it would be easier on Jason if he was told off by his father instead of you. In hindsight Bruce should have been reprimanding his son, which father lets their barely adult child flirt with a woman his age? Let alone a business partner of his.
Masterlist |
"Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same."
— Emily Brontë
“Oh goodness”, the words of surprise and resignation spill from your mouth, the wind flowing into your house through the open door reveals more of the large wrapped box sitting at your door step.
You don't even need to look at the card to know who it was from, ‘Jason Todd’ the poor kid that had been pinning on you the second he saw you sitting in the waiting room at Wayne Enterprises a week ago as you waited for his father who had excused himself to check on his children.
After that day he hadn't left you alone — not for a second, constantly showering you with compliments, gifts and ‘affection’.
Sometimes you really do wish Bruce would step in — it would be easier on Jason if he was told off by his father instead of you. In hindsight Bruce should have been reprimanding his son, which father lets their barely adult child flirt with a woman his age? Let alone a business partner of his.
Your eyes snap back to the package, hesitantly you pick it up and check the card.
The only thing written on it was ‘J.T’
Gently peeling away the wrapping paper you undo the box and see the prettiest shawl and a gorgeous necklace with a prominent diamond glinting in the light .
You spent a solid minute staring at them before the buzzing of your phone snapped you out of your disbelief, the contact ‘Jason’ lit up your screen.
Accepting the call you were ready to absolutely lay into him, “Jason! Sending me out of all people a gift especially ones with such value is highly inapprop-”
“Did you like them?” A heavy panting voice comes from the other side of the line.
“Darling it truly is not about me liking them, this relationship is inappropriate as is, I'm your father's colleague for heaven's sake and probably twice as old as you”.
“Do you miss me?”
You freeze at the question — you haven't even known him for an entire week, and yet you find it so difficult to deny this stubborn nineteen year old a special place in your heart.
Just as you were about to respond, you heard a familiar beep, he hung up on you.. what an odd boy.
────ᝰ.ᐟ────
There you sat, little heels tapping the floor as you waited for Bruce — though you'd never blame him, it takes a village to raise a child and he's one man..er child? Raising four other children.. Perhaps that's why all of them ended up a bit.. Unique.
Lost in thought you failed to notice the bulky shadow looming over you, until a heavy hand landed on your arm causing you to squeal out of pure instinct and slap a hand over your mouth, your heart nearly jumping out of your chest — turning over your startled, wide eyes catch toxic green ones.
“I didn't mean to startle you ma’am”, He says gently.
You stare up at the teen — the white streak of hair on his brunette hair, those odd green eyes, the scars grazing his knuckles, something in him just looks so violent you just don't know what.
“No, no, it’s quite all right, dear.”
Now it was his turn to trail your figure, his eyes rake across your exposed legs, further up to your low cut v-line exposing your cleavage.
A glint on your neck catches his immediate attention, a thin, elegant necklace but upon seeing it he goes silent — his smile slowly fading and his lips press into a thin line. Your breath catches for a second, surely he can not recognize it, it had been a simple gift from Bruce to celebrate the first year anniversary of your unio-
“Was that a gift?”, he says, his voice low and you can practically feel his breath fan your neck.
You should have known he would have been able to notice anything of his fathers choice a mile away.
You maw falls agape, you prepare to defend yourself before.
“It is, but you're not wearing the one I got you?” You notice his hands clenched at his sides, The longer he goes on the more his knuckles white, “Why? Please, why don't you love me like you love him? Why do I always come second place to him”.
The venom in his words makes you recoil slightly, “Jason..” you say — your tone weary.
“Why the fuck does my age matter to you? I'm old enough, I want you, I need you, I love you more than life itself, why don't I deserve you? JUST TELL ME WHY”.
His shout echoes in the empty meeting room — your ears are ringing, lips pale and parted, hands trembling. The fog in your mind thickens — you don't even know what to say, you don't even know why you keep rejecting him, the reason you have is stupid and selfish and simply not enough to ease his ache.
The freedom you've spent so long preserving, dodging relationships and men one after another — you haven't even been in a romantic relationship since you were in high school. In spite of it all, the sight of the boy standing in front of you and screaming at you, tugs at your heartstrings, knowing what it's like to want to give everything to someone, pleading for their love but hardly getting a shred of attention back is not something unfamiliar to you.
“Jason you're scaring me”, you say before you can stop yourself, You rise from your seat — the closeness suddenly feeling suffocating.
Before you can move any further jason moves swift and quick — harsh hands gripping your hips, his face lowers to your collarbone pressing his warm face against the cool skin, “I’m not asking for much, please, I just want one chance, just one”
Goodness.. You feel your resolve weaken, the way he called your name, muffled into your skin made your legs tire.
Your arms wrap around his neck as a hand comes to caress the side his face, with a sigh you finally respond, “..Just one sweetheart”
You can practically feel the excitement radiating off of him, your calves stretch to accommodate his now straightened height.
You're about to step back when, “Mmph!!”,
His lips capture yours, teeth nipping at your bottom lips as one of his arms snake further back on your waist while the other finds purchase on your thigh, all this while your hands are pounding at his chest though you hardly believe it affects his muscular frame — your head tips back in a desperate attempt to create some space between the two of you but his face just leans closer, your breath escapes you but his grip is too strong to flail out of.
