adventures of their own.

The other is Yokohama Station SF, the story of a boy who is allowed to search the giant subway terminal that the world of Japan has become. This looks pretty cool, actually.

MICHELLE: It looks super cool! I always love stories about exploring sprawling structures (like BLAME, for example).

ASH: I’m definitely picking this one up! It looks like it should help fill the SF hole left by Viz’s Haikasoru imprint being on hiatus.

MELINDA: This one sounds so interesting!

Also out next week: 86 ~Eighty-Six~ 7, new reprints of the 5th and 6th Haruhi Suzumiya novels, The Hero Is Overpowered But Overly Cautious 6, and Rascal Does Not Dream of Siscon Idol (the 4th in the series).

Yen Press has many manga debuts next week. We start with Can’t Stop Cursing You (Dareka o Norawazu ni Irarenai Kono Sekai de), a dark little horror title from Gangan Online. A curse detective uses their powers to track down killers.

ASH: I’m curious about this one.

MELINDA: This actually does sound like my kind of thing.

Goblin Slayer Side Story II: Dai Katana gets a manga version of its light novel. It runs in Square Enix’s Manga Up!.

Love and Heart (Koi to Shinzou) is a shoujo horror title from Hakusensha’s Manga Park. A college woman recovering from a breakup now finds she has a new roommate, who says he’s her old childhood friend. But… is he?

ANNA: I’m intrigued by the idea of shoujo horror.

MICHELLE: Yeah, this could be interesting.

ASH: Shoujo horror is one of my faves.

MELINDA: Ooooooooo.

SEAN: Love of Kill (Koroshi Ai) runs in Media Factory’s Comic Gene, and is about a pair of assassins engaging in… sigh… a deadly game of cat and mouse. (No, they’re not cats and mice, I just sighed at the cliche.) I’ve actually heard this is pretty cool.

ANNA: Sometimes I enjoy assassins!

ASH: Likewise!

MELINDA: Me too!

SEAN: Lastly, we see When a Magician’s Pupil Smiles (Mahou Tsukai no Deshi ga Warau Toki), a 3-in-1 omnibus collecting the entire manga. It ran in Shonen Gangan, and also seems to fall into the horror suspense theme Yen’s March debuts are falling into.

ASH: I tend to enjoy a fair amount of the subgenre, so I’m okay with the trend.

SEAN: In non-debuts, we get 86 ~Eighty-Six~’s second manga volume, Bungo Stray Dogs 18, Carole & Tuesday 2, Do You Love Your Mom? 4 (manga version), Fiancee of the Wizard 3, Im – Great Priest Imhotep 8, Kaiju Girl Caramelize 4, Karneval 11, Last Round Arthurs 2 (manga version), Lust Geass 3, Reborn As a Polar Bear 5, Strawberry Fields Once Again 2, That Time I Got Reincarnated as a Slime: The Ways of the Monster Nation 4, and The Vampire and His Pleasant Companions 2.

ASH: I am so far behind on my Yen reading!

SEAN: Oof. There is a lot there. Do you see favorites?

By: Sean Gaffney

#Anime #News #Manga Bookshelf

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connorspiracy · 4 years ago

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Santa Paws Is Coming To Town || Connor & Miriam

Timing: After Mim’s Solo Setting: Your normal White Crest neighborhood Parties: @connorspiracy and @meflemming Content: N/A Summary: Connor has an unexpected encounter with a bleeding heart vampire.

After a long night of petting Penny’s fur as the dog slumbered by Miriam’s side, the vampire finally decided that she needed to take the dog somewhere safe. Pets were not for people like her, especially sweet dogs that had it in their stupidly big hearts and tiny heads to be comforted by their owner’s killer. She found the dog’s leash, and led her to the door. It was still early, too early for the sun to be out yet, but Miriam knew it was less than an hour away. She’d need to be quick about this. The shelter was quite a walk away, and she wasn’t as familiar with it as other locations that she’d frequented in her youth. She could only hope that she could make it there in time and not end up stuck under a bush or in the sewers until sunset. Walking along with Penny at her side, Miriam was surprised to see someone else out at this hour. “Hello?” she called out, unsure what someone who looked so young was doing outside at such an early hour.

The winter night bit Connor with its chill. He wore a padded, fleece-lined panel coat over a cozy hooded sweatshirt, hat, gloves, scarf, and still his hands trembled and his breath frosted on the air. He’d hoped to catch something interesting happening during the winter solstice, but either he was in the wrong place at the wrong time or White Crest had decided to be quiet for once. He’d put his camera away and was getting ready to head to his Jeep when he heard the stranger’s voice. Connor turned, looking towards the voice. “Oh, hey,” he said, a jovial smile on his face. He held up his camera bag for her to see. “Don’t mind me. I was just doing some night filming.” His eyes fell on the beautiful Golden Retriever at her side and he had to hold himself back from gushing. “Gorgeous dog,” he said, smile widening a bit. “Can I pet her?”

The way the boy in front of her was dressed reminded Miriam how ill-fitted her clothes were for the weather, and how she was just as cold on the inside as the temperature was on the outside. Oh, well. She hadn’t expected to have to put up appearances so early. Instead, she gave the young man an easy smile. “Night filming? Do you often do that in below freezing conditions?” Kids these days seemed to enjoy such reckless behavior. Then again, she had been no different, there were, no doubt, videos of her being silly and reckless in college, though they were likely hard to find. Anyone that would have had such videos was long dead. Miriam blinked, looking down at the dog, and then back to the boy. “Oh, well, thank you. She’s not mine, actually, but you’re welcome to pet her. She’s quite friendly.” A bit too friendly, truly.

Connor gave a slightly embarrassed chuckle. “Well, I think it’d be lying so say I don’t. But the below freezing part isn’t exactly ideal. I’m just trying to get good footage.” Of what, he didn’t say, but he wouldn’t lie if she asked. Connor was never one to resist the opportunity to pet a dog, and even his most skeptical brain cells wouldn’t fight this opportunity, so he smiled, leaning in to gently ruffle her ears and scratch the back of her head. “Oh yeah? You pet sitting?”

“Well, do be careful. It’s rather dangerous out so late. It’s always darkest before the dawn,” Miriam said. Then, she raised a careful eyebrow. “Did you? Get any good footage?” She shifted a bit on her feet, watching the young man as he petted the dog. “Her owner passed quite recently, actually.” By Miriam’s own hand, though that wasn’t proper to say. Penny, for her part, seemed to be eating up the young man’s attention, making happy little noises that dogs tended to make. She was the reason this dog would never see her owner again. Miriam was the reason that some family would never see that man again. She was-- “I’m just here to make sure that she ends up in a good home,” she said, stroking one of the dog’s silky ears.

"I'm always careful," Connor lied. Although since he now had both Jasmine and Rio on his case about the whole hospital thing, he'd play it mildly safe, at least for a little while. Or unless something really exciting happened. "Nah, nothing exciting tonight, unfortunately," he said with a shrug. Connor narrowed his eyes sadly at Miriam's proclamation that the dog's owner had recently passed away, and he fussed under her muzzle. "Aw, I'm sorry. Right at Christmas too?" He kissed the dog on her little fuzzy forehead. "Nobody should lose their family right around Christmas.” He looked up at what he assumed was the kind woman trying to find this poor little sweetheart a new home. “That’s really nice of you, to help. Did you have someone already?”

“I’m sure,” Miriam hummed out. “People your age are always so careful.” Humans. For such fragile creatures, they tended to do the most dangerously stupid things. It was as endearing as it was concerning. She couldn’t remember a time when her bones did not right themselves and her skin did not sew itself together quickly. She did not remember what it meant to have to be careful. “Perhaps that’s a good thing, for a night like tonight.” It would be a cold, miserable holiday for some. “Yes, it’s quite unfortunate.” And she was the cause. Because she lashed out. Because she couldn’t take the thought of someone telling her what to do, even if it had been something she was planning. “I owe her as much,” she said softly, looking at the dog. “I don’t have anyone in mind. I was taking her to the shelter, actually.” She was going to force them to ensure Penny went to a good home. Someone would want a sweet dog for the holidays. She just knew it.

“Well, I’m older than I look,” Connor laughed. He didn’t catch the hidden meaning behind her words, but that was probably just as well. He didn’t really want to know that this nice lady who was so concerned about the poor dog had just spent her night murdering its owner. “That sucks,” he said, pursing his lips. “She’ll be alone at the shelter for Christmas, all confused and upset…” Yeah, she didn’t know it was Christmas but that didn’t make it any better. “Bloody breaks my heart, man. Are you sure there aren’t any family or friends who can take her?”

