rainjoyswriting (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rainjoyswriting) wrote2015-08-13 07:57 pm
rainjoyswriting) wrote2015-08-13 07:57 pm
Entry tags:
Musketeers short: stupid exorcist fic
Quiet, musketeers!fic, not affinityverse; I tried so hard not to write the OT3 modern AU exorcist fic but in the end I guess I just sort of wrote the OT3 modern AU exorcist fic -_-; This is a universe, not a standalone (dammit) though at least it's a verse where d'Artagnan will probably turn up in more of a hurry than he manages in the affinityverse . . .
Update on the shoulder and comments because I really do care about these things: I am *so sorry* not to have replied to some comments yet, *sorry*. The shoulder's bad - I was at physio today and I've been told it's ahahahahahah a typing related injury, e.g., TYPE LESS RAINJOY. I've been put on strict 30 minute blocks of typing time. Between my thesis, my job, and the fact that I need to write to keep myself from going *weird*, I have to prioritise those three things. But I promise I will be with you as soon as I can, because it bothers me that you were really nice and left a comment and I haven't managed to say thank you yet! Anyway, back to the fic . . .
Rating: R (whole fic will go up to NC-17, often for disturbing subject matter rather than smut)
Disclaimer: I don't own anything, between the characters and the epic cliché that makes up the rest of this.
Warnings and spoilers: Spoilerwise this fic is a kind of alternative S1 so you can expect sideways spoilers to that, but I doubt I'll bother with anything from S2. Warningswise, fuck. In this fic, violence and mention of a suicide, but this 'verse is essentially horror - I write a lot of fantasy and a lot of it is bedded in horror in various ways, but this just flat out is horror, we're dealing with fucking vampires and werewolves. Where there are werewolves you can expect a lot of violence; vampires are a whole different story. Vampires are an old terror of ours (they seem to crop up in multiple cultures around the world), they've had centuries to percolate through our stories, which has allowed them to build up a whole bunch of rich and super-disturbing associations with power and sex (and, in some later work, addiction). Where you have creatures grounded in metaphors for power and sex and it's the twenty-first century and long past time we talked about these things, you can expect consent to come up sooner or later, in a variety of potentially disturbing ways. So today's warning is vampires: they don't sparkle, and they are a mirror of the worst fucking parts of us.
Summary: On vampires.
Note: I have nine minutes left of typing time omg, right, this is a short of a universe I'm still working out the details on long-term plot of - incidental chapters I have, what if anything it builds to I'm still sorting through. But as this is only a short, it leaves a *lot* of doors opened but unexplored, and most of that stuff will be dealt with soon enough, because it's really hard in the particular PoV style I use to talk about things the characters know so well they'd never dream of explaining to themselves in their own heads. We'll get around to the confusing stuff. Also, clearly we're going to need flashbacks for some shit that has clearly already gone down which *really needs explaining* ^^; Also this part isn't very Porthosy, sorry Porthos, you'll get your chance <3 But yeah, basically, I am weak, I like playing with overdone tropes to see what sideways thing can be made of them, and the vampires/werewolves thing is like the most obvious contemporary trope I've never decided to get literal/metaphorical with. Wish me luck ;)
In a graveyard in the Paris suburbs, just before dusk, one man stabs his shovel into the grass and sits with a sigh on the pile of earth beside the grave, and says, "I don't see why it matters. Coffee is coffee."
One of the men still digging stands up, and gives him a look. The other laughs in a soft low rumble, but keeps on working.
"Alright," the sitting man says, eyebrows raising, smile so innocent, "to those of us without super-human senses, one brand of coffee may be as good as another, but I apologise for buying something evidently so inferior to those better able to tell. Forgive me my pathetic mortality, Athos."
Athos just keeps on giving him a look, and then stabs his spade into the soil again. "Aren't you going to help?"
Aramis sighs, laying back and getting himself comfortable on the stack of soil, as Porthos throws another shovelful to his side. "You two have supernatural strength but you still insist on my doing the heavy lifting."
"S'no excuse." Porthos says, and the next shovelful he aims right at Aramis, who laughs in shock and beats the dirt off himself, shaking it from his hair.
"That has no excuse."
"Looks like it does from this side of the heavy liftin'."
Athos' shovel thumps off something sharper than earth - hollow wood - and Aramis sits up properly, the interest dark in his eyes. He stands as Athos and Porthos begin clearing the last earth until they've bared the coffin, which Aramis peers down at from above.
"Still intact." He offers a hand down, helping Porthos to haul himself out of the grave, then Athos. "Shall we wait to be certain?"
Against all his own urgent desires - he has no faith in his own kind - Athos says, "It would probably be brutish to douse it in petrol without absolute proof."
"We must be on our best behaviour here of all places. What will people think." Aramis unscrews the cap of a water bottle and takes a swallow, then offers it to Athos, who shakes his head, before he hands it Porthos. "You don't drink water."
"I don't need to drink water," Athos murmurs, neatening their tools beside the open grave. "I don't get dehydrated."
"No water, but very particular brands of coffee are very important." Aramis smiles at Porthos, who swallows with his eyebrows raised and hands the bottle back.
Athos says, "Coffee is different."
"As apparently is wine," Aramis says, but he's grinning before he takes another drink of water, and Athos ignores him.
Athos leans over the grave to check on the coffin, but there's been no movement. Aramis sits back propped on his hands again on that pile of dirt, dry with the summer, and Porthos stretches out his shoulders from the cramped digging of the grave. Athos feels nothing much in his muscles. It takes a lot before a vampire does.
"Should we knock?" Aramis says.
Athos murmurs, "He knows we're here."
Aramis glances at Porthos, never entirely subtly. Everyone knows that werewolves hate vampires, they three know that hatred too well from their own early interactions, and Porthos is glaring in a very particular way down at that coffin. As much as Athos would like to just set the thing on fire and watch it burn, Porthos in full awareness of the presence of a vampire who has behaved in ways that confirm everything he hates about vampires could react in any number of ways, and all of them are likely to be violent, and fast.
Athos says, as a warning to wait, "He'll emerge out of sheer embarrassment eventually." This is an enraging situation for a vampire to be put in, he can't imagine laying down there listening to them talking above him and not burning with the desire for their blood. Athos has never met a vampire who wasn't unbendingly proud. Not that the two of them would believe it, but Athos is one of the more flexible of his kind, when he has to be. For them, at least. Well; perhaps they do know that.
Porthos sniffs, and looks across as a streetlight at the edge of the graveyard hums and snaps on. To a werewolf, Athos imagines, that hum must have been as loud as if it happened right in his ear, and Athos heard it clearly; to Aramis, 'pathetic mortal' as he is, it would have barely registered. Athos could sense nothing of Aramis sensing it, and given that Aramis is the only person in Paris Athos has drunk from, he's as aware of Aramis' heartbeat as if it's the one barely moving in Athos' own chest.
"I'm willing to admit it was quite a clever scheme, as long as it worked." Aramis says. "It's just a pity the man's mind turns more to murder than, say, crosswords, or chess."
Porthos says, "Most vampires aren't like Athos." and probably wouldn't understand why that's actually quite insulting, so Athos just sighs and looks away. He watches someone walk past the cemetery's wall, not even looking across at them, which is probably lucky. Showing their badges, making this official musketeer business, isn't going to make anyone feel better about the open grave. Worse, in fact.