“Jason Peter Todd!” a stern voice booms through the empty floor.
Jason’s grip on you loosens and you jump at the opportunity to break free from his caging arms, back arching away from him you cough — gasping for air.
Bruce's eyes flicker from your coughing figure to Jason's smug, eased one.
“I don't even know what to say, we're going home right now after you apologize for nearly forcing yourself onto my colleague.”
Jason lowers his face but its clear he is, in no way ashamed of his actions, “I’m sorry miss”, you can tell he’s trying to suppress a smile, his hand snakes to yours and brings it up to his lips, “can I kiss you better?”.
“JASON.” His father barks, grabbing the back of his collar, ready to drag him out.
“Wear the scarf I got you! Even better don’t wear anythi-”
He immediately gets a hand slapped over his mouth.
So you were left alone, panting, flushed and and thoroughly embarrassed.
It was late. Helsknight was alone, and he was tired. Everything about him was tired. His arms ached from sword drills, his legs from practicing his footwork. His toes kept cramping from standing too long in his boots out on the Colosseum sand. His fingernails were sore from gripping a sword hilt, and his spine twinged as exhausted muscles struggled to hold his back straight. There was an ache behind his eyes. Everything tasted like mud.
He needed food. He needed water. He needed to bathe.
He needed rest.
Helsknight instead sat quietly in the mess hall. His sword form book was open on one side, his little black book on the other. Half-coherent and quickly scribbled notes in his cramped, curling script clambered across the pages, tripping over each other and jumbling, nearly unreadable, into loops and lines. Helsknight had gotten a rare glimpse of Red training today, in a quiet moment when he thought no one was watching. He wrote down what he could observe without taking his eyes off Red. It gave him more notes to jog his memory, at the cost of coherency. Now he de-tangled the cluttered words haltingly and stubbornly, trying to replay Red's movements in his head.
"Left-handed," Helsknight muttered under his breath, painstakingly transcribing his notes onto a new page. "Heaviest swings come from the shoulder..."
The heavy, netherite axe had thundered through the armored training dummy, crushing the armor and snapping apart chainmail with the power of a lightning strike. It made Helsknight's throat tighten just thinking about it. How bad the ache, if that blade caught in his armor and shattered his collar bone. How blinding the agony as it mashed chain, and fabric and metal deep into a wounding cut. It was like weilding a war hammer that could still bleed someone.
"Favors the right leg," Helsknight muttered, licking his quill to sharpen the tip. The ink, heavy with the grit of charcoal instead of overworld squid ink, sullied the taste of mud in his mouth with carbon and smoke. "Bad knee, not as strong as the left side. Could undermine stance."
Red had almost a head of height on Helsknight, longer legs and longer arms, and an axe far longer than his broadsword. It would be speed and precision against reach and power. Speed and precision, and Martyn would be there, and Martyn was faster, and just as precise.
[He should see if he could sit in on Martyn's training next, though Martyn would know he was there, and would be smart enough to hide the full measure of his skills.]
The ache behind Helsknight's eyes bloomed intense and horrible, spotting the edges of his vision with stars. With a heavy sigh he tilted his head back and pinched the space between his eyes, nose wrinkled and eyes screwed shut in pain. The starring faded. The pain did not. He was so very, very, very tired.
The lights flickered once. Twice. Then went out. Briefly, Helsknight sat in utter darkness in the mess hall. He cracked an eye open and, seeing no difference in the darkness whether his eyes were open or closed, closed it again. The slow hiss of steam-piston joints approached from everywhere. From nowhere. Chck-chack--hisssss, like an old, heavy piston line made of wrought iron and pewter. Leaden footsteps paced, and with it came heat, blistering and dry as force fire. The backs of his eyelids lit with a red cast, and Helsknight scowled.
"Whatever you're selling," he growled, taking his hand from his face and leveling his exhausted gaze on Evil X, "I'm not buying. Save your breath."
The uncanny machine tilted his head, the bright red lights of his eyes narrowing in a grin. The lights in the mess hall came alive again, though they all seemed to fizzle and bleed, casting the room in a dull red, plasma-like glow. It made the brutal black and grey of Evil X's robotics stark, made the weight and strength of him more apparent. Evil X was the kind of creature that broke things just by playing with them, all blunt wrought-iron parts attached to a mind made uncanny by the faithful fear of every soul in hels -- including Helsknight. To be unafraid of Evil X was to be stupid, and dead, and for an unlucky few, kicked from hels altogether.
"So unkind to your Sovereign," Evil X chuckled gleefully, leaning forward over the table in a gesture that looked almost like a bow. "That's why I like you Helsknight. You really, truly, don't care."
Helsknight snorted derisively, "Do something worth caring about and I might."
Evil X laughed, tilting his head back, a hand clutched to his broad, iron chest as though there were breath that truly needed catching. He had the knack of acting, moving, organic down well -- far better than EB did. His movements were smooth and natural, so unlike a machine, that only the hiss and click of gears and servos belied his nature. One could almost be convinced he was a man in a suit, were it not for the jagged edges of his joints, and the way redstone and wires glinted and sparked where the edges of his frame met and separated.