“You do look rather young,” Miriam said with a smirk, especially when he was all bundled up like a child on a snow day. “It’s-- It’s awful, yes.” She swallowed hard, feeling something wretched knotting itself in her throat before she forced it down. No, stop it. She was doing a good thing. She could at least do a good thing. The owner (Thomas Klein; his name was etched into her brain, now) was inconsequential. He was dead. But she could at least help the dog. She was an innocent. “I intend to do everything in my power to ensure she’s well taken care of and brought into a loving home as soon as possible,” Miriam stated. She’d compel every damn worker in the shelter if she had to. “No, no I don’t believe there is,” she lied easily. The owner had friends, had family, but she didn’t know if any of them would take the sweet dog in. What if they didn’t give her the kindness she deserved? Miriam had to make sure she was taken care of.

“I’m almost twenty-four.” Yeah, it was still young, but most people assumed Connor was in his late teens. Twenty-one at the oldest. He’d been denied beer even with his ID more times than he could count. This really sucked. This dog and the owner had probably been each other’s only companions, and now they were both alone, the owner in one life and her in another. “Do you work for the shelter or something?” he asked, genuinely curious, still fussing the dog while they talked. “I don’t know how they manage it. I’d probably end up wanting to take home every single dog,” he laughed sadly. “I don’t think they rehome over Christmas though. To discourage people from giving them as gifts.”

Miriam’s eyes widened a bit. “I… wouldn’t have guessed that. Sorry, sweetness. You’ve got a bit of a babyface.” She wondered, briefly, if he was fucking with her, but age was a rather ridiculous thing to lie about to a stranger in the middle of the street in the early hours of the morning. The early hours when the sun would be rising, and soon. Miriam couldn’t linger here for long. “No, no, I’m just… a very charming and persuasive person when I’m inclined, and I’m usually inclined. I have no doubt I can make them see my way.” She gave the young man a pleasant smile, but it quickly faded to worry. She hadn’t thought of any of that. “Oh. That’s-- I wonder when they’ll start rehoming. I don’t want her to be alone.” She bit the inside of her lip. “I live a bit of busy lifestyle, wholly unsuited to care for a dog properly, and I have someone living with me and don’t want to burden her with the upkeep of a pet. She deserves better than that. Otherwise I would take this sweet girl in a heartbeat.” One of his, not one of hers. She’d be waiting a long time for that heartbeat, were that the case.

“It’s fine, I get that all the time.” Connor shrugged it off. He made plenty of jokes about his own babyface. It didn’t matter if someone else did, too. He didn’t think to wonder what Miriam’s motive was. Why should he? Helping to rehome a dog was something almost any decent person would have done. He had no idea of her nefarious reasons, of the guilt she was trying to mask, the crimes she was trying to atone for. “I think some time in January,” he shrugged. “I only know because I checked the website recently. I’ve… kinda been thinking of going there, actually.” He almost kept his next words to himself, but it wasn’t like Connor to hold back. He rubbed the back of his neck with a small chuckle. “Do you want… I mean… I could take her.” He immediately shook his head. “That’s stupid. You don’t even know me. Sorry.”

“That’s such a long time,” Miriam muttered, clenching Penny’s leash tightly in her hand as she thought about the poor creature being stuck at a shelter for weeks all because she was cruel. You’re a monster and a liar! Morgan’s voice rang in her head like a damned bell. She was. She was. She should own it. She should… She should find this dog a home. She narrowed her eyes at the boy. “You would take her?” He seemed sincere. He mentioned that he was looking for a dog and had been for sometime. This could be good, but she needed to make sure. “It’s not stupid if you’re sincere. Are you? Dog’s are a big responsibility. They mustn’t be dragged out into the cold to go videotaping things because they might be interesting,” she said sternly.

Her gaze felt penetrating. As if she was the type of person who you couldn’t hide anything from. Connor looked at the dog, a happy, innocent, loving creature who hadn’t done anything wrong, who needed somewhere to call home. “I mean, yeah. I love dogs. I live alone. I work for myself. I make my own schedule, and one of my best friends has a dog, and we go hiking and stuff together all the time.” As much as Connor might not have wanted to leave the dog at home, the stranger was right about taking her out filming. He ran into dangerous things far too often. What if one of those bugs had got her? “Yeah, totally.”

The sun was going to start rising any minute now. Miriam needed to figure this out. Here was this boy, earnest and seemingly kind, standing in front of her and willing to do what was necessary. This was a better option than a shelter. It had to be. She gave a quick nod. “Right.” Smiling charmingly, she compelled the boy. “You will make sure that this dog receives the proper amount of attention, care, and love that she needs to be happy. It is of the utmost importance that she is well loved.” She dug around in her pocket and frowned when she found it empty. “I would give you my card, but I don’t have one on me. My name is Mim. Mim Flemming, owner of Flemming Leather. Should you need anything, you only have to reach out to the store and have my assistant patch you through to me or contact me online. If the dog needs anything, anything, you will let me know, understood?” She should get going. She didn’t even know this boy’s name. “Take care of her. She responds to Penny, but she’s quite young, I believe. I really must go.” She handed the boy the leash and patted his gloved hand. Bending down, she gave the dog a reluctant pat goodbye. Again, she repeated, a bit more gently, “Take care of her. And, well, Merry Christmas, I suppose.”

Connor had always been impulsive and big-hearted, so why should tonight be any different? He was still sort of processing what had just happened when the woman handed him the leash and practically disappeared into the night. White Crest really was a strange place, but this was far from the strangest interaction he’d had. “Uh, okay. Thanks? Bye?” he called after her, turning back to the dog and giving her more pets. “Guess we’ve got some shopping to do as soon as the stores open in a couple hours, babe,” he said, patting the side of her neck. “Okay, let’s go, Penny.” Hm. That didn’t sound right. He didn’t want to disrespect her old owner or anything, but she just didn’t feel like a Penny. But then, what was he going to call her? He started walking her back to his car, securing her in the back and taking her home. He unloaded his things, and as he did so, his eyes fell on the logo of his Nikon Z 50 Camera bag. “Hm,” he pondered, taking her leash again. “Nico, you like that?” he asked, smiling. “Yeah, sounds good. Let’s go inside.”

#paras #with: mim

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inmyownlittlecorner5 · 5 years ago

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Moonlight Chapter 5: The Morning After

A fanfic Novel by la-topolina

Rated for Mature Audiences

Warnings: Language, Violence, Sexual Content

Chapter 5/26

Moonlight Masterpost+

<< Chapter Four+

Chapter Six+ >>

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Severus felt the late morning sun on his face as he gradually swam back to consciousness. The delectable memories of the night before swirled through his lucid dreaming and he dreaded to open his eyes. He knew that if he did he would be back in his wretched house at Spinner’s End, looking up at the pesky water mark that he could never quite remove from the ceiling of his bedroom. He kept his eyes stubbornly closed, trying to continue his dreaming, but he was awake enough now that that was impossible. He ran his hands experimentally over the bed and, while he was alone in it, he realized that the sheets were smoother and finer than his sheets at home. The bed was softer and smelled faintly of lavender. He opened his eyes and a smile spread over his lips as he saw Miranda’s airy bedroom rather than his own gloomy chamber.

He heard a pleasant clatter of pans and dishes through the closed door and smelled a mixture of tea, coffee, and sausage. He stretched languidly and got up to dress. He took his time doing up the buttons on the front of his frock coat and idly studied the room as he did. The bed stood under the window that was letting in the sunlight. There was a bookshelf on one wall filled with novels and poetry and a handsomely carved cherrywood armoire standing on another. The final wall was covered with children’s drawings inscribed with the names of the various artists and dedicated to ‘Auntie.’ A framed piece of needlework with the inscription ‘From Mama’ hung in the middle of this gallery. The embroidery was a nicely executed border of roses surrounding a piece of Latin prose: ‘Nisi Dominus ædificaverit donum, in vanum laboraverunt qui ædificant eam.’ He scoffed at the sentiment and turned to the mirror hanging on the back of the door. His hair was a bit tangled from the previous evening’s exertions and he did what he could to neaten it. He turned and considered the bed for a moment. The twisted sheets both pleased him with their implications and irritated him with their disorder. He was toying with the idea of returning to the bed rather promptly following breakfast, but he decided it would be more entertaining to scramble the linens again rather than to leave it thus. He flicked his wand and the bed made itself up neat as a pin. Satisfied, he emerged from the bedroom to find his partner in crime. Miranda was standing by the stove, flipping omelettes with the efficiency of a short-order cook. She wore a long blue sheath dress and her feet were bare. Her hair flowed over her back, restrained by a copper colored scarf as she cooked. He approached her and pulled aside the curtain of her hair to drop his lips onto the back of her neck. She made a sound strikingly similar to a purr but said, “I’m afraid I’ll have to eat if you’re hoping for another round. For some reason, I forgot to have dinner last night. I can’t imagine why.” She smiled impishly over her shoulder at him. “I suppose I can overlook such weakness this once,” he replied smoothly, returning her smile.