"Monsieur Duplessis," Aramis calls to the coffin, "if that is your name, we have a few questions we'd like to ask you on behalf of the Department of Paranormal Investigations, if you don't mind."
Porthos says, "We don't even know how many people he's killed an' you give him the polite treatment."
"What he's done has no bearing on why I ought to be rude. His behaviour wouldn't excuse my manners."
Athos looks down the six feet of soil to the coffin, mostly uncovered, and says, "The most efficient thing to do really would be to douse it in petrol."
"Yes, but what if we're wrong? Then we're the psychopaths who dug up a body just to cremate it and the captain will give us that look. Monsieur Duplessis, please, don't make us listen to Athos. He's terrifying when he's efficient."
Porthos' fists squeeze, and he mutters, "I could get 'im out."
It's beginning to get darker. All of them have dealt with worse than a night-time graveyard before and the only thing that might worry them now is that Aramis' aim will be less accurate as the light fails; Athos sees better in the night than the day, and it makes little difference to Porthos. Athos begins pacing at the side of the open grave, slowly, arms folded, holding his anger in his jaw. He is angry. He's angry to have to deal with another vampire who thinks that humans exist to be slaughtered for how they taste, he's angry with the cowardice the vampire in question probably thinks is cleverness in how he went about it; he's angry because his shirt is dirty and they've just wasted all that time exhuming the coffin of someone who died a very, very long time ago.
"You were implicated in the murder of a woman," he says as he walks, the words heavy through the hardness of his jaw. "While there were no bite marks on her body, her autopsy did show that she had little blood in her and yet the murder scene was also relatively clean. Meanwhile, before you could be taken to trial, you successfully hanged yourself, were found to have no heartbeat on discovery, and so you were buried rather than put in prison for the rest of your life. All of this might have passed without any notice whatsoever had a similar set of circumstances not arisen last year in Lyon, already viewed as a copycat killing after a similar affair in Saint-Priest. So there is either a plague in this country causing men of a very particular description to commit violent murders and then kill themselves afterwards, or a vampire has hatched a plot to get away with murder. And we are employed to be very suspicious men, Monsieur. So we will ask you again: either come out of the coffin, or we're turning this into a barbecue pit."
Athos can feel Aramis' heartbeat, just a little quicker, and out of the corner of his eye he watches Aramis' eyes fixed on him as his fingers brush down the back of Porthos' arm, and Athos thinks with a grating sigh that Aramis never is going to stop driving him crazy, not when Aramis finds Athos' anger so arousing.
There is a shift and a thump from the grave. Athos looks down, and watches as a small, middle-aged man, round cheeks and round glasses, props the lid of the coffin against the side of the grave. He stands, and brushes some fallen soil from his suit. "You may have to help me up," he says in a soft voice, all breath, no sharp edges in his throat at all.
Athos just gives him a look. Aramis says in one of his gently reasonable voices, "We can't take him in if he's at the bottom of a grave."
Athos is still very attached to the idea of just pouring petrol down that hole and ridding the world of one more fucking vampire, but he's a pathetic figure now they're actually faced with him, it's almost no wonder he didn't join one of the more openly brutal clans, against anything but a frightened mortal he looks like he'd stand no chance. This little man's little scheme of serial killing kept him out of trouble, head down and out of the attention of their department, much of the time. But he's still a vampire, and of course Athos knows what vampires are like, and he's still just glaring at the man with his arms folded when Porthos mutters, "Fuck sake." and holds his hand down the pit. "Here. You pull anything funny, I'm pulling your arms out."
The man wipes the dirt off his glasses on his jacket lining, says in his breath of a voice, "Most kind," and accepts Porthos' offered hand.
Duplessis, if that is the vampire's name since he's already been buried under a number of them, was laid out this time in very impractically smooth-soled shoes and it takes a scrabbling moment before he can get enough purchase for Porthos to pull him up; Porthos catches his other hand too.
When he's over the lip of the grave, the vampire says again in his so-soft voice, head bobbed a little as if shy, "Most kind," and grabs Porthos by the elbows.
It's -
- so fast, the cry hasn't even left Aramis' throat and Porthos' roar is cut off by the three gravestones he crashes through before rolling with a series of leaden thumps across the grass, thrown half the length of the graveyard and down. Athos has already lunged -
And stopped, dead.
Vampires are fast, viciously fast, much faster than werewolves if they can catch them off-guard, and Athos is at a disadvantage against a vampire who readily drinks more than just bags of the byproducts of slaughterhouses procured by the garrison, Athos is facing a vampire who feeds on humans as regularly as he can get away with it. And Athos is not that fast, and Aramis, he didn't stand a chance.
Duplessis is half a head shorter than Aramis and it doesn't mean a thing because Aramis is pure human, as mortal as they come, and Duplessis already has his arm wrenched so high up his back his eyes have gone wide, and he has Aramis' head held back and aimed at the sky by a hand around his neck. Athos' sense of Aramis' heartbeat in his own chest has snapped to the speed of vivid awareness of what is happening (Aramis is an exorcist, and not stupid, and a vampire is holding him by his neck) - and he's not breathing. He can't. Duplessis' hand is like an iron ring wrapped right around his throat, he can't.
Athos stands very, very still, hands half-raised, and he knows like he knows the dark that he isn't fast enough when a vampire already has its hands on Aramis and a long, long record of murdering humans.
Duplessis leans to sniff, delicately, at the underside of Aramis' jaw, just above his own hand biting Aramis' skin white. "He smells of you. You've fed on him." he says, in his soft, soft voice. "Some do keep them as pets, don't they?"
Aramis stares at the sky, his free hand no longer scrabbling at Duplessis' fingers but holding on so tight his muscles strain and shake in an absolutely pathetic gesture, he can no more move that vampire's hand than he could shift the Louvre. His mouth's open but no sound is getting out. It can't.
Athos says, voice like torn sandpaper, "Let him go."
"He smells of the wolf as well. Do you share? With a wolf? No matter, I suppose."
He hears the noise, at some distance, of Porthos trying to move, trying to get up, and snarling his pain out at the grass instead. He will heal so much faster than a human would from striking marble gravestones like a bowling ball hitting pins, but that's not going to happen fast enough to save Aramis either. "Let him go," Athos says again, harder, but his own hands are starting to shake because -
Because after the slaughter of most of Aramis' cohort from the college there are hardly any exorcists left in France, and Athos and Porthos were very particularly and strictly tasked with protecting him. Because Aramis is only human and they in all their strength have always known what that means they owe him in the field, standing against always greater power often with little but a bell, a bag of salt and a prayer against the undead. Because Athos did drink from him, once, because he had no fucking choice, and it has linked them forever so tightly that he can feel the panic of Aramis' heart beginning to fail because he can't breathe.
Because it's more than his blood that links them, and Athos may have to live for centuries, and he finds the idea of even one day knowing Aramis dead is more than his own sluggish heart can stand.
Aramis' hand falls, swinging behind his body, and his eyelids are faltering. Athos can feel the failing of his life and if Athos moves to try to save him all he'll do is end it faster -
There is a click, and as Duplessis looks down, Aramis shoots him four times in the stomach behind his own back.