"Oh I could," Evil X hummed, his voice bright and pleasant. It was a deep, growling voice, and it reverberated like tearing metal. "If you'd only let me, knight."
Evil X held out his hand playfully, that sly grin still narrowing his eyes. Helsknight raised an eyebrow at it. He crossed his arms and leaned on them against the table, looking up at the ruler of hels with a sardonic smirk.
"If you're looking for deference, you need a ring to kiss, my Sovereign." Helsknight said. "You only kiss the back of a hand if she's a lady, a queen, or a princess."
"So many stupid rules," Evil X sighed. "Being a knight must be an exhausting chore."
The metal monstrosity leaned forward, splaying out his hand to catch his weight on the table. The wood groaned beneath him like a wounded animal, and the heat escaping from the joints of his fingers made the wood smoke. Helsknight resisted the urge to lean away from the heat. He knew intimidation when it came knocking, loud and unsubtle, on his cell door.
"How about," Evil X hummed brightly, his voice sickly-sweet with derisive pleasantry, "you kiss my hand because I am your Sovereign, and I am owed your respect."
Helsknight's pride seethed, but this was a fight he neither wanted nor could win. Helsknight stood, wincing only a little as muscles that had grown stiff as he sat protested the movement. Evil X straightened when he did, once again offering his hand. Helsknight bowed low and, careful not to actually touch the Sovereign, for fear of burning himself, kissed the air over the back of Evil X's hand.
"I am at your service, tyrant."
"Flatterer."
"It wasn't a compliment."
"It was if I say it was."
"You can do a great many wonders, tyrant," Helsknight said, "but you have yet to change the nature of truth."
Evil X moved like lightning, a bold red smear of color that Helsknight could barely see. Evil X grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, wrought iron fist bunching in his chainmail, and yanked him forward. Suddenly he was being lifted halfway across the table, staring up into the void-dark black of the screen that made up Evil X's face, which shouldn't be possible, because Evil X wasn't that tall. The magma-hot press of his fist so close to Helsknight's neck made him wince, the radiant heat threatening to burn if it got any closer. He could smell the rings of his mail heating, and the press of his weight against the collar of his clothes squeezed his throat closed; not enough to strangle, but certainly enough to threaten. It took every ounce of sense in Helsknight's body not to snap his hands forward and grab at the scalding metal of the Sovereign's wrist.
"You know, Helsknight, I do like you." Evil X said, all pleasantness gone from his voice. "I like your sarcasm. I like your strength. I like how much you struggle."
He pulled Helsknight a little closer, and Helsknight, already on his tip-toes, his fingertips just barely catching his weight on the table, felt every part of himself currently anchoring himself the ground lift just barely off their purchase. All of his weight fell against the collar of his shirt, and the press of Evil X's fist, thinning his breaths to reedy sips of air.
"But I won't abide by your disrespect," Evil X said, his voice so deep and mechanical, Helsknight felt it in the pit of his stomach. "A healthy fear in hels is very important to me. I thrive on it. Call it a law. All must fear Evil X."
Evil X narrowed the red lights of his eyes unpleasantly, something like a grim smile playing in his mechanical features.
"And you, my brave, sarcastic, law abiding knight, don't seem very scared of me." Evil X tilted his head just slightly, and red-grey steam swirled from an articulation near his mechanical spine. It was hot enough that Helsknight flinched his eyes closed, for fear it would scald him. "Do I need to scare you, Helsknight?"
Helsknight felt his heart kick a little quicker in his chest. He grinned. He always found it was best to bare his teeth at a threat.
"I'm terrified," Helsknight said truthfully, his voice a strangled whisper in his throat. His hands hovered inches away from Evil X's wrist, the barely withheld impulse to grab the hot metal, to try and find any leverage to ease the bruise against his throat, fighting to rip free. "But I deal with fear often in the arena. Forgive me for not being very transparent with it."
Helsknight swallowed and winced. The heat radiating from Evil X's hand was starting to seep through his armor. His chainmail was heating up, and he could feel every link uncomfortably hot against his skin.
Evil X smiled, his voice brightening, "Beg for my forgiveness, and maybe I will."
"Can't," Helsknight lowered his hands and tried to reach for the table. His fingertips scuffed at empty air. "My Saint takes precedence."
"You're not a monotheist," Evil X pointed out reasonably. "You believe in the Order of Remembrance."
"But I don't beg their god for mercy," Helsknight said, his voice thinning. "It's... Getting hard to breathe."
"Terrible waste of energy, breathing." Evil X sighed, as though the act were pitiful. "You organic creatures waste so much time on it."
"It's a bad habit to break. Addictive."
"What, breathing?"
"Living, generally."
Evil X let out a derisive tsk! and rolled his eyes. "Of course. How silly of me."
"Ex..." Helsknight hissed, his hands jerking up for another aborted grab at Evil X's wrist. Small, firefly stars were starting to swim into the edges of his vision, retreating from sight when he managed another thin gasp.
Evil X, still unhurried and unbothered, twisted his wrist, tilting Helsknight's face to the side as if to get a better look at him. It pressed the heated chainmail harder against Helsknight's neck, and he wheezed in protest.
"Is there something different about you?" Evil X asked, scrutinizing him unhurriedly. "Done something to your hair, maybe?"
"The scars are new," Helsknight whispered unhelpfully, his vision starting to blur around the edges.