She handed him a plate of omelette and sausage and they convened at the table which was already set with toast, butter, marmalade, tea, coffee, and The Daily Prophet. They ate and read in companionable silence and, if she spent much of the meal running her bare foot up his leg, he certainly wasn’t one to complain about it. When they had demolished the food and were loitering over coffee and tea, a bell over her desk started ringing loudly.

She glanced up from her half of the paper and gave the bell an annoyed look. “I’m going to have to answer that,” she said. “It’s my father trying to check in and he’ll think I’m dead if I don’t talk to him. It’s been a few days since I gave report and I don’t want him to send someone looking for me.” She smiled at him and went on, “Would you mind terribly pretending you don’t exist for the next few minutes?” “Are you saying that you’re ashamed to have your father know that I’ve stolen your virtue?” he teased. She laughed and kissed his cheek lightly. “I knew you’d understand.” She went to the desk and took a small mirror out of one of the drawers, then she headed into the potions closet. He returned to the paper but, as the closed door did not completely muffle the sound, he could not help overhearing her conversation. “How are the Royals doing, Papa?” she was saying. “I can’t get a paper or anything on the radio about them over here.”

There was a whistle of disapproval and a deep male voice replied, “Not good, pixie, not good. The Yanks pummeled them last night. They’ve been on a losing streak for a while now. They don’t get their act together soon, they can forget about the playoffs.” “Hmmm, maybe I’m glad I can’t witness it then.” “I sure wish I couldn’t. Did you finish the paperwork on the Islington case?” “Yes Papa, and I swear they make it more complicated every time I do. I don’t even want to think about what I’m going to have to go through after the next case.” “Better you than me. It looks like you’ve got a lot of work rolling in over there. Do you want to stay?” “I think so. I have enough to keep me busy through the first quarter of next year at least. Honestly, I wonder if there’s something stirring things up. That vampire was harder to catch than he should have been and I usually don’t have a waiting list this long. The Minister of Magic himself approached me yesterday and wants to meet about something.” “That’s my girl, hitting the big time. You behave when you meet with him, do you hear me? Don’t be telling your dirty jokes just to act cute.” “Papa, I do know how to behave when I want to. But where do you think I got my material in the first place?” “Don’t go blaming me for things that are my fault. Watch your back. I’ll talk to you soon.” “I won’t, and I will. Love to Mama and the rest.” She came back into the room and replaced the mirror in its drawer, but she was frowning a bit, as though she were pondering something. She returned to her seat at the table and asked, “You don’t happen to know of anything that might be stirring up a load of Dark Magic over here, do you?” It was an innocent question, and if she had asked it of another wizard, he would have shrugged and shook his head. However, Severus was unfortunately very aware of who was behind the rise in Dark Magic in England at the moment. He kept his eyes on the paper and his expression blank. “No.” “It is strange, though. Usually there are only a few cases in a given year in England. And the darker creatures that I’ve been rounding up are stronger than I would usually expect. There must be something egging them on.” She sipped her coffee and went on, half to herself, “I’ll have to do some digging. Who’s that Headmaster at your school? Albus Dumbledore, isn’t it? Do you think he’d have time to meet with me? I imagine if anyone had his thumb on the pulse of magic in Britain he would.” “Albus Dumbledore is a very busy man.” He stared unseeing at the paper, his mind starting to go down an unpleasant path.

“Hmmmm. I seem to remember some incident in the fourteenth century where St. Patrick’s Purgatory at Lough Derg opened a bit wider than usual and all sorts of things got out. I wonder…” Her voice trailed off and she wandered over to the bookshelf, scanning the titles. Eventually she picked out an enormous leather bound tome and scooted some dishes over so that she could open it on the table. She started leafing through the aging pages, completely unaware that Severus’s expression was darkening. This had been a mistake. He was a thirty-five year old wizard, and one would think that he could enjoy the favors of a willing female without any terrible consequences. However, he was Severus Snape and nothing good ever happened to him. He was embroiled in a plot to bring down the Dark Lord. He spent his days teaching the ungrateful child of his murdered love and her wretched husband, and his nights playing the role of a faithful Death Eater. One false move, one unguarded thought could bring instant, painful death to himself and any number of other people. And really, how much did he know about Miranda Rose anyway? Who was to say that she wasn’t some sort of trap set for him? Merlin, he hated his life. He sighed and decided it was best to end it quickly. He hoped that she wouldn’t cry or do whatever embarrassing thing women did when their lovers jilted them. He set down the paper and said in a cool voice, “I think it is time I were leaving.” She closed the book and looked up at him with a smile. “You don’t have to leave. I can do this later.” He stood slowly and summoned a bland, cold expression. “I don’t think you understand, Miss Rose. This was a mistake that will not be repeated.” She arched an elegant eyebrow at him. “Oh?” “You’ve been a charming diversion, but I’m afraid I simply do not have time for any more such foolishness.” She leaned back in her chair and crossed her bare feet on the table. The skirt of her dress slid up her legs, exposing them to the thigh. She took out a cigarette and lit it, her face a mask of amusement. She blew out a long line of smoke and murmured, “Goodness me. The dreaded morning after attack of scruples. I’m disappointed in you, professor. I had thought your moral code sufficiently flexible not to be bothered by them. What a shame.” Her mocking tone angered him in a way tears would not have done. He could not help trying to take her down a peg and said silkily, “Perhaps my moral code is not the problem. Perhaps I was simply dissatisfied with your performance.” She smiled nastily at him. “Please. I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed such a pathetic display of eagerness and gratitude as you provided last night. How long had it been? A year? Five years? Ten?” “What a disgustingly vulgar trollop you are,” he sneered. “Sticks and stones, professor, sticks and stones.” She swung her pretty legs off of the table and sashayed to the door. When she reached it, she opened it gracefully. “This is a door. Feel free to use it.” “I sincerely hope that your next mark separates your obscene head from your indecent body,” he snapped as he stalked out of the cabin. “From your mouth to God’s ears,” she returned. “Have a nice life.” She slammed the door after him and angrily started cleaning the breakfast mess. She scrubbed the dishes without magic in order to better vent her anger on them. What the fuck was wrong with him? He’d seemed perfectly fine and even rather amorous this morning. Then he’d suddenly turned cold and nasty for no apparent reason. And really, even if he hadn’t been completely thrilled with their encounter, there was no call to be an ass about it. Hadn’t he ever heard of a one night stand? She finished the dishes and stalked into her bedroom to air the bed clothes. It was her habit to do this most days, and she definitely wanted to do so today. She had no desire to sleep on sheets that smelled like that cold fish of an Englishman. She jerked open the bedroom door and stopped short. He’d made the bed. Men never thought to make the bed. She sighed and opened the window, letting in the breeze off the Channel. She flicked her wand at the bed and the linens pulled themselves backwards and hung on an unseen clothesline, fluttering gently in the wind. She sat down and stared out the window without really noticing anything. It had been a lovely night. She thought she had hit rather close to the mark with the gist of her insult this morning, but there had been nothing pathetic about him. They had both been a bit awkward and sloppy at first, but they had soon managed to remember how everything worked. Indeed, he had seemed so intoxicated by the heady drug of rendering one’s partner helpless with pleasure that she had half wondered if he had ever experienced it before. She felt a bit sorry now for being quite so cutting with her tongue, but it didn’t matter. She wouldn’t be seeing him again and that was that. She supposed she really should get to work. There was research to be done and potions to brew and bullets to make. She got up, intending to be virtuous and start with the potions—her least favorite—but a particularly delicious waft of sea air blew in through her window. She changed her mind and went to pack her leather messenger bag instead. Bathing suit, towel, sun hat, novel. She braided her hair, put on her sandals, and headed down the the village. A little sun bathing and a swim in the Channel would be just the thing. She could be virtuous tomorrow.