Duplessis crumples backwards, Aramis hits the ground with no bracing and a gasp so hard he retches, and only with luck doesn't slide into the open grave. Athos is already up, fast enough for this, snatches Aramis' shovel from where it was stabbed into the earth and as Duplessis laying on his back looks down at the dark brown blood of a vampire all over his sleeves from where he pressed them around his stomach -
Athos stabs the blade of the shovel down. Duplessis' head rolls, and drops with a dull bang into the grave.
Athos crouches by Aramis as Duplessis' body begins to crumble into something dry and dusty. His own hands are shaking and Aramis is wheezing and able to lift himself only on one arm, the arm Duplessis held him by hangs heavy and limp, the muscles jumping in a sick way in his shoulder. "Aramis," Athos says, touching his back, his voice balling thick on the apology and fear and need -
"Porthos," Aramis gasps, and Athos stares at him, then closes his eyes.
"Over there. Fine. You know he's tougher than that." He takes a handkerchief from his pocket, dries Aramis' watering eyes and then his mouth as Aramis squirms back like a child. "I'm sorry. I was slow."
"He's dead." Aramis pants, and swallows, and pants. "Looks quick enough to me. I'm - fine, go check on Porthos -"
"Porthos is already healing."
"Technically, so am I."
It's not just that he's their exorcist, that he's more vulnerable than they are, that Athos feels the link between them in a way that panics him sometimes. It's that he loves him, even if he is a stubborn fuck, and Athos just had to watch a fucking vampire hold him by the neck.
He does go to check on Porthos. He just pulls Aramis' arm around his shoulder to walk him with him first.
*
The balcony of their apartment has room for two dead plants in ceramic pots, and the collection of empty bottles Aramis and Porthos keep along the windowsill because they keep missing the recycling day and don't mind looking like alcoholics. Apart from those inauspicious items there's just room for Athos to stand in the open doorway, leaning on the railings with a bottle of wine at his feet and the glass hanging from his hand, gazing through the night. He can hear traffic, and a television in the apartment below them, and if he concentrates he can hear a lot of human heartbeats but he tries not to focus on that.
There is one he can never not hear.
Aramis has already pulled Porthos into his bed, fussing over him as if he's not the one whose arm just had to be popped back into its socket, as if Porthos isn't the one whose body only needs a few hours to recover from something that would have killed a human. Sometimes Athos does see how Aramis isn't dead yet when they're losing exorcists like mice at a cats' picnic, because Aramis seems to survive terrible things mostly by failing to acknowledge that they've ever happened to him at all. They both feel the fragility of Aramis' mortal body in an appalling way. Aramis seems to not even notice when he's poking at Death with his boot.
Athos takes a slow sip of wine, and thinks, Wine is different, and fuck you, Aramis.
Some do keep them as pets, don't they?
Athos stares through the stone of the building opposite, and tells himself, as he tells himself quietly and far too often, that he is not one of those vampires. Humans are not just harvestable to him. The bond he and Aramis were forced to form does not make Aramis his thing, because Athos would never do that to anyone and certainly not him, Athos is not one of those vampires. He knows how many of those vampires there are, knows also how many only pretend they're abiding by the modern world's propriety by almost disguising their contempt. He knows that his sympathy with poor, feeble humanity was learned very hard, long ago when he learned that he too is not immune to fate, that he too is powerless against some things, and the weakness of mortals seems much less amusing on the other side of your own mortal weakness.
He's not alone. There are a bare handful of other vampires in the department - he even once almost discussed with Ninon the agony of ever needing to tell himself I am not like them, I am not like them as if repeated confirmation will make him keep that promise to himself, will make it true, because she actually might understand. But telling Ninon the truth of his own weakness proved impossible in the end. She gives no evidence of ever faltering even in thought, and there is the possibility that she doesn't need to keep swearing to herself I am not like them, there is the possibility that she truly isn't like them whereas Athos in his ever-uneasiness really deep-down is, and then where does that leave him . . . ?
Even if you were like them, he thinks, tilting the wine in his glass, red and dark and not thick and silky and warm as the body, even if you were like them, you never would be towards Aramis.
It means something, that Athos knows what Aramis' blood tastes like. His sense of smell is particularly heightened towards Aramis - he can smell when he's shaved and taken a drink of water - he hears minute inflections in his breath and voice, and he feels Aramis' heart as if it animates the dull creature that wearily beats, when it can be troubled to, in Athos' own chest. He feels Aramis in the world almost as an extension of himself. To many vampires it's a sign of ownership, the way a human drunk from but not dead never can escape them, and can't even bring themselves to want to escape. To Athos the ownership works the other way around. Aramis is fragile, compared to him and Porthos, and Athos knows what they owe him. Aramis is not his pet. God, pets you can train into obedience.
He hears the change in Aramis' body, the simple effect of moving from the bed on the breath and heartbeat, before the bedroom door opens at his back. Athos doesn't turn, just leans where he is looking lazily through the dark, Aramis stopping at his back with his arm in its sling, breathing easy, Athos can tell he's in a little pain but he doesn't mind it. He says, "You should come to bed."
"I barely need to sleep."
"Bed is not always about sleep." Aramis says. "Porthos isn't saying it but you know he wants his whole pack there, and it feels - weird to me when you're not." There's a pause while Athos takes a sip of wine, and then Aramis takes a half-step closer, bare feet on the floorboards, and his hand touches Athos' back. "You're brooding again, aren't you?"
Athos glances back at him, at the curiosity in Aramis' gaze, the act of 'brooding' probably does fascinate a man who can rarely be convinced to shut up for long enough to think anything through. In the dark contrasts seem starker, and Aramis' throat is a bruised-pale thing above the ratty red t-shirt of Porthos' he's wearing for bed. Athos doesn't realise he's staring before he realises that he's going to crack the glass in his hand, and flicks his eyes to the side, loosens his hand, thinks, urgent, sick, I am not like them.
Aramis says softly, "You really hate it when it's vampires."
"I hate vampires." Athos says, turning to the view from the balcony again. He tries to focus on the smell of the restaurant three floors below them - primarily and amusingly that of garlic - and not the scent of Aramis' blood, hot inside his body, dark and silky and rich.
"I don't hate all of them," Aramis says. "It depends on what they do."
Athos tenses, because one of the things they did was slaughter twenty exorcists in their sleep and leave in the end only Aramis surrounded by bodies and blood, but that bond between them does not only work one way, and Aramis' hand presses gentle at Athos' back, perfectly aware of his tension. "If Porthos and I can love you," he says, "I think that you can too, Athos."
Athos stoops for his bottle, mostly to make Aramis' hand fall from his back. He feels almost like he has lively enough blood in him to blush, the way Aramis has to get at him like this. "Must you oversimplify everything?"
"Must I?" Aramis says, as if distracted. "Athos - I trust you. You know that. Why are you . . ."
Athos stands again, glass heavier once more, and stares at the night, and his jaw is too tight. He doesn't want to scare Aramis. Fuck him, though, nothing does scare him.
He says, "Your neck is still a problem."
Aramis is silent, then says, "It is a very fine example of one. Do you . . ." His heartbeat in his hesitation is steady, even. "Do you want to bite me all of the time or just sometimes?"