"No," Evil X sighed. "No it's not that. It's got something to do with the smell of you. Beg for mercy from any new gods lately?"
"Not that I know of."
"Huh. Interesting."
"Sovereign." Helsknight tried to be more insistent, but his head was starting to swim. His heart was fluttering quick in his chest, pushing too little air too quickly through his limbs.
[Don't panic.]
"You know, I could make all your problems disappear." Evil X hummed, the unbreakable vice of his grip holding Helsknight so unnaturally still, he could have been writhing in the hands of a statue. "What with the Demon rigging your match. My brother won't ask -- doesn't want me meddling in his humble little hive. But I wouldn't refuse a request from the Champion of hels."
Helsknight reached with his hands and feet, cursing silently when all he found was open air. The table should still be there... Somewhere. Salvation. A reminder that the world existed outside the infinite black of Evil X's screen, the blinding red of his eyes, and the vice of his grip.
"He would forgive you for letting me in eventually," Evil X hummed. "He likes you."
The lights in Helsknight's eyes had stopped fading when he breathed. They invaded his vision like a brilliant tide. He only realized he'd given in to the impulse to grab Evil X's wrist, because suddenly his hands were burning. If he cried out in pain, it died somewhere against the clench of the Sovereign's fist.
[Don't panic.]
"Just recant on that stupid little agreement of ours," Evil X smiled, "and let me be your sponsor again. The Demon couldn't touch you then, now could he?"
"You could," Helsknight grunted, trying to twist in the unyielding grip. He only succeeded in pressing the heated chainmail harder against his neck.
It burned.
Evil X chuckled, and Helsknight felt the vibration in every rib.
"I can do that regardless," Evil X said gently, as though he were talking to a child. "I do what I like, when I like. I am the ruler of hels."
"Prove it." The glittering lights in Helsknight's eyes was starting to give way to a surging darkness. It rose around his world like an embrace. "Let me go."
Evil X chuckled again. It shook Helsknight's whole world.
"Say please."
There was a brief moment where Helsknight managed enough spite to want to spit in Evil X's face. He didn't. But he really, really wanted to.
He only knew his world had gone black, because when Evil X dropped him, his vision came surging back again. Helsknight collapsed to the floor, gasping and coughing. His nose stung with the smell of hot metal and singed fabric, and burns along the curve of his neck and the palms of his hands throbbed with bitter sensation. Evil X crouched on the balls of his feet, watching Helsknight as though he were a particularly interesting bug on the floor, or maybe some strange species of fish suffocating on a beach.
"Your pride is going to be the death of you," Evil X said pleasantly.
"Only if you're the one trying to kill me," Helsknight managed, when his coughing finally started to subside. He pressed his forehead to the cold floor, and blinked in quiet surprise as Evil X flicked his wrist and gently placed a water bottle in front of his nose.
"The offer stands," Evil X hummed. "I'll sponsor you. Get you out of that stupid little hovel of yours and into a house in the center of town, right beside my tower. Maybe even get you some proper armor, enchanted to a god's specifications."
"Since when have you been interested in sponsoring anyone?" Helsknight growled, his voice tumbling like gravel through his wounded throat. He didn't take the water Evil X offered. It felt too much like a trap.
"I want to see what the Demon does, obviously!" Evil X said gleefully, placing a second bottle by the first. A temptation. "I want to see what he'll do when I take away one of his playthings. I bet he'll throw a tantrum. Break some things in the Colosseum. It's been awhile since anyone has pissed my brother off."
"I'm nobody's plaything."
"Of course you are," Evil X flashed him another of those pitiful smiles. "Right now you're the Demon's. And here, I'm being so kind and offering to be your champion."
Helsknight felt a hot flash of anger jilt its way down his spine. Groaning from the effort, and the sting in his palms, he slid his hands beneath himself and tried to push himself off the floor.
"I don't need a champion," he spat. "I need you assholes to leave me the fuck alone."
Evil X's heavy hand landed in the center of Helsknight's back. It was the kind of gesture a friend would make when trying to offer consolation. The moment it touched him, it burned. Helsknight gasped, and then his arms buckled as Evil X, as trivially as one might capture a spider beneath their hands, pressed him back down against the floor. Helsknight grit his teeth around an impotent scream, writhing beneath the burning touch. It felt as though the Sovereign of hels planned to shove his hand through Helsknight's spine.
"Oh you stupid, prideful little knight," Evil X smiled pleasantly, "if no one is your champion, who, exactly, is going to protect you?"
The press on his back intensified. Helsknight thought he could hear his spine and ribs creak. He reached and kicked, as though it would do any good. One of the water bottles went skittering away when he hit it with a flailing hand.
The loud shatter of glass shot Helsknight gasping into wakefulness. He blinked his eyes, startled to find himself blind. Just as soon as he noticed its absence, light poured into the room, spreading warm and dim from the shrooms lights overhead. Tanguish was standing in front of him, out of breath, a potion bottle in his hands.
"Are you alright?" Tanguish asked, whisking to his side. "I thought I heard-- from down the hall-- like you were--" his expression softened from fear to worry. "Did something happen?"