-------------------

Moonlight Masterpost+

<< Chapter Four+

Chapter Six+ >>

#harry potter fanfic #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter fandom #severus snape #severus snape fanfiction #snape fanfiction #snape x oc #espionage #spying #baseball talk #american wizards #american magic #ilvermorny #second wizarding war #adventure #romance

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endless-vall · 7 years ago

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Afraid of loving you - Adrian x MC fanfic

Summary: After sharing their night together, Annie notices Adrian seems to act as if nothing happened. She’s determined to finding answers, even if the truth might hurt her.

Author’s note: While I’m romancing and favoring Jax, I can see my MC (Annie) falling for Adrian too. So I used her in this piece, instead of creating a “new” one to romance Adrian.

This was requested by a lovely anon, I hope you’ll like it!

Enjoy!

Annie sat in her desk, just outside of Adrian’s office.

She had spent the night with Adrian, until it was time to check on Lily.

It was amazing, truly. Every part of her body was mesmerized by Adrian, worshiping him, after what they’ve shared.

But eventually, something was missing, and Annie knew she couldn’t push it away, no matter how hard she tried to ignore it.

After checking up on Lily, and assuring her safety, Adrian, she, Lily and Kamilah parted ways. She and Adrian went over to visit senator Vega, trying - and succeeding - to ensure his vote to letting Lily stay alive and join Adrian’s clan, with the council.

Something, since the moment her foot stepped off of that rooftop, felt fundamentally wrong.

Just before heading down, after dressing back up, she caught Adrian’s hand in hers.

He sent her a questioning, innocent-looking glance.

She caressed his face in her hands and pulled him into one last kiss.

He kissed back, despite being quite taken aback. But...

There wasn’t real, sheer emotion pouring inside the kiss and she knew it.

At least not compared to the other kisses and gestures they shared on that rooftop.

And afterwards, when they went to visit Senator Vega, Adrian had behaved as if nothing happened. As if their time meant nothing...

Maybe to him, it did.

Annie realized, that the thing that seemed to bother her the most, is how it seemed not to bother him at all.

He didn’t mention any word of how they got intimate on the rooftop, nor did he try to initiate anything like that again.

Did he regret sharing that night with her?

Was he trying to avoid her?

He couldn’t really, since she was his assistant, after all. But something was off about Adrian’s behavior and Annie was determined to find the truth, even if it would hurt her.

Standing up from her chair, she sighed deeply. She could do this, she promoted at herself and made the way over to his office door.

The clicking of her shoes must’ve given her away, since even before she knocked over the door she heard Adrian voice inviting her inside.

“Come in.” He simply said, her hand hovering in the air, just about to knock over his door.

Right. Vampire super-human hearing abilities and all...

Annie frowned, nervousness washing over her.

There was no backing away now, she reminded herself, and entered the room - recomposed.

“Adrian.” She said, closing the door behind her.

Adrian raised his eyes at her, glancing briefly and studying her features.

Eventually, he put away whatever he was busy with, and stood up, circling his desk and leaning over it, now standing in front of her.

“Is there something bothering you?” He asked.

Adrian was a sweetheart, really, but Annie was tired.

“You already know the answer.” She shrugged. “So why do you ask?” She rhetorically asked, making her own way inside, stepping closer to him and taking a seat on one of his armchairs.

She was the one who turned the conversation downwards, with her accusing tone and closed-off words.

“Well,” He started. “You came inside, suggesting you wanted my consult over a certain matter.” He explained. “I’m simply offering it.”

Annie frowned at him again. This wasn’t like him.

He was closed off again, talking at her like Senator Vega might would, but not her Adrian.

Maybe that was it.

He wasn’t hers, at all.

She kind of anticipated, hoped even - He would react differently. But his protective answer only further proved her suspections.

He was indeed, sweet and caring... But he had to remind Annie that she was just his human assistance, and not his companion, of sorts.

This was his way of reminding her, probably.

“Annie?” He asked, concern in his voice. His tone was assuring her he was worried about her, but his eyes were still distant - Telling a different story.

It shook her back into reality, and she gulped. She haven’t replied to his words for a couple of long moments. “Right.” Sighing again, she stood up.

“Never-mind. I guess I got the answer I was looking for.” She turns on her heels, ready to flee.

She can feel tears welling up in her eyes, so she doesn’t dare look Adrian in the eye.

It wasn’t his fault she had fallen for him.

He didn’t do anything to encourage it, really.

Yes, they had got intimate and shared a few kisses here and there, but no one ever talked about emotions whatsoever.

Still, she had wished it wouldn’t hurt as much.

She made her way towards the door. Too quickly for him to stop her.

Well, too quickly for the human average speed, but admittedly Adrian could’ve pulled another Vampire super ability act and catch her if her pleased.

A stupid, silly little part of her mind had wished he would’ve.

She cursed that part, for still having hope.

“Goodnight, Adrian. I think I’m done for today. I’ll email you my progress-” She blurts out at the door,

and then it happens.

He stands right next to her, moving faster then she can even grasp, and before she knows it he’s standing in front of her, looking her in the eyes.

“Annie.” He says, this time her name sounds sincere in his voice.

His eyes are no longer cold and distant.

His hand grasping at hers. Holding just tightly enough to not let her go, but not tight enough to hurt her.

“What’s up? I thought we had something special. You can talk to me.” He furrows his eyebrows as he speaks. He doesn’t want to look upset with Annie, but admittedly he slightly is and he has a right to.

But she is in a delicate state and he respects that.

“That’s exactly it, Adrian.” She tells him, as if it’s obvious. “We had something special. Yet you go around acting like nothing happened.” She flinches away from his touch.

She misses the sensation of his arm over her skin, but she has to step away.

For her own sake, at least.

“It just hurts.” She tells him, huffing.

“Never mind.” Before he can react again, she turns on her heels and runs away.

She sweeps her ID-card and enters the elevator.

Shooting one last look at Adrian as the elevator doors close, she presses a random button on auto-pilot.

Only when the elevator doors open, she realizes where she is.

She’s on the rooftop.

Again.

This is where it all started.

Well, where her feelings started.

On her first day, Adrian had invited her to share dinner with him.

They had a nice dinner, and a pleasant time.

In the end of the meal, they stood and overlooked New-York’s skyline, and Adrian told her of his envisions.

She was almost hypnotized, by him. His hopes and dream were remarkably inspiring and his charisma, kindness and heart had made her own heart flutter in its place.

She could’ve swore there was mutual attraction, and she almost leaned in to kiss him.

Almost.

She decided against it.

“We keep working towards a better world.” She told him instead.

He smiled wistfully at her, sharing a long, searching look in her eyes and then agreed.

Something along company policy, and not knowing who the man in front of her truly was, was enough to let her know better than to kiss him.

Yet, somehow, in the end - She really didn’t know better, and fell for him anyway

This time, the restaurant staff had cleared away. Maybe Adrian had given them a night off, or something.

Whatever it was, she was thankful.

Making her way over to the furthest side of the rooftop, Annie leaned over the railing.

For the first time in her life, she understood what it meant not to be able to contain the pain.

Adrian had never made any promises to her, and neither did she to him.

Not regarding their feelings, anyway.

And yet... She was in love with him. And she’d follow him, wherever he’d please...

She spends a long time, on the rooftop, drowning in her thoughts.

She doesn’t know how much time passes, until she senses a presence behind her.

She turns around, her eyes dry by now.

Adrian is simply standing there, saying nothing.

The look in his eyes is unreadable.

Annie wants to curse him, out loud. But she can’t bring herself to.

Finally, he breaks into the tiniest, comforting smile, and steps closer.

He still lets her have her space, but the gesture shows how much he cares.

Cares. Annie figuratively rolls her eyes in her mind.

That the deal. Caring, is not what she wants from him.

And while she can’t blame him for not feeling the same way she does about him, she can sure as hell feel heartbroken about it.

“Do you remember what I told you?” He asks, siting down over the floor, overlooking the railing.

Annie blinks at him confused. Finally, she joins him. Still keeping her distance, but closer then before.

“When you came up here that night we spent together?”

It hurts when he mentions it, and it hurts even more when she realizes that he’s talking about a long-lost lover. Celia.

“That you were thinking about a woman. Celia.” Her words almost catch up in her throat, but she manages to pull the sentence out.

Adrian nods, carefully.

“You haven’t figured it out, yet, did you?” He asks. An amused huff escapes his lips, but he’s got a melancholic look in his eyes.

It’s not that Adrian’s still hung up on her, no...