Athos can smell his blood, sense the warmth of him, feel the way his heart beats unafraid in his chest. He says nothing, and takes a sip of wine, so unhurried, so calm, eyes on the night and muscles relaxed.
He is not like them. He is not like them because even though it would be so easy to bend Aramis' head back by his hair and slash open the artery on the side of his neck, even though finding his mouth over Aramis' pulse during sex is like no other feeling on this Earth, even though there is not a beat of his half-dead heart that doesn't half want it - he never will. He never will. He is not like them, and Aramis is not his thing. Aramis is safe, because Athos will not allow himself to be like them, because they too feel the dizziness of the ecstasy of violence but they don't feel the nausea with it.
Aramis' hand touches his back again, and he says quietly, "Thank you for not biting me."
Athos stays where he is, leaning on the railings. How can he reply to that? 'Thank you for not fearing it'?
Aramis' fingers close in his shirt to tug it, and he says, "Bed, Athos. Porthos will heal better with us both there." He reaches around him, chest pressing Athos' shoulder as he takes the glass from Athos' hand, takes a sip and casually licks his lip. "I'm holding this hostage until you join us."
Athos watches him walk for the bedroom, still with that little sway to his step even with one arm in a sling, casual thief of a vampire's glass of wine walking back to get into bed with a werewolf. That vampire underestimated him, Athos thinks. Mortal he might be and as easy to kill as a fly in a bell jar (admittedly an armed and trigger-happy fly in a bell jar), but he's still the only human Athos has ever met who could convince a vampire and a werewolf to share him, and his bed, and kill neither him nor each other.
He sighs, glances down and reaches for the bottle, taking it by its neck. He only requires a couple of hours sleep a night, and while he knows because he knows that Aramis has needed less sleep ever since Athos drank from him, he still sleeps a lot longer than a vampire does, and especially while injured Porthos will sleep longer than both of them. It will be a long quiet still night, waiting in the dark for them to wake. Better to wait through it with them, though, than out here alone, brooding. Better to feel their warmth raise his temperature. Better to feel Aramis' heart beating against his skin, not just caught in his senses like a moth ever-fluttering in the corner of the room.
He is not like them. He is stronger than them. He is not ruled by instinct like a child, murdering humans like a boy pulling the wings off flies because they are weak and it amuses, for a moment. He is not in thrall to the worst passions in him. He has been, at some points in his life. Now he stands on the side of the helpless flies, those with wings remaining to be torn, protecting them from the worst of it, making what amends he ever can.
Hand on the door handle, he feels the clutch of happiness in Aramis' heart at knowing his approach and the smile takes the corner of his mouth, a better instinct he submits to, and is glad.
Update on the shoulder and comments because I really do care about these things: I am *so sorry* not to have replied to some comments yet, *sorry*. The shoulder's bad - I was at physio today and I've been told it's ahahahahahah a typing related injury, e.g., TYPE LESS RAINJOY. I've been put on strict 30 minute blocks of typing time. Between my thesis, my job, and the fact that I need to write to keep myself from going *weird*, I have to prioritise those three things. But I promise I will be with you as soon as I can, because it bothers me that you were really nice and left a comment and I haven't managed to say thank you yet! Anyway, back to the fic . . .
Rating: R (whole fic will go up to NC-17, often for disturbing subject matter rather than smut)
Disclaimer: I don't own anything, between the characters and the epic cliché that makes up the rest of this.
Warnings and spoilers: Spoilerwise this fic is a kind of alternative S1 so you can expect sideways spoilers to that, but I doubt I'll bother with anything from S2. Warningswise, fuck. In this fic, violence and mention of a suicide, but this 'verse is essentially horror - I write a lot of fantasy and a lot of it is bedded in horror in various ways, but this just flat out is horror, we're dealing with fucking vampires and werewolves. Where there are werewolves you can expect a lot of violence; vampires are a whole different story. Vampires are an old terror of ours (they seem to crop up in multiple cultures around the world), they've had centuries to percolate through our stories, which has allowed them to build up a whole bunch of rich and super-disturbing associations with power and sex (and, in some later work, addiction). Where you have creatures grounded in metaphors for power and sex and it's the twenty-first century and long past time we talked about these things, you can expect consent to come up sooner or later, in a variety of potentially disturbing ways. So today's warning is vampires: they don't sparkle, and they are a mirror of the worst fucking parts of us.
Summary: On vampires.
Note: I have nine minutes left of typing time omg, right, this is a short of a universe I'm still working out the details on long-term plot of - incidental chapters I have, what if anything it builds to I'm still sorting through. But as this is only a short, it leaves a *lot* of doors opened but unexplored, and most of that stuff will be dealt with soon enough, because it's really hard in the particular PoV style I use to talk about things the characters know so well they'd never dream of explaining to themselves in their own heads. We'll get around to the confusing stuff. Also, clearly we're going to need flashbacks for some shit that has clearly already gone down which *really needs explaining* ^^; Also this part isn't very Porthosy, sorry Porthos, you'll get your chance <3 But yeah, basically, I am weak, I like playing with overdone tropes to see what sideways thing can be made of them, and the vampires/werewolves thing is like the most obvious contemporary trope I've never decided to get literal/metaphorical with. Wish me luck ;)
In a graveyard in the Paris suburbs, just before dusk, one man stabs his shovel into the grass and sits with a sigh on the pile of earth beside the grave, and says, "I don't see why it matters. Coffee is coffee."
One of the men still digging stands up, and gives him a look. The other laughs in a soft low rumble, but keeps on working.
"Alright," the sitting man says, eyebrows raising, smile so innocent, "to those of us without super-human senses, one brand of coffee may be as good as another, but I apologise for buying something evidently so inferior to those better able to tell. Forgive me my pathetic mortality, Athos."
Athos just keeps on giving him a look, and then stabs his spade into the soil again. "Aren't you going to help?"
Aramis sighs, laying back and getting himself comfortable on the stack of soil, as Porthos throws another shovelful to his side. "You two have supernatural strength but you still insist on my doing the heavy lifting."
"S'no excuse." Porthos says, and the next shovelful he aims right at Aramis, who laughs in shock and beats the dirt off himself, shaking it from his hair.
"That has no excuse."
"Looks like it does from this side of the heavy liftin'."
Athos' shovel thumps off something sharper than earth - hollow wood - and Aramis sits up properly, the interest dark in his eyes. He stands as Athos and Porthos begin clearing the last earth until they've bared the coffin, which Aramis peers down at from above.
"Still intact." He offers a hand down, helping Porthos to haul himself out of the grave, then Athos. "Shall we wait to be certain?"
Against all his own urgent desires - he has no faith in his own kind - Athos says, "It would probably be brutish to douse it in petrol without absolute proof."
"We must be on our best behaviour here of all places. What will people think." Aramis unscrews the cap of a water bottle and takes a swallow, then offers it to Athos, who shakes his head, before he hands it Porthos. "You don't drink water."
"I don't need to drink water," Athos murmurs, neatening their tools beside the open grave. "I don't get dehydrated."
"No water, but very particular brands of coffee are very important." Aramis smiles at Porthos, who swallows with his eyebrows raised and hands the bottle back.
Athos says, "Coffee is different."