Helsknight glanced around the room, and when he saw nothing abnormal, shortened his scan to the table. His form book and his little black notebook were there, as was his quill. One of his arms had an angry red line where he laid on it while sleeping, and had pressed too hard against his notebook. There were no burns on his hands, though his throat felt dry and sore from thirst. His back ached from how far he'd slumped over the table, spine protesting the unfair treatment.
"I'm... Fine." Helsknight said hoarsely. "Nightmare, I think."
"Oh. Well. Don't. Don't scare me like that," Tanguish said, smiling faintly. He gently placed the bottle on the table -- not a potion, but water, chilled by his touch. "Here. Uhm. S-someone must have left it out. It was hot when I picked it up."
Helsknight paused halfway to bringing the bottle to his lips. He blinked down at the innocuous little bit of glass, nervousness awakening in his stomach.
"Did I hear glass shattering?" He asked cautiously.
"Oh. Hah. Um. Well..."
Tanguish looked down. Helsknight followed his gaze. A few steps from the table, a water bottle had shattered, the jagged edges of the glass outlined faintly in the red-orange light. Tanguish's foot, just to one side of it, pooled blood in a slowly blooming ring.
"Tanguish."
"I'm s-sorry! It was so dark in here," Tanguish stammered, looking around. "I've never-- I didn't even see it I just stepped-- ah!"
Helsknight got to his feet and scooped Tanguish off the floor. It sent a corkscrew of pain spiralling down his spine, but he made his way to the stairs regardless. The cool of Tanguish's skin against his armor felt like a balm, even as his nervousness turned to snakes in his stomach.
"I'm fine!" Tanguish protested, clinging to Helsknight's armor. "Just get me some tweezers and--"
"The Colosseum surgeon will be awake still," Helsknight grumbled.
"It's just glass I don't need a surgeon!"
"You'll want a surgeon when you find out you left a piece in your foot a week from now."
"It's fine-- I'm fine," Tanguish said, his voice softening. "Don't freak out over it."
"I'm not freaking out."
"Helsknight, you're shaking."
"I'm tired," Helsknight protested. [Not technically a lie.] He stormed down the stairs, taking them two at a time. "And the sooner we get this looked at, the sooner I sleep, right?"
"Right..." Tanguish agreed, and decided, tactfully, not to ask about the odd, ring-shaped burns around the neck of Helsknight's tunic.
Chapter synopsis: Nearly a year has passed since Victor and Evelyn arrived in Haddingtonshire. His work is nearly complete, but they have yet to marry. Despite the disconnect, she gives in to his carnal desires.
Story synopsis: Evelyn Lamont has been friends with Victor Frankenstein since childhood. As the years pass, she notices Victor's countenance change—his passion turns to obsession, his love to jealously. And when his Creation threatens to dismantle everything he's worked for, his fears give way to rage.
Fandom: Frankenstein
Featuring: Victor x fem!OC (eventually Adam x fem!OC)
AN: Mors victa = death conquered. Hopefully it's a correct translation; if anyone speaks Latin, let me know! Thank you all so much for reading! :)
Master list // Story notes // Check back for the next chapter!
Months settled around the abandoned water tower like a dense fog shrouding its inhabits. A veil between them and the world beyond.
Evelyn would find herself wandering the halls, often perusing the decaying library. She read the works of Shakespeare and Milton and pulled archaic maps from their cases, yellowed and weather-worn, forgotten and discarded with the passage of time.
At Victor's request, Herr Harlander had graciously procured a telescope for her, which she marveled at on clear nights. She made sketches of the moon's phases, and painted landscapes of the seaside cliffs and the tower stretching toward the heavens. She'd often return with a finished canvas, paint-stained fingers, and windswept tresses that smelled of sea spray.
Her time was mostly spent in her own company, as Victor was a slave to his work, tucking himself away in the laboratory or running errands with Herr Harlander. On the rare occasion, William and Elizabeth would visit; William often accompanied the men on errands, while Evelyn and Elizabeth were left to commiserate. She found Harlander's niece to be a lovely companion, one who shared her interests in nature and philosophy. In some ways she reminded her of Edmund's subdued female counterpart.
Whenever their guests departed, she found herself depressed and aching for companionship, longing for her fiancée's attention.
However when Victor was lost to his work, he often became stoic and detached, hedonistic even. His actions were at times thoughtless and as inorganic as the scientific pursuits he currently vied for.
Evenings stretching into nights; days that poured over into one another like a siphon.
When he did retire to their adjoined chambers, exhausted and enervated, he would become possessive and needy (more than usual Evelyn noted), selfish and driven solely by his desires, as if his his wants were all that mattered in the equation.
On those nights he would pine over Evelyn, in an attempt to manipulate the situation in his favor. He'd often ask her to come lay with him, allowing his hand to drift across her thigh as she spoke words of reassurance to his work, his purpose. It wasn't her intention to feed the flames of his ego in an attempt to be ever-supportive, but nonetheless she did.
And as his ego grew, so did his desire.
The night came when he felt the dam within himself beginning to bow. It was slow, yet sudden—a fissure in his restraint. His lips dragged from her own down across her neck where he nipped and sucked at the supple flesh.
"Victor, we shouldn't—" she breathed, the cadence of her voice making another crack form.
"I know—" he lifted the hem of her nightgown.