The realization comes in.

He’s afraid it might happen again.

“Are you afraid to love, again?” Annie know she better not ask that, not like that, at least, but the question escapes her lips even before her mind has a chance to overthink it.

Adrian hesitates. Annie can see he’s clearly deep in thought.

Just when she thinks he isn’t going to answer, he opens his mouth.

“Maybe I am.” He confesses.

He has a wary look in his eyes. Sheer, and innocent, as he slowly reaches out and places a comforting hand over hers.

“It’s not that I don’t...” He hesitates, but continues anyway. “Feel something here.” He raises their joined hands and places them over his heart, holding her close.

Annie can feel his heartbeat and suddenly feels very stupid of accusing him like that before.

“But...” He bites at his lower lip.

“-Don’t say anything.” She tells him. “You don’t have to...” She scoots closer to him.

The air between them manages to be filled with both tension and resolve.

“I want to.” He assures her, now raising her arm to his view-level and planting a kiss over the back of her hand.

“Annie, I...” He speaks, voice quiet but strong, assuring. “I’m afraid I’d lose you, more than I’m afraid to love you.”

Without further notice, they both lean into a kiss. Like a force of nature is pulling them together, drawing them close.

The whole universe in the palm of their hands, as they hold each other close.

There’s nothing to be afraid of, they think. Not as long as they’re together.

#playchoices #playchoices fanfic #bloodbound #adrian raines #adrian x mc #bb #fanfic #my writing #angst #but happy ending assured

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writer-queen-vee-blog · 6 years ago

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The Rumpelstiltskin Code

Please note that this is simply my own version of “Rumpelstiltskin”, in a vampiric horror setting. I am doing a project for school, writing eleven different stories that all interconnect. I’d appreciate some feedback on this one, as I am very proud.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1sHXG_V2sfj8t0hrn5HNJUqeG9LYJSnfl_pK0OC71dOE/edit?usp=sharing

The link in case you’d like to crit in comments on the doc itself.

Dahlia, you have always asked about your mother, and I’ve always refused to tell you. It used to scare me, I think, to tell you this story... But you’re old enough now, to understand. You will find the written prose of your mother’s story enclosed.

-- Bellamy

"My name is Bellamy, but you can call me Sir for as long as you are alive. Which I don't expect will be very long. You're all the same." His voice was cold, harsh; a razor sharp edge to his tone that told the trembling young woman in front of him that he was quite serious about the statement. "What is your name, woman?"

Bellamy waited, impatiently, until her soft answer left her, "Delphine, Sir." He could see the wheels in her mind turning; seeking answers.

"Good. You learn quickly. Now, this house has rules...

1. You may go into the courtyard and gardens.

2. You must remove your shoes before entering the house. Shoes are to stay by the back door.

3. You have to ask before going into any room without me.

4. You are to keep my house clean and orderly.

5. You are not to enter the room at the top of the stairs.

6. You will have dinner with me every dawn.

7. I awake every night at 7 p.m., you are expected to be up as well.

8. You are never to answer the door. Nor to invite anyone inside.

9. You may not enter the kitchen at any time.

Now, do you understand?"

He watched her closely, waiting for her to nod her head. Once she had responded with a meek nod, he turned on his heel and set out to show her his home. It was a fairly pleasant space, actually. The living room and sitting room matched, soft blues and yellows covered the walls. The kitchen was detached from the main house, to avoid any chance of fire spreading. It was dusty and seemed mostly unused. The restrooms were also dusty, but nevertheless tidy. She followed him along dutifully, as if she it was her job.

She was quiet, not like some of his lesser-natured catches. Most were chatty, or terrified. It never ceased to amaze him how chatty, some of the less-fortunate women he had taken would just talk his ear off, as if nobody had ever asked about their day. But not her. No, Delphine Mountrose was a quiet girl, looking only to do as he expected, it seemed. Bellamy was already thinking of ways to test just how much she would do for him.

"This is your room," they had skipped the room at the top of the stairs entirely. He had not mentioned if anything was inside the room, or even reminded her not to go there--he assumed she'd remember. "You are expected up by 7 p.m., no later than 7:15 p.m." His voice was level, and he stood in the doorway as she studied her quarters.

There was a small part of him that seemed to care what she thought. Her reaction gave him no information, however, and he gestured to the wardrobe. "There should be something in there that will fit you." With those words, he left, shutting her door behind her--locking it for good measure. It was too early to trust her not to try and escape, after all. If by chance she did escape, he could not hunt her down until that night, either. Dawn was quick to approach.

That day, he could hear her trying to find a way out, a way to escape, but she would find none. Bars on the window, the door stood steadfast with its lock in place, and there were no weapons of any sort. If she tried to make any, he'd hear her splinter the wood.

As night fell, he waited and at 7 p.m., Bellamy unlocked the door to her room and was pleased to find her sitting on her bed, still in her nightdress. "Get dressed. Wear the yellow one," he ordered.

As he turned to leave, he heard her speak, she was asking a question. "W- Why that one?" It was a bold, brazen question for the meek little woman. She asked it and the tone implied she wanted an answer.

"Because, my dear, you and I are going to have breakfast." He was privately amused by the look of confusion that crossed her features; but he realized she was starving, not yet used to the schedule he was imposing upon her. That would be solved quickly, he suspected. Either by death, or she would adapt.

"I don't drink blood," she uttered shyly.

"And I do not expect you to. You will cut your palm and drain into a glass, while we wait for your breakfast to be cooked." Without another word, Bellamy shut the door firmly behind himself, and started downstairs. Upstairs he could hear her dressing, the soft fabric brushing across her skin, the creak of each floorboard as she stepped. She was trying to be quiet, the little mouse.

As she finally descended the stairs, dressed as if for a masquerade, he took a moment to look up from the book he was reading, admiring her. And then, as if he had not been taking in her beauty, he stated a bit aggressively, "That wine glass there, then. Cut your wrist or your palm, your choice. Fill it halfway." She would see that he had laid out medical gauze and bandages, as well as set two wine glasses out. One was presumably for her, hopefully to be filled with wine. The other for him.

Bellamy turned his attention back to his book, and as he did so, he heard her chair scrape against the floor as she pulled it out. Then, he heard the quiet hiss of suppressed pain when she cut herself. She was just eager to please. He'd only had a few of those.

It was a while in silence, to her, at least. He was too busy listening to the blood hitting the wine glass as she did as he'd told her. A bit later, after she was bandaging her palm, a two-course breakfast was brought out by an elderly man, much shorter than Delphine. The man, who was dressed in a tuxedo, dipped his head and shuffled back to the kitchen without so much as a word.

As she ate, Bellamy drank, watching her over the rim of his glass. She was truly exquisite, and her blood just furthered the belief. It did not take her long to finish her food, she had been so hungry, and Bellamy carefully asked if she needed second helpings, to which he received a nod. He never yelled her request, or even spoke it, but that same elderly man appeared from the kitchen, carrying another plate for her.

“Tell me, Delphine, what is your favorite thing to do in your free time?” He watched her quietly, patiently awaiting a response. So far, she had not lied to him once, hopefully she would not start now.

“I enjoy... well, I like to go on walks--and I know a lot about plants so I prefer a garden setting.” He nodded, encouraging her to keep going. She continued, “And I enjoy making medicines and helping others...” A selfless woman, how amusing. Then, she asked a question that stunned him.

“What do you like to do, Sir?” Her voice was even and soft, she’d remembered the rules.

Bellamy had never had his prey ask him what he liked to do; and the mere thought was amusing. What did he like to do? Humming thoughtfully, his brow creased. He was too lost in his thoughts to notice that his companion was studying him, almost as if she were poring over a book. After a pregnant pause, that almost came naturally to both Bellamy and the woman, he responded, his answer carefully thought out:

“I suppose, when I am not stealing women away for sustenance, I enjoy board games, walks in the night, star-gazing...” It was not what she had been expecting, and the mild look of shock that crossed her features proved that. He chuckled quietly, and spoke: “I never said I wasn’t like human men, Delphine.”

“How often have you gotten to do any of those things, Sir?” She was becoming bolder, now, and he appreciated that. After all he had chosen her because there was something different... though, he had chosen many of the others for that same reason, only to find out that they were all the same.

“Not very often. I’ve never had a companion who did not try to run away when we went...” A casal shrug of his shoulders, “Most often they did not survive the escape attempt.” He watched her face, amused by how neutral it was.