"As apparently is wine," Aramis says, but he's grinning before he takes another drink of water, and Athos ignores him.
Athos leans over the grave to check on the coffin, but there's been no movement. Aramis sits back propped on his hands again on that pile of dirt, dry with the summer, and Porthos stretches out his shoulders from the cramped digging of the grave. Athos feels nothing much in his muscles. It takes a lot before a vampire does.
"Should we knock?" Aramis says.
Athos murmurs, "He knows we're here."
Aramis glances at Porthos, never entirely subtly. Everyone knows that werewolves hate vampires, they three know that hatred too well from their own early interactions, and Porthos is glaring in a very particular way down at that coffin. As much as Athos would like to just set the thing on fire and watch it burn, Porthos in full awareness of the presence of a vampire who has behaved in ways that confirm everything he hates about vampires could react in any number of ways, and all of them are likely to be violent, and fast.
Athos says, as a warning to wait, "He'll emerge out of sheer embarrassment eventually." This is an enraging situation for a vampire to be put in, he can't imagine laying down there listening to them talking above him and not burning with the desire for their blood. Athos has never met a vampire who wasn't unbendingly proud. Not that the two of them would believe it, but Athos is one of the more flexible of his kind, when he has to be. For them, at least. Well; perhaps they do know that.
Porthos sniffs, and looks across as a streetlight at the edge of the graveyard hums and snaps on. To a werewolf, Athos imagines, that hum must have been as loud as if it happened right in his ear, and Athos heard it clearly; to Aramis, 'pathetic mortal' as he is, it would have barely registered. Athos could sense nothing of Aramis sensing it, and given that Aramis is the only person in Paris Athos has drunk from, he's as aware of Aramis' heartbeat as if it's the one barely moving in Athos' own chest.
"I'm willing to admit it was quite a clever scheme, as long as it worked." Aramis says. "It's just a pity the man's mind turns more to murder than, say, crosswords, or chess."
Porthos says, "Most vampires aren't like Athos." and probably wouldn't understand why that's actually quite insulting, so Athos just sighs and looks away. He watches someone walk past the cemetery's wall, not even looking across at them, which is probably lucky. Showing their badges, making this official musketeer business, isn't going to make anyone feel better about the open grave. Worse, in fact.
"Monsieur Duplessis," Aramis calls to the coffin, "if that is your name, we have a few questions we'd like to ask you on behalf of the Department of Paranormal Investigations, if you don't mind."
Porthos says, "We don't even know how many people he's killed an' you give him the polite treatment."
"What he's done has no bearing on why I ought to be rude. His behaviour wouldn't excuse my manners."
Athos looks down the six feet of soil to the coffin, mostly uncovered, and says, "The most efficient thing to do really would be to douse it in petrol."
"Yes, but what if we're wrong? Then we're the psychopaths who dug up a body just to cremate it and the captain will give us that look. Monsieur Duplessis, please, don't make us listen to Athos. He's terrifying when he's efficient."
Porthos' fists squeeze, and he mutters, "I could get 'im out."
It's beginning to get darker. All of them have dealt with worse than a night-time graveyard before and the only thing that might worry them now is that Aramis' aim will be less accurate as the light fails; Athos sees better in the night than the day, and it makes little difference to Porthos. Athos begins pacing at the side of the open grave, slowly, arms folded, holding his anger in his jaw. He is angry. He's angry to have to deal with another vampire who thinks that humans exist to be slaughtered for how they taste, he's angry with the cowardice the vampire in question probably thinks is cleverness in how he went about it; he's angry because his shirt is dirty and they've just wasted all that time exhuming the coffin of someone who died a very, very long time ago.
"You were implicated in the murder of a woman," he says as he walks, the words heavy through the hardness of his jaw. "While there were no bite marks on her body, her autopsy did show that she had little blood in her and yet the murder scene was also relatively clean. Meanwhile, before you could be taken to trial, you successfully hanged yourself, were found to have no heartbeat on discovery, and so you were buried rather than put in prison for the rest of your life. All of this might have passed without any notice whatsoever had a similar set of circumstances not arisen last year in Lyon, already viewed as a copycat killing after a similar affair in Saint-Priest. So there is either a plague in this country causing men of a very particular description to commit violent murders and then kill themselves afterwards, or a vampire has hatched a plot to get away with murder. And we are employed to be very suspicious men, Monsieur. So we will ask you again: either come out of the coffin, or we're turning this into a barbecue pit."
Athos can feel Aramis' heartbeat, just a little quicker, and out of the corner of his eye he watches Aramis' eyes fixed on him as his fingers brush down the back of Porthos' arm, and Athos thinks with a grating sigh that Aramis never is going to stop driving him crazy, not when Aramis finds Athos' anger so arousing.
There is a shift and a thump from the grave. Athos looks down, and watches as a small, middle-aged man, round cheeks and round glasses, props the lid of the coffin against the side of the grave. He stands, and brushes some fallen soil from his suit. "You may have to help me up," he says in a soft voice, all breath, no sharp edges in his throat at all.
Athos just gives him a look. Aramis says in one of his gently reasonable voices, "We can't take him in if he's at the bottom of a grave."
Athos is still very attached to the idea of just pouring petrol down that hole and ridding the world of one more fucking vampire, but he's a pathetic figure now they're actually faced with him, it's almost no wonder he didn't join one of the more openly brutal clans, against anything but a frightened mortal he looks like he'd stand no chance. This little man's little scheme of serial killing kept him out of trouble, head down and out of the attention of their department, much of the time. But he's still a vampire, and of course Athos knows what vampires are like, and he's still just glaring at the man with his arms folded when Porthos mutters, "Fuck sake." and holds his hand down the pit. "Here. You pull anything funny, I'm pulling your arms out."
The man wipes the dirt off his glasses on his jacket lining, says in his breath of a voice, "Most kind," and accepts Porthos' offered hand.
Duplessis, if that is the vampire's name since he's already been buried under a number of them, was laid out this time in very impractically smooth-soled shoes and it takes a scrabbling moment before he can get enough purchase for Porthos to pull him up; Porthos catches his other hand too.
When he's over the lip of the grave, the vampire says again in his so-soft voice, head bobbed a little as if shy, "Most kind," and grabs Porthos by the elbows.
It's -
- so fast, the cry hasn't even left Aramis' throat and Porthos' roar is cut off by the three gravestones he crashes through before rolling with a series of leaden thumps across the grass, thrown half the length of the graveyard and down. Athos has already lunged -
And stopped, dead.
Vampires are fast, viciously fast, much faster than werewolves if they can catch them off-guard, and Athos is at a disadvantage against a vampire who readily drinks more than just bags of the byproducts of slaughterhouses procured by the garrison, Athos is facing a vampire who feeds on humans as regularly as he can get away with it. And Athos is not that fast, and Aramis, he didn't stand a chance.
Duplessis is half a head shorter than Aramis and it doesn't mean a thing because Aramis is pure human, as mortal as they come, and Duplessis already has his arm wrenched so high up his back his eyes have gone wide, and he has Aramis' head held back and aimed at the sky by a hand around his neck. Athos' sense of Aramis' heartbeat in his own chest has snapped to the speed of vivid awareness of what is happening (Aramis is an exorcist, and not stupid, and a vampire is holding him by his neck) - and he's not breathing. He can't. Duplessis' hand is like an iron ring wrapped right around his throat, he can't.