"We mustn't—"
"I know—"
Her breath hitched as she felt him slide two fingers along her warmth, leaving them slick and dewy.
"Victor—" she exclaimed, pushing his hand away with less ardor than normal.
An exasperated sigh escaped him and he pushed himself up on all fours, his gaze catching hers. He appeared feral this way—raven black curls falling into dark eyes rimmed with sleeplessness, hovering above her like a madman.
"Haven't we waited long enough?" He ground out in frustration. "I've given you everything you've asked for, I brought you here to be with me—"
"Marriage," she clipped his rant before it could even begin, her voice seared by desperation. "I want to be your wife."
"I promised as soon as my work is finished," he stated with a huff, "we shall return to Yorkshire—to Geneva—to wherever you desire—and we shall marry."
"It's been nearly a year…" her voice trailed off.
He paused, breathing steadily, gaze unwavering.
"I know you've been patient. All I'm asking is for a little more time. And while I understand your moral hesitation, if it is me you truly desire," he took her hand and placed it against his bare chest, "I am right here."
She knew she shouldn't have felt conflicted, should have remained steadfast in her convictions, but the desperation in his voice, the yearning in his gaze—night after night—had begun wearing her down. Bit by bit his words chipped away, doubt seeping in and forming cracks in her foundation.
She watched as he plopped back on the bed, letting out a dissatisfied sigh like a wave breaking against the shoreline. The subtle rise and fall of his chest, the sweat drying on his skin tacky and cool.
Was it his fault? For wanting to be close to her? Wanting to make love to the woman he had vied nearly his entire life for? Didn't he earn it? Deserve it? After all this time?
His eyes snapped open as her hand reached out, tracing the space below his navel, fingers coming to rest on the waistband his his trousers.
"Victor," she breathed, still hesitant, but she gave a nod nevertheless.
He sat up, cradling her cheek and bringing his lips to hers once more. She returned his kiss, gliding her tongue across his lips, her moral obligations falling away with subdued trepidation.
It wasn't as if the urge was absent in her. Whenever he'd kiss her or grip her body in just the right way, her core would pulsate, longing for more. She hadn't told him about the years of fantasizing him ravishing her in ways that would make her blush.
He stopped to look her in the eyes, attempting to feed her reassurance. "There isn't anyone here to tell us how to live our lives. Our commitment to each other has always been, just as it is now."
She nodded again in understanding, glancing down at the space between them before pressing her lips to his.
Driven by lust, he pushed any doubts away and began lifting the hem of her nightgown once more. In a swift motion, he pulled it over her head and tossed it away.
He reveled in the suppleness of her skin, the way goosebumps rippled across it, her nipples stiff under his touch. He nipped at one of them, eliciting a gasp from her. He chuckled, moving back up to kiss her.
"You bewitching thing, you," he breathed into her lips, leaning her back onto the bed and caressing the curve of her hip.
His fingers found their way between her thighs once more and he circled around the soft flesh. He slid two in at her warmth, while his thumb worked her over, making her moan and press into him.
She reached up to cradle his cheek, biting her lip as he continued to undo her. She felt a coil winding tighter and tighter deep within her abdomen, the muscles of her flank flexed as she rolled against his hand. Years of fantasy culminating into this moment.
The coil suddenly snapped, releasing a barrage of flutters throughout her lower belly; a loud moan escaping her as she arched her back, one hand grasping the sheets while the other tangled itself in his curls.
She shivered, breathes ragged, and pulled him back down into a kiss.
Gazing down at her through half-lidded eyes, he whispered—"You're exquisite."
She watched as he slid his trousers and drawers down, kicking them away with fervor. Another gasp emitted from her as she took the fullness of his length, his hips bucking gently against her. His eyes fluttered shut and his lips turned into a concentrated frown as he worked to satiate his own burning desire.
"Vic—tor, hmm—" Evelyn choked out in between heated moans, and it nearly sent him tumbling over the edge.
He bit his lip and gazed down at her; a grunt rumbled in his chest as his thrusts picked up their pace.
He felt himself quickly approaching the precipice, no railing to hold onto, the sensation hitting hard and fast deep within him. He shuddered once—twice—pulsating within her walls, a low groan punctuating his release.
He leaned his head on her shoulder, heartbeat pounding, the sound of blood rushing in his ears. As he caught his breath, he laid beside her, beckoning her to join him under the covers.
Satin sheets of crimson enveloped them as Evelyn rested her head on his chest.
"Eve?" He beckoned out of the darkness, breathy and spent.
"Yes?"
"I love you, darling."
A now familiar sense of unease seeped from within her bones as she breathed steadily, listening to the thump of Victor's heartbeat. Something she thought was meant to be sacred somehow tainted and turned sour. She had reveled at his touch, but in the aftermath it left her feeling raw, numb.
"I love you," she finally whispered against his skin.
Shelving the feeling and letting out a silent yawn, she allowed herself to drift into a deep sleep.
—
The pale figure stood, arms outstretched toward the heavens. When he noticed Evelyn's presence, he turned, meeting her gaze. Instead of an expression of anguish, a faint smile tugged at his lips as he extended a hand out toward her.
With a trembling breath, she took his hand and he pulled her into an embrace. His skin was warm and soft, not at all stone-like how she had to imagined it.