“They should not have tried to run away, Sir. You’re quite nice, for an abductor, that is.” She said it so matter-of-factly, that his amusement actually showed on his face. And seeing his amusement made her laugh. “You have an expressive face, Sir,” she commented, a quiet smile on her lips.

Bellamy cleared his throat, and fell into a neutral stance once more, studying her thoughtfully. He did not offer comment on her compliment, simply took it silently. The silence between them grew, until she asked, “Sir? Why can’t I go into the kitchen?”

“Because we have a cook that does everything. If you want something, simply tell me.” She fell quiet, a displeased look flitting across her features. He knew it wasn’t the best life, but it was only her life for a few more days. The moment she messed up, he’d drain her dry.

Days, however, turned into months. She was perfect. The first night he had needed to feed, to drain a body, she had been with him for a month exactly. Bellamy had been surprised when she had offered to lure him a young woman, if she could just watch him feed. He was not sure he fully trusted her, but he was certain of his ability to end her life before she could properly escape him, and so... she came with him.

And she was perfect, as ever.

She moved with ease through the dark night, her path only shown by the full moon above her. He watched her, but not like he was watching his next meal. She was a swan among pigeons. But not just any swan, a black swan--a rare and exquisite find. Something he would never release as long as he lived. Bellamy firmly believed that everyone deserved to find perfection at least once in their lives. Especially when one lived for hundreds of years.

She was the predator, and he was the man full of pride; certain he had found the woman for him. The blonde that she picked him was similar to herself, and he could not hide his amusement. She must assume his tastes, and perhaps she was on the right path.

“Hello,” she said, politely. She was a meek little thing, it was hard not to feel the need to help her. “I’ve gotten lost and... I don’t know where I am. Could you help me? I’m new to the area.” She was a good liar when she wanted to lie.

It was quite amusing, to watch her lie to the beautiful flower she had plucked from the soil. The woman, naught but a girl really, was eager to help and stepped away from the street light to lead the other to her destination. A hotel that was owned by Bellamy, though not under that name, of course. They walked a ways, and eventually the hotel came into sight, and he sidled up next to his swan, humming thoughtfully as he scooped her close for a moment.

“You’re just a special sort of girl, aren’t you?” He breathed, before he was on his snack for the night. He still preferred her blood, and would come to find that there was no better blood than hers, so willingly given. The taste was addictive.

Neither of them knew the girls name, but that didn’t matter. Bellamy had promised Delphine a show; and a show she expected. His fangs tore messily at the girls flesh, and he was carelessly wasting more blood than he had too, trying to keep an eye on Delphine. There was a part of him that feared she would bolt. After all, she was only human, it made sense for her to want to get out of the situation she had been trapped in.

But even as he drank the last ounce of blood from the body, she stood steadfast, clearly enamored. Whether she was focusing on him, or the woman, he did not know. But what he did know was... she was beautiful.

Dahlia, as you are aware, good things do not last forever. They never will.

But as you also know, I am stubborn. I refuse to sit back and let fate play its idle games...

-- Bellamy

“You have been with me for three years now, Delphine. A patient, obedient woman, never asking questions or going where you shouldn’t,” He was mostly speaking about the kitchen. “And for that, you deserve a reward, my love.” He pressed a kiss to her temple.

“A reward?” She inquired, studying him. Over the years Bellamy had been increasingly affectionate, never going too far, though. It was as if some part of him did not trust the little blonde. “What sort?”

“Oh... I know you’ll enjoy this, come along.” He purred, pulling her behind him as he led her upstairs, deftly unlocking the door to his room. The look on her face, a look of excitement, was enough to make him chuckle as he led her into the room.

“Undress,” he ordered. His dark gaze soaked in each inch of bare flesh, as she slowly allowed her clothing to hit the floor. It was strange to her, to be under his gaze while naked, as he was always respectful of her boundaries. Her skin was pale, like fresh milk, her hair a honey gold across her shoulders. She was slender, like a willow tree.

His darker hands settled against her hips, contrasting sharply, and slowly he drew her to the bed. His lips trailed across her ribs as he carefully laid her on the bed beside of him.

It became the norm for Delphine to be by Bellamy’s side, in his bedroom at night. Her own room gathered dust, though she cleaned it every week, she did not stay there. She liked being at his side; close to him in every way.

“Delphine?” Bellamy inquired, as he watched her drain her blood into a wine glass for his morning meal. She made a soft noise of acknowledgement, but did not look up at him. “You’re mine, only mine, right?”

“Of course.”

He moved quietly around the table, so quietly that she did not notice until he was on one knee in front of her. “I know that we can never be... officially married,” because Delphine was presumed dead, “but we can be married in our hearts.”

Bellamy reached to grasp the hand she had cut, pressing a kiss against the cut before he brought a bandage to wrap around it, tightening it. Then, quietly, as if she were that meek girl he had stolen away all those years ago, she replied: “Yes.”

From that moment on, the vampire and his woman were never separated.

Dahlia, when we found out your mother was pregnant, it was... well, a dream come true. At least, at first.

-- Bellamy

There was nothing Bellamy wanted more in this world, than a family. He’d thought that he had that with Delphine, but when she revealed she was pregnant, four months into their ‘marriage of the heart’, he was overjoyed.

Today, he was laying with his head in her lap, pressed against her baby bump, listening to her sing. Then, she fell quiet and he opened his eyes to look at her. “Bellamy...” She began, fingers trailing against his cheek absently. “...I always heard that vampires were these monsters, who could never reproduce.” She’d never asked exactly how she had ended up pregnant. But she was curious, who could expect her not to be?

Bellamy studied her, before he began to speak: “Well, a lot of the myths are wrong. I’m not any stronger than any other man might be, and it’s true that sunlight and silver hurt me... I require blood to stay alive, I have fangs...” He hummed to himself. “...but my body functions similarly to yours, love. I’m not dead, simply... I was granted with a gift, I guess?” He’d never tried to explain vampirism to anyone before.

“Oh.” She murmured, “Will... our child...”

He cut her off quickly as he sat up, reaching to cup her face in his hands. “She will be human. To become vampire, you’ve got to be granted the gift.” Delphine gave a soft sigh, and leaned into his touch.

There was one evening, where after three, almost four years of being together, Delphine broke the only rule he bothered caring about. She went into the kitchen. And she found his secret.

The moment he heard her footsteps change from creaking wood to tapping, he knew. The kitchen was the only room in the entire house with tile rather than hardwood. Easier to clean.

“Delphine.” His voice was cold, hard. He entered the kitchen silently, standing just behind her as she reached for the intricate lamp perched on the counter.

“Bellamy, where is the cook?” Her fingers grazed the lamp, and in a puff of purple smoke, the elderly man she knew as ‘Cook’, appeared.

“Mistress, how may I serve thee?” The djinn addressed her, with a twisted smirk.

“Bellamy, wh--” She was cut off from asking her question as Bellamy forcefully placed himself between her and the djinn.

“Do not respond to him, Delphine. Djinn are twisted creatures. You ask for one thing, and he gives you what you asked for... with a dangerous twist.”

Dahlia, the day that you were born... I guess it was supposed to be the best day of my life. Instead, it was the worst. I hope you will forgive me, little one.

-- Bellamy

“She’s going to be beautiful, Delphine.” He trembled as he clutched her hand in his. The djinn was still bound to her, and so long as she did not ‘wish’ for something, he would stay bound until her death. He was serving as midwife, neither of them wanted to bring someone into their home who might recognize Delphine.

The birth was painful, and with each scream Bellamy felt as if his heart was shredding. He could not bare to see her in pain. When a loud cry filled the air, the vampire blinked back his tears as he accepted his daughter; his little flower, into his arms. Bellamy was so focused on the newborn, that he did not immediately realize the scent of blood had grown stronger, stronger than it should have.

“Delphine?” She was fading fast. Blood soaked through her dress, into the sheets. So much wasted. He had to choose between his daughter, or his wife in that moment--and he quickly handed the crying babe back to the djinn.

“I’ve got you, darling.” He promised, as he sank his fangs into the flesh of her neck. He’d never drank directly from her, for this reason. He had not wanted to turn her; and if he’d drank from her with that in mind, he would have had to drain her completely so she could not be reborn.

But... he could not let her die, either.

For seven nights, Delphine writhed in pain. For seven nights, Bellamy tended to his daughter. His precious little girl.

Dahlia, I understand if you hate me. It was horrible, what I did. But I did it for you--everything I did was for you.