Athos stands very, very still, hands half-raised, and he knows like he knows the dark that he isn't fast enough when a vampire already has its hands on Aramis and a long, long record of murdering humans.
Duplessis leans to sniff, delicately, at the underside of Aramis' jaw, just above his own hand biting Aramis' skin white. "He smells of you. You've fed on him." he says, in his soft, soft voice. "Some do keep them as pets, don't they?"
Aramis stares at the sky, his free hand no longer scrabbling at Duplessis' fingers but holding on so tight his muscles strain and shake in an absolutely pathetic gesture, he can no more move that vampire's hand than he could shift the Louvre. His mouth's open but no sound is getting out. It can't.
Athos says, voice like torn sandpaper, "Let him go."
"He smells of the wolf as well. Do you share? With a wolf? No matter, I suppose."
He hears the noise, at some distance, of Porthos trying to move, trying to get up, and snarling his pain out at the grass instead. He will heal so much faster than a human would from striking marble gravestones like a bowling ball hitting pins, but that's not going to happen fast enough to save Aramis either. "Let him go," Athos says again, harder, but his own hands are starting to shake because -
Because after the slaughter of most of Aramis' cohort from the college there are hardly any exorcists left in France, and Athos and Porthos were very particularly and strictly tasked with protecting him. Because Aramis is only human and they in all their strength have always known what that means they owe him in the field, standing against always greater power often with little but a bell, a bag of salt and a prayer against the undead. Because Athos did drink from him, once, because he had no fucking choice, and it has linked them forever so tightly that he can feel the panic of Aramis' heart beginning to fail because he can't breathe.
Because it's more than his blood that links them, and Athos may have to live for centuries, and he finds the idea of even one day knowing Aramis dead is more than his own sluggish heart can stand.
Aramis' hand falls, swinging behind his body, and his eyelids are faltering. Athos can feel the failing of his life and if Athos moves to try to save him all he'll do is end it faster -
There is a click, and as Duplessis looks down, Aramis shoots him four times in the stomach behind his own back.
Duplessis crumples backwards, Aramis hits the ground with no bracing and a gasp so hard he retches, and only with luck doesn't slide into the open grave. Athos is already up, fast enough for this, snatches Aramis' shovel from where it was stabbed into the earth and as Duplessis laying on his back looks down at the dark brown blood of a vampire all over his sleeves from where he pressed them around his stomach -
Athos stabs the blade of the shovel down. Duplessis' head rolls, and drops with a dull bang into the grave.
Athos crouches by Aramis as Duplessis' body begins to crumble into something dry and dusty. His own hands are shaking and Aramis is wheezing and able to lift himself only on one arm, the arm Duplessis held him by hangs heavy and limp, the muscles jumping in a sick way in his shoulder. "Aramis," Athos says, touching his back, his voice balling thick on the apology and fear and need -
"Porthos," Aramis gasps, and Athos stares at him, then closes his eyes.
"Over there. Fine. You know he's tougher than that." He takes a handkerchief from his pocket, dries Aramis' watering eyes and then his mouth as Aramis squirms back like a child. "I'm sorry. I was slow."
"He's dead." Aramis pants, and swallows, and pants. "Looks quick enough to me. I'm - fine, go check on Porthos -"
"Porthos is already healing."
"Technically, so am I."
It's not just that he's their exorcist, that he's more vulnerable than they are, that Athos feels the link between them in a way that panics him sometimes. It's that he loves him, even if he is a stubborn fuck, and Athos just had to watch a fucking vampire hold him by the neck.
He does go to check on Porthos. He just pulls Aramis' arm around his shoulder to walk him with him first.
*
The balcony of their apartment has room for two dead plants in ceramic pots, and the collection of empty bottles Aramis and Porthos keep along the windowsill because they keep missing the recycling day and don't mind looking like alcoholics. Apart from those inauspicious items there's just room for Athos to stand in the open doorway, leaning on the railings with a bottle of wine at his feet and the glass hanging from his hand, gazing through the night. He can hear traffic, and a television in the apartment below them, and if he concentrates he can hear a lot of human heartbeats but he tries not to focus on that.
There is one he can never not hear.
Aramis has already pulled Porthos into his bed, fussing over him as if he's not the one whose arm just had to be popped back into its socket, as if Porthos isn't the one whose body only needs a few hours to recover from something that would have killed a human. Sometimes Athos does see how Aramis isn't dead yet when they're losing exorcists like mice at a cats' picnic, because Aramis seems to survive terrible things mostly by failing to acknowledge that they've ever happened to him at all. They both feel the fragility of Aramis' mortal body in an appalling way. Aramis seems to not even notice when he's poking at Death with his boot.
Athos takes a slow sip of wine, and thinks, Wine is different, and fuck you, Aramis.
Some do keep them as pets, don't they?
Athos stares through the stone of the building opposite, and tells himself, as he tells himself quietly and far too often, that he is not one of those vampires. Humans are not just harvestable to him. The bond he and Aramis were forced to form does not make Aramis his thing, because Athos would never do that to anyone and certainly not him, Athos is not one of those vampires. He knows how many of those vampires there are, knows also how many only pretend they're abiding by the modern world's propriety by almost disguising their contempt. He knows that his sympathy with poor, feeble humanity was learned very hard, long ago when he learned that he too is not immune to fate, that he too is powerless against some things, and the weakness of mortals seems much less amusing on the other side of your own mortal weakness.
He's not alone. There are a bare handful of other vampires in the department - he even once almost discussed with Ninon the agony of ever needing to tell himself I am not like them, I am not like them as if repeated confirmation will make him keep that promise to himself, will make it true, because she actually might understand. But telling Ninon the truth of his own weakness proved impossible in the end. She gives no evidence of ever faltering even in thought, and there is the possibility that she doesn't need to keep swearing to herself I am not like them, there is the possibility that she truly isn't like them whereas Athos in his ever-uneasiness really deep-down is, and then where does that leave him . . . ?
Even if you were like them, he thinks, tilting the wine in his glass, red and dark and not thick and silky and warm as the body, even if you were like them, you never would be towards Aramis.
It means something, that Athos knows what Aramis' blood tastes like. His sense of smell is particularly heightened towards Aramis - he can smell when he's shaved and taken a drink of water - he hears minute inflections in his breath and voice, and he feels Aramis' heart as if it animates the dull creature that wearily beats, when it can be troubled to, in Athos' own chest. He feels Aramis in the world almost as an extension of himself. To many vampires it's a sign of ownership, the way a human drunk from but not dead never can escape them, and can't even bring themselves to want to escape. To Athos the ownership works the other way around. Aramis is fragile, compared to him and Porthos, and Athos knows what they owe him. Aramis is not his pet. God, pets you can train into obedience.
He hears the change in Aramis' body, the simple effect of moving from the bed on the breath and heartbeat, before the bedroom door opens at his back. Athos doesn't turn, just leans where he is looking lazily through the dark, Aramis stopping at his back with his arm in its sling, breathing easy, Athos can tell he's in a little pain but he doesn't mind it. He says, "You should come to bed."
"I barely need to sleep."