With her cheek pressed flush against his chest, she listened to the steady beat of his heart—soothing and strangely familiar.
"Who are you?" She attempted to speak, but the words came out jumbled.
The figure took a deep breath, as if to answer.
Before he could utter a sound, the vision faded to black.
—
The following days were much the same, except for Victor's attempts to be more attentive toward Evelyn. He began joining her for morning tea and offering to share his bed with her each evening, recapping his progress as he drifted into a slumber, oftentimes asking her to run her fingers through his hair as he found it deliciously relaxing, as he'd said.
The day came that for the first time since he began assembling his creation, as he'd called it, he allowed her to enter the laboratory.
"Now I must warn you," he explained as he led her up the spiral staircase, "I've been dissecting—while I've done my best to rid the place of refuse limbs, there's still quite a bit of blood—so please, don't be alarmed."
As they entered the room, a pungent odor struck her, one that she'd often smell faintly on Victor's clothes. The stretch of stale iron—blood mingled with antiseptic and formaldehyde. It caught on the wind and mixed with the scents of the tower itself—ozone and old, rain-soaked stones. Evelyn held her breath for a moment, acclimating herself to the sensation.
A large operating table lay at the front of the room where Victor guided her. The excitement in his voice pitched as he recounted how he'd assembled his creature, this man, laying motionless on the cold metal slab before them.
Evelyn tilted her head as she came to stare at his face—the visages of discarded and dismembered men sewn and pieced together like a grotesque puzzle. It was uncanny the way his eye sat open, staring blankly into nothingness.
"Well," came Victor's expectant voice, "what do you think?"
He was exhilarated, giddy with the prospect of completing his life's work, and undeniably proud of himself.
"Yes, it's—" she faltered, looking back to the man on the table. "It's truly remarkable what you've done, incredible even. What do you think he will be like upon reanimation?"
Her query made him think for a moment, and she continued—
"All those men now apart of one—so many lives intersecting into one another? Who will he be?"
Victor pursed his lips, brow furrowed, hands placed on his hips as he considered her thoughts.
"It'll be a scientific feat—a major advancement to medical research," he paused, looking down at his creation. "Death conquered."
—
That night her dream persisted. This time the man was hunched over a wolf stone, sunken into the ground by time, half-obscured by thick tufts of moss. His finger traced the letters chiseled into the stone.
Mors victa.
Master list // Story notes // Check back for the next chapter! // Dividers by @dividers-are-us
OK this is happening entirely too often for it not to be a pattern so i'm going to make a post:
IF SOMEONE OFFERS YOU MONEY NO STRINGS ATTACHED FOR AN UNDEFINED AMOUNT OF TIME, THERE IS AUTOMATICALLY STRINGS ATTACHED
I just had a friend reach out to say some nice people would house and pay him until he got back on his feet, which is great! But! he has no one else near him in this town, he's a foreigner, he's 30 years younger than them, and he's the type of person ICE picks up off the streets.
I told him sure they don't want you to pay anything back, but they can make you homeless at any time... and if they cut of those funds you're shit out of luck. So, you gotta save what you can and get out of that situation as fast as humanly possible, if you're forced into taking that deal.
He was upset and said I just didn't want him taking a break and working on himself until I told him about ANOTHER friend who ended up with 4 adopted kids and oweing his now-landlord sexual favours in a way he resented that way and ANOTHER friend who is halfway to joining a cult that way and ANOTHER friend who ended up homeless and destitute with a lot of sexual trauma all starting the same way.
Just because someone waives the right flags and uses the right buzzwords and speaks the same in jokes as you does NOT mean they are not going to take advantage of you if they get total control over your life! Its the same reason I tell people to be wary of jobs that give you free housing! You are putting yourself on the low ground, don't do it!!
Contents: child endangerment, child coerced into violence, sadistic Whumper, captive Whumpee, chains, hammer, blunt force trauma, blacking out from pain, emotional distress, no comfort, swearing
Whumpee awoke to the sound of their heavy cell door opening. They looked up from where they sat against the wall opposite the door, arm chained to a large steel eye hook on the floor at their feet. The bright light that shone from the open door forced Whumpee to squint. Three separate shadows crossed the light before the door closed again with a loud clunk.
Whumpee blinked several times, willing the bright spot in the centre of their vision to fade faster. There was a moment of silence barring the sounds of people breathing. Then, a soft click. Unfortunately, by the time Whumpee realized what the sound meant they were too late. The overhead lights came to life, flooding the room with a dazzling brilliance and sending bolts of pain through their eyes.
“Jesus fuck!” Whumpee exclaimed, slamming their eyes shut and hiding behind their arm for good measure. The sound of chuckling came from the other side of the room.
Slowly, Whumpee cracked their eyes open and lowered their arm, allowing themself time to adjust to the bright lights. Forcing their vision into focus, Whumpee immediately recognized Whumper and one of their henchmen. They allowed their eyes to roam over the henchman’s face before following the length of his body to notice his hand. His hand, which was rested on the shoulder of a young boy with wide eyes.
Whumpee felt dread move through their body like the surface of a lake turning to ice. Their eyes snapped over to Whumper’s face only to find them grinning, pleased that Whumpee had noticed their little guest.