-- Bellamy

The eighth night, Delphine awoke. Bellamy had not left her side except to get more goats milk for Dahlia. When her eyes finally fluttered open, a much darker color than the light hazel he loved, he was thrilled. Sometimes a turning did not take. But Delphine had a strong will.

He placed his daughter into the bassinet next to the bed, and moved to his wife, kneeling next to the bed. “Delphine?”

When she lunged for the bassinet, he reacted on instinct alone. She was fast, but she was still new to her heightened senses. He had her pinned on the bed, fingers curling around her throat. “Delphine. Stop.”

The newborn was squalling, and underneath him, his wife was snarling. Delphine was not... the human he had loved. He had known it could happen; her humanity could be lost.

He made a decision, one that would tear him apart. His free hand dove into her chest, and the sound of muscle tearing and ripping was louder, than the cry of his daughter, in that moment.

Her heart beat furiously, as he crushed it slowly between his fingers. Bellamy closed his eyes, hiding his tears, as he carefully disengaged from his wife and pulled Dahlia against his chest.

“It’ll be okay, little one... Shhh.”

Dahlia.

I’m sorry.

-- Bellamy

#writing #veewrites #@authorqueenvee #critique #amwriting #short story #vampire #fairy tale retelling

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yeoldontknow · 8 years ago

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Hero: Chapter 1 (M)

Song for this chapter: The Answer - UNKLE + Trentemøller Genre: Vampire!Chanyeol AU; suspense; thriller; eventual smut Pairing: Chanyeol x Reader (oc; female) Rating: M Warnings (this chapter): Graphic violence; blood; guns; kidnapping; blood/drug trafficking Word Count: 3,486

prologue || masterlist || next

When you open your eyes, you’re consumed by darkness. Impenetrable, complete darkness so warm and heavy for a moment you’re sure you’ve gone blind.

Blink once. Blink twice.

There’s no light here, but you’re living. Hyperaware and waiting for your eyes to adjust, you take a minute to luxuriate in the act of breathing. You are breathing.

Correction: you are hyperventilating.

You’ve been buried alive.

It takes all your effort to focus on controlling your breath through the headache promising to prise your skull apart, rhythmically throbbing at the back of your head. Calm down, you think, don’t use all the oxygen here in one go.

A dull, even hum floats through rush of blood and ringing in your ears, and you recognize the sounds of an engine.

Not dead, not buried. The trunk of a car.

There’s hope.

The trunk is not airtight. The only thing that will kill you now is time, heat, or yourself. You have twelve hours, at most.

Every car has a safety latch for this exact purpose. You remember this from your self defense classes. It’s more than likely this feature has been removed. As a national regulation and no secret, it’s the first thing ripped from any get-away car. But if your captors started their day not expecting to abscond with an adult woman, if this was unplanned, accidental, and messy, it’s still possible there’s an escape plan that doesn’t involve strategizing. You’re acutely aware the car is moving, your body gently jostling over each bump in the road, but adrenaline has been responsible for its fair share of miracles and road rash seems more appealing than the virtue of patience.

Through the haze of your senses, you assess the state of your body before scouring the trunk. Stifling moans and keeping as quiet as possible, you focus one by one on your limbs - formulating the most basic of checklists. You don’t expect to be in perfect condition, if you’re being honest you feel as though you’ve fought a war and have only just survived but, you need to make sure nothing is already broken.

Stifling a groan, you move your neck and hear it crack. Who knows how long you’ve been unconscious and in this position, but the soreness goes beyond tension, the sharp sting of whiplash lingering throughout the base of your shoulders. Your arms are aching and bound behind your back, and only now do you realize you’re on your side. Bent into positions threatening dislocation, your wrists feel as though they’ve been sprained and your fingers, scratching desperately at a knot that feels too complex to be invented by man, are trembling.

By contrast, your mouth and your legs are not bound and, while you imagine these things should provide a sense of relief, a faint memory arrives in a blur at the front of your consciousness. There are no details, just smears of sensations and fear, and you slowly accept that these revelations are not things to be celebrated. There is a reason these pieces of you are not bound, like they have been deemed vulnerable or their strength underestimated. It’s because they don’t matter. If you run, you will be caught, and if you scream, no one will hear you.