"Bed is not always about sleep." Aramis says. "Porthos isn't saying it but you know he wants his whole pack there, and it feels - weird to me when you're not." There's a pause while Athos takes a sip of wine, and then Aramis takes a half-step closer, bare feet on the floorboards, and his hand touches Athos' back. "You're brooding again, aren't you?"
Athos glances back at him, at the curiosity in Aramis' gaze, the act of 'brooding' probably does fascinate a man who can rarely be convinced to shut up for long enough to think anything through. In the dark contrasts seem starker, and Aramis' throat is a bruised-pale thing above the ratty red t-shirt of Porthos' he's wearing for bed. Athos doesn't realise he's staring before he realises that he's going to crack the glass in his hand, and flicks his eyes to the side, loosens his hand, thinks, urgent, sick, I am not like them.
Aramis says softly, "You really hate it when it's vampires."
"I hate vampires." Athos says, turning to the view from the balcony again. He tries to focus on the smell of the restaurant three floors below them - primarily and amusingly that of garlic - and not the scent of Aramis' blood, hot inside his body, dark and silky and rich.
"I don't hate all of them," Aramis says. "It depends on what they do."
Athos tenses, because one of the things they did was slaughter twenty exorcists in their sleep and leave in the end only Aramis surrounded by bodies and blood, but that bond between them does not only work one way, and Aramis' hand presses gentle at Athos' back, perfectly aware of his tension. "If Porthos and I can love you," he says, "I think that you can too, Athos."
Athos stoops for his bottle, mostly to make Aramis' hand fall from his back. He feels almost like he has lively enough blood in him to blush, the way Aramis has to get at him like this. "Must you oversimplify everything?"
"Must I?" Aramis says, as if distracted. "Athos - I trust you. You know that. Why are you . . ."
Athos stands again, glass heavier once more, and stares at the night, and his jaw is too tight. He doesn't want to scare Aramis. Fuck him, though, nothing does scare him.
He says, "Your neck is still a problem."
Aramis is silent, then says, "It is a very fine example of one. Do you . . ." His heartbeat in his hesitation is steady, even. "Do you want to bite me all of the time or just sometimes?"
Athos can smell his blood, sense the warmth of him, feel the way his heart beats unafraid in his chest. He says nothing, and takes a sip of wine, so unhurried, so calm, eyes on the night and muscles relaxed.
He is not like them. He is not like them because even though it would be so easy to bend Aramis' head back by his hair and slash open the artery on the side of his neck, even though finding his mouth over Aramis' pulse during sex is like no other feeling on this Earth, even though there is not a beat of his half-dead heart that doesn't half want it - he never will. He never will. He is not like them, and Aramis is not his thing. Aramis is safe, because Athos will not allow himself to be like them, because they too feel the dizziness of the ecstasy of violence but they don't feel the nausea with it.
Aramis' hand touches his back again, and he says quietly, "Thank you for not biting me."
Athos stays where he is, leaning on the railings. How can he reply to that? 'Thank you for not fearing it'?
Aramis' fingers close in his shirt to tug it, and he says, "Bed, Athos. Porthos will heal better with us both there." He reaches around him, chest pressing Athos' shoulder as he takes the glass from Athos' hand, takes a sip and casually licks his lip. "I'm holding this hostage until you join us."
Athos watches him walk for the bedroom, still with that little sway to his step even with one arm in a sling, casual thief of a vampire's glass of wine walking back to get into bed with a werewolf. That vampire underestimated him, Athos thinks. Mortal he might be and as easy to kill as a fly in a bell jar (admittedly an armed and trigger-happy fly in a bell jar), but he's still the only human Athos has ever met who could convince a vampire and a werewolf to share him, and his bed, and kill neither him nor each other.
He sighs, glances down and reaches for the bottle, taking it by its neck. He only requires a couple of hours sleep a night, and while he knows because he knows that Aramis has needed less sleep ever since Athos drank from him, he still sleeps a lot longer than a vampire does, and especially while injured Porthos will sleep longer than both of them. It will be a long quiet still night, waiting in the dark for them to wake. Better to wait through it with them, though, than out here alone, brooding. Better to feel their warmth raise his temperature. Better to feel Aramis' heart beating against his skin, not just caught in his senses like a moth ever-fluttering in the corner of the room.
He is not like them. He is stronger than them. He is not ruled by instinct like a child, murdering humans like a boy pulling the wings off flies because they are weak and it amuses, for a moment. He is not in thrall to the worst passions in him. He has been, at some points in his life. Now he stands on the side of the helpless flies, those with wings remaining to be torn, protecting them from the worst of it, making what amends he ever can.
Hand on the door handle, he feels the clutch of happiness in Aramis' heart at knowing his approach and the smile takes the corner of his mouth, a better instinct he submits to, and is glad.
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And yeah, isn't it a fucking ridiculous trope? I would honestly have said it really really was one no really this time no *really* that I would never touch with a bargepole, but it's Athos the vampire, I just couldn't help myself ^^; So, I'm glad you enjoyed it despite all *that* crap, and thank you for reading it honey, thank you =D
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Secondly, I cannot *believe* you're starting another long AU fic...where do you find the time? Do you not sleep? This is not a complaint about another long AU fic from you, merely astonishment.
Thirdly, I'm intrigued by this beginning and waiting to see where you take it. You said in the A/N that this fic would be flat-out horror, not a genre I usually read. But I have read plenty of stories with vampires, werewolves, and other supernatural creatures. For the most part, I don't consider them to be horror. I'd classify those stories as paranormal, or sometimes fantasy, depending on which supernaturals are involved and the tone of the story. So I'm waiting to see where your story falls in my personal classification system. Also curious to see where d'Artagnan will fit in. And happy to see Ninon mentioned so early on. I'm hoping she'll be a major character in this fic.
So yeah....mostly just interested in the start of something new, and waiting to see what happens next.
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I'm going by bookshop genre-placing, the international ISBN databases tell you how to categorise and as soon as vampires and werewolves are involved, straight into horror with them. I used to run an s/f section and even when I thought the book sounded like it was slightly more intriguing than just blood up the walls, alas, off to horror it went. Plus vampires I do just think flat out should be in horror, they are a *fucking* disturbing metaphor.
(And this fic involved a grave being exhumed and then a head being lopped off with a spade, so I'm calling it horror, yeah ;) )
Anyway, apologies for the delayed reply honey - though not as bad as it could have been? Do I get any Brownie points for that? ^^; And thank you for reading, as always - thank you! =D
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I hope you're getting some rest and comfort. Thank you, as ever, for your tales!
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<3
(Anonymous) 2015-08-17 06:39 pm (UTC)(link)I loooove what you're doing, you're like a bubble of pure air for me. I've struggled a lot in my life before, for years, and every post you write was like a warm blanket for me. So I can't wait to read your new chapters but please, take care.. Your health first!
Sooo. I think I'm already in love with this new AU modern fic.. I'm so impatient to read more and I want to see your D'artagnan in this story but god, Athos vampire ? Porthos werewolf ? It's going to be so good, I know I can count on you for that!
Thank you for everything and I can't promise to write a message everytime because I'm a lazy person and I can't show to people how much I love them but be sure, as long as you'll post something, I'll be there to read it and love it.