Nausea swelled in Whumpee’s stomach and they could feel the pinpricks of tears forming behind their eyes. “No,” they spoke with a quiet horror.
Whumper’s grin grew impossibly wider. “But you don’t even know why he’s here!”
Whumpee’s eyes flicked back to the boy, who stood close to the henchman’s leg, looking like the only thing stopping him from hiding behind the man was the firm hand on his shoulder. He couldn’t be any older than 12.
“He’s a child. He shouldn’t be involved in any of this.”
The henchman spoke then in a gruff voice. “And who are you to decide what’s good for him? Huh?”
Whumpee ignored him. “Whumper, this has to cross a line, even for you.”
Shrugging their shoulders with a sheepish look, Whumper took a few meandering steps forward. “I won’t be crossing any lines.” They turned to look at the boy. “Young Caleb here won’t have to do or see anything… unsavoury.” Turning back, Whumper crouched down at eye level with Whumpee and spoke coldly. “You’re going to save him from any such displeasure by telling us exactly what we want to know.”
Whumpee closed their eyes and tried to quell the panic in their chest, breathing heavily through their nose. They didn’t know. They actually didn’t know the answers to Whumper’s questions, they never had. They had been telling Whumper that since day one, obviously to no avail. There was nothing they could do to protect this boy, nothing they could say to spare him. A tear of frustration slipped down Whumpee’s cheek.
Whumper tilted their head at the display before standing up. Pulling a hammer out of the back of their waistband, they held it out.
“Go on, Caleb.” The henchman said, pushing him forward.
Caleb’s eyes flitted between Whumper and the henchman before finally settling on the hammer. Hesitantly, the boy inched forward and grasped the handle, hand dipping as he failed to anticipate the weight of the hammer when Whumper released it.
Whumpee watched on in horror, mouth bone dry.
Speaking gently, Whumper said, “go on over, son. They won’t hurt you.” Caleb shuffled towards Whumpee, a look of absolute terror on his face.
“Whumper. Don’t.” Whumpee begged with a look of despair.
“I’m not doing this, Whumpee. You are.”
Whumpee burst out in anger, “come do it yourself you bastard. This is fucking cowardly shit, Whumper. Bringing a kid in here.”
Caleb jumped at the volume of their voice and Whumper tsk’d disapprovingly. “Come now, Whumpee, there’s no need to scare the boy.”
Whumpee bit their tongue. As much as they hated it, they knew Whumper was right. If nothing else, they could at least try to minimize the trauma of the situation for the kid. Taking a deep breath, they looked at the boy and forced what they hoped was a reassuring smile. “Hey, Caleb. My name is Whumpee. I know you’re probably really scared right now, and you probably don’t want to do this. I just want you to know that whatever happens, this is not your fault. I understand that you have to do what they tell you. That’s okay. We’ll get through this together, alright?”
Caleb nodded slowly.
“Enough chat,” Whumper butted in. They crouched down beside the boy and spoke near his ear. “I want you to take this hammer and hold it up high over your head. Then, swing it down as hard as you can. But when you do, you’re going to aim for Whumpee’s knee. You can choose which one. Can you do that?”
Caleb nodded nervously, which made Whumper grin. “Wonderful.”
Whumpee tried to hide their fear from the kid as he approached them. They straightened out their leg reluctantly and braced against the wall. As an afterthought, they also pulled the collar of their shirt up and bunched it into their mouth to bite down on. Whumpee nodded encouragingly at the boy and closed their eyes.
For a few moments they were blissfully unaware, then pain shot through their leg. Whumpee clamped down on the cry that threatened to pass their lips. Luckily the kid had missed, hitting their thigh just above their right knee rather than the knee itself. Even so, it hurt like hell.
“Ahh, come on now, you can do better than that,” the henchman chided the boy. “Swing harder. And aim lower this time.”
Whumpee looked up at the kid to see tears streaming down his face. They tried to smile around their shirt but they were sure it looked more like a grimace. Caleb raised the hammer again and this time he didn’t miss. Unable to stop themself in time, Whumpee let out a muffled scream. Red hot pain seared through their knee and up into their hip. At the same time, everything below their knee turned to pins and needles. For a moment they could focus on nothing other than the pain. Finally, taking a shaky breath in and out, Whumpee attempted to regain their composure.
“Very good, Caleb.” Whumper spoke smoothly. “Now here.” They pointed to their hip bone.
The boy sobbed and swung the hammer once more. A loud crack and a moment of blinding agony was all Whumpee had time to register before their whole world went black.
Whumper sighed as they watched Whumpee slump over unconscious. Looking at the young boy, they huffed a laugh. “What’re you crying for? You did great! Come on, Henchman will get you some ice cream.”
Caleb stood frozen on the spot, staring at Whumpee in shock. Rolling their eyes, Whumper grabbed the hammer from the boy and turned him around by his shoulders. They led him from the room with one last satisfied glance back at Whumpee. This was progress, Whumper was sure.
There’s something pathological about how coercion sucks in vast resources when care is more economical, not to mention humane, but is nonetheless starved and derided. This pattern is so obvious and ubiquitous that you’ll have noticed it too. I point it out because although it is everywhere, and supported by both UK political parties, it is not sensible, and nor is it inevitable.
Maria Farrell at Crooked Timber. Coercion versus Care