As if protesting it's small energy reserve being used so fruitlessly, your body attempts to cave in on itself as you feel the bile rise from your stomach. Curling your back with such force you fear your muscles may tear, you’re struck by how lucky it is you’re already on your side as you vomit violently, though there’s little to show for it. You don’t remember the last time you’ve eaten and you are positive you’re dehydrated; possibly concussed given the strength of your headache and vomiting spell. Struggling awkwardly to turn onto your other side, scooting away from the foul liquid, you fight past the roar in your head and the whimper building in your chest to remember how exactly you got here.

~~~~~~~

Su-Jin was ill, complaining of an aggressive cough and a fever. At least, this is what his replacement told you as he handed you a clipboard detailing the day’s deliveries, inventories, and locations. You’d never seen this person before, and he told you he was new.

‘First day on the job. Mind if I drive? Want to get used to handling the truck.’

He smiled at you, though for some reason you didn’t think it was genuine. Rather, it felt like an awkward, forced attempt at standard social practices in an effort to placate your nerves. Dressed in all black, looking severe with a strong brow and dark eyes, his smile seemed extraordinarily out of place and unpracticed. Nonetheless, you nodded with a smile of your own and tried to quell the unease that had started to spread through your nerves.

He introduced himself as D.O., and you were struck by how odd it was he should provide you a nickname within minutes of making your acquaintance. Sliding into the passenger seat, you prepared several quips regarding his name - what secrets are you keeping, were your parents cruel, don’t be ashamed we’re all adults here - hoping your day together could be easy and comfortable. But the look on his face told you this conversation had died before he’d even opened his mouth to speak and, as he looked everywhere but in your direction, you got the sense he wasn’t the joking type.

Sitting in such close proximity made the air feel thick, like you could choke on it the instant you said something he didn't want to discuss. But you swallowed, the air and your pride, as you glanced down to the orders for the day and put the addresses in the GPS.

‘Looks like first delivery is MACPS Labs, about fifty miles south of here. If traffic is good on the highway, we should make it in about an hour,’ you said gently.

You cast a brief glance at him, and he hummed in acknowledgement, jaw set and clenched, eyes trained on the road. You decided to read out the order, if only to fill the silence.

‘Forty crates of whole and cord blood, thirty crates of donor A, B, O, thirty of donor AB neg-’ you stopped reading the list out loud as you scanned the rest of the page. ‘This is a significant amount of blood,’ you muttered to yourself. The flow for the day detailed at least six other orders, but the sheer amount of this would force you back to the depot to reload the truck before you could carry on.

A slight panic rose in your chest and you reached for your phone to check the news. This kind of order comes with disaster relief. This kind of order comes straight from hospitals as they cripple beneath unexpected and unprecedented demand. This kind of order saves lives in mass casualty events.

Your feed told you the world is quiet. Today, there was only the silent acknowledgement that the world was at war with itself.

‘I know,’ he said quietly.

His effort at conversation caught you by surprise and you thought it was nice he was trying, that maybe you had him pegged wrong. He was new, you were still a stranger to him, and transporting possibly pathogenic materials would make anyone nervous.

‘Before you got in I checked the order and thought the world was ending. An almost comical amount of blood, right?’

‘I wonder what they're doing with it.’ You allowed yourself to study his profile, eyeing the almost Roman curve of his nose and the arch of his lips. He looked regal. He looked powerful. He made you feel so incredibly young. You didn’t want to say subservient, but if asked to define the feeling you would have used the word.

‘Maybe they found a cure.’

‘For what?’

‘Everything.’

He said the word with such conviction you thought he knew something you didn't, that he'd seen and endured so much it was only logical to conclude living was the only epidemic in need of a cure. For a moment you expected a philosophical debate, a no exit scenario about life and death and the sameness of humanity, but before you could respond, he started to laugh. It wasn’t someone laughing at their own joke, it wasn’t even pleasant, it was bitter and it was angry.

The drive was silent after that, filled with anxious glances between your hands, the road, and his face. He never once brought his attention to you, even as you stared. You told yourself to stop, that it was rude, that you'd memorized the details of his jawline so clearly you could paint it, but you were waiting. To you he appeared dangerous, volatile and unpredictable - perhaps that's what made you so wary. There was no way to calculate his actions because he operated beyond your frame of reference; he’d swallowed the sun and at any moment could burn you alive.

Humanity routinely silences its instincts, the one thing given to every living organism. Nature has gifted itself a superpower, an inherent trust in the energy of all things and circumstances, and humans, as brilliant and magnificent as they are, have continuously neglected or ignored this tether to the universe. This has been done in favor of free will - as if it has nothing to do with instinct at all. Instinct and choice are the things humanity repeatedly struggle with, even more so than with each other.

Instinct and choice have been your greatest companions. Instinct was what made your distrust of D.O. settle and take root in the center your chest, spreading like spores until your mind made the choice to watch, and wait, and fight.

Instinct is what made you panic when he pulled off the highway saying he knew a shortcut. Instinct is what made your palms sweat as you watched the arrival time on the GPS steadily increase until you knew for certain this route would never be completed. Instinct is was told you to run the second you had the chance, told you the black cars gathered by an abandoned warehouse were waiting for you. Instinct is what told you this place means death.

Choice is what told you fight. Choice is what told you to push as hard as you could on D.O.’s right leg, forcing him to press the gas as he approached the cars. Choice is what told you to use your other hand to unbuckle his seatbelt. Choice is what told you to pray, even though you’d never been the religious type.

The truck barreled through the cars, metal and glass yawning around you at a thunderous volume. You felt yourself bleed. You felt yourself scream. The truck careened onto its side and it took you a moment to realize that you hadn't died.

It took you a moment to realize neither had D.O.

Your ears were ringing and burning with the heat of our own blood as you tried to gather your senses. Above you, thanks to the truck’s new angle, D.O. sat angrily tearing the deployed airbag with his fingers like claws. This wasn’t a movie. You truly didn’t think you could save the day or your even own life, but you knew physics, you knew the laws of motion, and D.O. had defied them all.

He’d anticipated your movements and tried to correct the truck’s path, turning the steering wheel as hard and as quickly as he could to avoid a head on collision. His wrists were not broken, they didn’t even look swollen or sprained. The force of the wheel jerking through the crash should have caused him severe pain, but he still was able to tear away the airbag and rip the wheel out of the dash to give himself some room.

This was not the biggest concern you had.

You’d heard the click of his seat belt releasing. You felt yourself push the latch down - it was the one thing you knew was successful. Even if he could have corrected the path of the truck or stopped it, he still should have been thrown. He should have been ejected. You should have been covered in his brain matter. But he was fine. There wasn’t even a single scratch on him. And he was furious.

In one swift motion he reached out to you and tore your seatbelt away, hands coming to fist in your hair as he dragged you of the driver window. He was growling with rage and you didn’t think it was possible for a human to make such a sound. You started to shiver. Perhaps this was shock. Perhaps this was a panic attack. Perhaps your soul was beginning to abandon your body in protest of all you put it through.

Your limbs started to flail frantically behind you when you were planted on your feet, searching for anything on his person to hold as he dragged you away from the wreckage. Attached to his belt you could feel a holster and a gun. You fumbled desperately to grab a hold of it, one hand pushing back against him with all you could muster while the other clumsily grappled with the grip. The moment you had a hold of it, he hit your arm with such force you thought the bone might break and the gun fell from your grasp.

As you watched its trajectory, you suddenly became aware of your surroundings. You weren’t alone. The black cars, now dented and steaming, were surrounded by men who looked vicious and animalistic. Something had been compromised here. There was no search for casualties, no great concern for their own well-being, just an anger so pure and raw you thought you were being pulled through the gates of hell.

Instinct told you to run, to fight your way free. Choice told you to thrust forward, ripping the hair in his fist from your skull as you lurched out of D.O.’s grasp. You bit your lip to stifle a howl of pain, refusing to grant him the sound. You would never give him the pleasure of hearing you suffer.

He was infinitely stronger than you, something you’d underestimated given his small frame. Hand to hand combat would be impossible. You were surrounded. The only hope was to get to the gun.

As you stumbled toward you found yourself slipping, feet struggling for purchase on the slick ground. You fell onto your hands and knees, continuing to quickly crawl to the gun until it was held tightly in your hands.

You hands. Covered in blood, coated and stained.

The truck. Leaking blood as if the metal were bleeding, hemorrhaging behind you and into the street.

This is what had been compromised. The blood was meant to be delivered, but never to a lab. This was trafficking. This was gang activity. Blood money. You’d interrupted a deal and you’d likely have to pay with your own.

D.O. approached you with a smile on his face, almost teasing you and letting you know he was enjoying this. To him, this was fun. To him, you were exciting and new. You’d never seen anyone or anything so threatening in your life or so beautiful. You were glad he’d never looked at you in the truck or in such close quarters. His eyes made you feel vulnerable and naked, and you felt ashamed of your skin as his gaze traveled from your face to your chest, like he could hear your racing heart, and then to your hands.

You wanted him to stop. You wanted this to stop.

You’d only meant to fire one round. It didn’t matter that you were grossly unprepared for everything pertaining to a gun, you thought one squeeze of the trigger would be enough. How could you ever have known you were holding an automatic Glock 17? How could you ever have known the kickback and the sudden rise in your arms would send you falling backwards? No one had prepared for you these things.

And no one had prepared you for how incredibly loud the gun was without protection and at close range.

You knew your aim was off and wrong, your hold of the gun inexperienced and admittedly dangerous. You’d missed your imagined target completely and had resulted in nothing but causing the world around you to fall silent. You’d succeeded at nothing but deafening yourself and those around you.

While you hadn’t really expected to hit anything, never really even planned to cause anyone harm, you merely wanted to fire off warning shot. Thought you could startle the world into action around you and that, if you couldn’t save yourself, at least the sound of a gun firing and people screaming would alert others to the area. But these were professionals, and you felt your mind ache with knowledge that no one would save you as you watched everyone revert to hand signals.

Wordless conversations were happening around you and, as you brought yourself to your knees, D.O. stood before you, glowering and looking ready break you apart with his bare hands. He made it a point to look you directly in the eyes, commanding your attention as he picked up the gun you’d carelessly dropped from surprise.

As he brought his face close to yours, you thought about spitting on him. You thought about screaming. You thought about clawing at his face until it was nothing but blood and dirt under your nails.

You did none of these things, and instead remained quiet and stoic as he mouthed, slowly and clearly,

‘No one likes a hero.’

With a swing of his arm bordering on graceful, he raised his hand holding the gun and brought it to your temple, pistol whipping you into the comforting hold of darkness.

~~~~~~~

The sudden onslaught of memory makes you release a choked gasp from your sore throat. You find yourself drowning in the realization of your circumstances, the gravity of the situation coming to crush your chest without remorse. You choke back a howl of distress and suddenly your mental checklist of wellness reaches a new low.

You’re covered in blood and you can feel it now, dried and caked on your arms, legs, and hands. If you could, you’d skin yourself just to peel it off and cleanse yourself of it. Never before have you considered yourself an innocent thing. You’ve seen images of war and you’ve witnessed death firsthand, but now your mind is wandering into the dark realms of possibility and all at once you feel fragile. As if now, after everything you’ve seen and survived, you’re a delicate thing that’s too pure for all this chaos.

Reminding yourself to breathe, you allow the cold chill of reality to slowly creep back into your senses.

The car is stopped and you don’t know how long it’s been idle, but you can hear voices. They’re low, deep, and mumbled, no discernible words in their sentences just grumbles of implication. The garbled tones make your skin crawl, hungry for a natural conversational cadence. As they come closer, though, you can make out the distinct pitch of two speakers until you’re sure they’re standing directly above the trunk.

‘How much was salvaged?’

‘Less than a third. Sire, they aren’t keen to renegotiate.’

‘Of course they aren’t. Did they take any of it?’

Silence.

‘You brought her here?’

‘Had to. She knows too much.’

‘We don’t deal in human trafficking, Kyungsoo. Not anymore.’

Anymore.

You hear the latch for the trunk get released and you turn your head to look them in the eye. Mouth shut, you eye them with as much vengeful conviction you can manage and watch their nostrils flare. Your gaze is drawn to the man in the center, the one who seems to command the room just with his very posture. He seems bored and put out by your presence, but the corner of his mouth curls into a faint smile before he speaks.

‘Leave her with the pigs.’

He turns and walks away, and you’re lifted from the trunk as if you’re weightless. Arms held in a firm grip by two men who seem too young to be caught up in what you assume is the mob, you look D.O. directly in the eye as you’re lead away. You will not cower from anyone’s gaze.

When you’re tossed unceremoniously into a cage filled with pigs and goats, you immediately turn to face the men who brought you there.

You’ll stare every single person down, fixating on their eyes even it means they have to watch the life fade from yours.

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