Elodie
(Excuse my english, I'm French, I understand it but speak it is another story ;p)
Re: <3
I hope life is being kinder to you by now, but I'm glad if the fic's been any help <3 (My shoulder's on the mend, touch wood, so long as I try not to be too stupid with it . . .) I am loving the supernatural versions of them a bit too much though, yeah. Athos makes the *best* vampire, and I do love puppies, so getting to write Porthos as a werewolf is a bit <3
I'm glad you've been enjoying the fic, and thank you for reading honey - and your English is perfect, I wouldn't worry! I'm in the weird position where I can read basic French but not a word can I communicate back, but, you know, merci anyway honey, thank you for reading - thank you! =)
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This intro was very interesting. Modern paranormal/horror stories are my weakness and this set up a lot of questions to be explored. When I first watched the Musketeers show, I never expected to have nearly as many Athos feelings as you seem to love giving me :P Forgive the throwback reference but the way you write Athos sometimes reminds me of Roy with his stubbornness and his need to be in control. I'm interested to find out what made him lose that control enough to have to bite Aramis. Also what Porthos' wolf looks like! Lol not sure if you're going that route with the werewolves again but I can't wait to find out.
I hope your shoulder is feeling better! (A typing injury?? D:) I will send healing thoughts your way. Those kinds of injuries always seems to happen when they are most inconvenient. Rest up and thank you for another amazing story!
<3
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I'm really glad you enjoyed the fic though honey - Athos makes the *best* vampire, he has that aristocratic poise to him, and also is a bit scary. And also does tortured pasts so well that a vampire turned good suits him perfectly ;) He is a bit like Roy - both of them hate that the world *is* beyond their control, and are tormented by more energetic and unpredictable companions . . .
My shoulder is beginning to get better! (I typed *so much* I gave myself nerve damage; ackgh ;__; ). Thank you honey, and thank you for reading - thank you, very much =)
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Thank you so much for existing and sharing your awesomeness.
Here, have a list of some things I loved most, because naturally curious!me read the new fic with this beautiful trope first, even before catching up on the Affinityverse that I still love to death (I'LL HAVE SO MUCH READING TO DO, YOU CAN'T MAGINE HOW HAPPY I AM. I feel like crying. Happy tears, of course):
- you taking tropes and weaving them into magnificently 'new' stories. Seriously. This is a well-loved trope, but it never comes across trope-y, if you know what I mean. You use it in a way that seems fresh and infinitely exciting.
- Athos can feel Aramis!!!!!! *_*
*faints*
- "Porthos is already healing."
"Technically, so am I."
hdbfihugbui. wow. yes. this.
- Aramis' first worry is if Porthos is okay. Just. Hhh. Yes. So good. So very good.
- I love your writing so much, seriously. The characters love each other so much, and they fit so well, and thEY LOVE EACH OTHER SO MUCH. And Aramis' heart has enough love for both of them and loving two people doesn't mean he has less love for the individual people, and you write that so well, and you seem to understand perfectly how that's possible, because for some people it IS, it so IS, and yes, that's so very much Aramis, and just. I love you so much. Thank you ;A;
- 'The balcony of their apartment has room for two dead plants in ceramic pots, and the collection of empty bottles Aramis and Porthos keep along the windowsill because they keep missing the recycling day and don't mind looking like alcoholics.' This entire sentence is perfect. 'room for two dead plants' - my own balcony also rooms a dead plant (and some live ones), so that alone got me weirdly excited and happy. And then the thing with the bottles, ah, it makes everything so much more REAL, and it's funny, too. PERFECTION!
- Aramis fussing over Porthos and ignoring his own injuries. ;A; YES! Aramis loves Porthos *screams this*
- SO are Charon and Flea also werewolves, then? And were they his pack? And how did he feel when he left them? PORTHOOOS!!!! ;A; I need to know these things. Because reasons.
- Athos' struggle re: Aramis and himself being a vampire who really wants to bite him (again) but also really really doesn't, and who's afraid he might be like 'them'. And this:
'He says, "Your neck is still a problem."'
That's such an Athos thing to say.
- 'Because Athos did drink from him, once, because he had no fucking choice'
Why did he have to bite Aramis, though, aaaah! What happened? How did it happen? How did he like it? Was he horrified during, or only after? Or not horrified, because this really good and potentially helpful thing came out of it? Or does he feel bad about it? And does he dream about biting Aramis? Are they good dreams or are they nightmares, or are they nightmares specifically because they feel like such good dreams while he's dreaming them? Will we get a flashback? The suspense is killing meeeeee~
I love you.
- fearless Aramis who's a beautiful oxymoron; really fragile and mortal, but at the same time very strong and able to defend himself (up to a point)
- 'but he's still the only human Athos has ever met who could convince a vampire and a werewolf to share him, and his bed, and kill neither him nor each other'
THE THREE OF THEM BELONG TOGETHER and I'm so glad they are ;A;
- 'caught in his senses like a moth ever-fluttering in the corner of the room.' what a vivid description. Wow. So very fitting. WOW! I'm stunned. Wow.
In conclusion: I'M OFF TO READ THE NEXT PART AND I'M SO EXCITED AND HAPPY THAT I KEEP SCREAMING AT YOU I'm so sorry for that, but. MY FEELINGS! THEY ARE ALL OVER THE PLACE!
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I'm really glad you enjoyed this one, honey, it's a ridiculous fun verse to play with right now, mostly just trying to write myself to some sort of breathing space so I can work on *anything* else o_0 Aramis and his failure to ever recognise that he is the opposite of immortal amuses me/causes me hair-tearing despair in all universes, but his cheerful ability to devote himself multiply and utterly deserves no judging and is just a thing he does people should be grateful for, really, more of him to go around <3
Charon, Flea, etc. I'm hoping to get around to if I do end up running this fic as an alternative S1, but it would be a *very* alternative S1 and would require a lot of plotting-brain which I think the affinityverse has dibs on right now so we'll see ^^; Athos and Aramis we'll get to quickly, however; Aramis and ever making sense on the 'utterly lethal'/'really likely to die at any given moment' front I already know we will never reach, no.
I'm glad you liked it so far honey, yay, thank you! And thank you for reading it - thank you, very much =D
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The trio slot so well into their supernatural roles. The bitter self hatred, anger and guilt of Athos lends itself so well to the persona of a vampire, Porthos' loyalty and heartheart just are wolf-like and Aramis' spiritual nature (and his complete lack of a sense of personal safety) would find him signing up as an exorcist in such a world. (I'm utterly intrigued by what role D'Artagnan will take.) I love the little details, like the fact that Athos was forced to drink from Aramis.
I think I may come to love this 'verse as much as the AffintyVerse. Thanks for sharing this with us.
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But, yeah, vampires and werewolves are the opposite of my thing too, though I have written werewolf stuff before on the basis that I do like *wolves*, and think that the way werewolves are written about a lot of the time is just inaccurate and wolves deserve better ^^;
The three of them having these really distinctive roles does amuse me, it's a fun universe to play around in - and, yeah, there will be a d'Artagnan (unlike the lazy affinityverse!d'Artagnan who still shows little sign of showing up . . .), and he's got to fit into their group too, so, we'll see ;) Until then, thank you for reading it honey, and sorry again the reply's so late! Thank you =)