#that thing they do where they blur their faces and vibrate their vocal cords

[chobani-flip]

@bucktommypositivityweek

prompt: what they love most about each other (yeah, idk... i just realised that this was happening like an hour ago? i was wondering why so many fics had a similar theme today... oh well... im not sure what this is, but it definitely is. enjoy?)

--

so there's this line that buck heard at a wedding once. it was while he was working as a bartender in peru, and this american couple who'd met in the bar he worked at during his shift decided to get married there.

and Sex-on-the-Beach-Easy-On-The-Cranberry-Juice said to Dark-And-Stormy: "how do i love thee, let me count the ways"

which made buck look up from where he'd been mixing up a margarita because: thee? really? but then Sex-on-the-Beach-Easy-On-The-Cranberry-Juice went on to list a truly ridiculous list of attributes which made buck sigh a little wistfully and wonder what it was like to have someone to love like that.

(who'd love you back)

he thought he'd found it with abby, but well...

and with taylor he sometimes lay awake at night rolling the words over on his tongue like bobby taught him you should do with wine, to actually have a chance at tasting some of the insane things the labels promise. but back then how do i love thee, let me count the ways always left a vague fuzziness all over his mouth, all grippy tannin.

(they weren't right for each other, buck knew that now. maybe they could have worked if they'd met sooner, or later, but not then.)

"evan?"

"hmmm?"

"the seatbelt?"

oh. slowly, buck blinked at tommy through the warm cabin light. he'd had just the mai tai at the bar, but it'd been a while since he'd had anything besides an occassional beer and he could feel the alcohol hitting him more than usual.

it made the interior of tommy's car blur just a little as he turned his head to reach for the seatbelt. it made him grin wide and stupid into tommy's lovely face as he smiled his crow's feet smile with his eyes and turned the key in the ignition.

a single sure turn of the wrist. buck loved tommy's hands. big. wide. and big. and the bone, the one that stuck out a little at the wrist. the one that hen smacked him for laughing at it for the hundredth time when he was helping her learn anatomy with flashcards. pisiform bone. buck loved it too.

"you ok?" "i like your hands"

they didn't speak at once, but tommy had barely finished his question when buck began his confession so it was very nearly the same thing. tommy threw his own hand a slightly bemused look before reaching for the gearshift and changing gear.

because tommy drove manual. buck loved to watch the muscles of his legs contract and release in perfect synchronicity as he released the clutch and stepped on the gas.

he wore jeans tonight for their meet-up with hen and karen. buck loved how they fit around his thighs, made him kinda wanna bite them.

and then move up and taste his hipbones again, and bury his nose in the hair at the base of tommy's cock and suck at the sensitive skin of his balls and-

"evan, you know i love to hear you talk but i really need you to shut up now. im glad you like how tight my jeans are but they're really fucking tight."

buck blinked a little faster at being brought back from his daydream, licked his dry lips and realized the sudden absence of sound vibrating his vocal cords.

huh.

tommy was throwing him little looks in between checking the side mirrors, smiling, maybe a little bit in disbelief. buck loved the way his upper lip grew thinner the wider he smiled. he also loved to bite on the fuller bottom lip.

how do i love thee, let me count the ways

buck bit his own lip to keep from grinning and, with the aftertaste of rum and sugar smooth at the back of his throat, went on with his list.

[biterflies]

batfam being cryptids: boring, over done, theyre just some people in masks if you shot them theyre done-zo

flash fam being cryptids: new, exiciting, they are intrinsically tied to an eldritch multiversal force that gives them the power to change the very fabric of time *by Accident* and that when not harnessed properly will Kill them and possibly destroy entire universes 

[uniquevocashark]

A Good Servant Part 3

Content Warnings for:

murder, blood, slut shaming, implied/referenced mutilation (nonconsensual glossectomy), smoking, mentioned domestic abuse

The blood on your shoulder starts to itch by the time the cousin is gone, and Lady Dimitrescu finally deigns to acknowledge either you or her pet. Daniela has long since disappeared in a cloud of buzzing insects and you’ve kept your hands busy by doting on the Lady as she sees fit. It doesn’t help, and her odd silence annoys you.

She lounges comfortably on a chaise lounge, mulling over a single bottle of wine, a book she isn’t reading propped up on a lectern before her. The room is hazy with cigarette smoke, muting the redness of the walls and blurring them into a dark maroon. She points at you with her chin, and you clean away the stain at the corner of her mouth.

Lady Dimitrescu tilts her pet’s head up by the chin too gently than she usually does in front of an audience and her tone is thick and syrupy in the cold silence, “Where were you, pet?”

Her pet doesn’t speak.

“You want me to believe you were attacked,” Lady Dimitrescu muses, and you take the cup from her, “You want me to believe you weren’t down there for a reason. You want me to believe you didn’t have a secret room. So many wants but you won’t speak. What rules are you breaking, pet?”

Lady Dimitrescu had postponed dinner, which meant that you had to hole Rachel up in the communal bedroom rather than bring her out immediately, so now you were understaffed. You suppose, technically, that they are the Lady’s staff and if she wishes to have less staff members she is entitled to do so. You just wish it wasn’t so bloody inconvenient.

Lady Dimitrescu leans forward, cupping her ear as if she was straining to hear something, “Speak up, dear. I can’t hear you.”

Her pet still doesn’t speak.

The Lady sighs and she has you hold her wineglass as she drinks. An action she only lets her pets do. She closes her eyes for a second after you pull the glass away, and her pet cringes back a step.

Lady Dimitrescu extends her claws and sends you from the room without a word.

…

Dinner is served at 12:30 in the morning and Lady Dimitrescu still has not spoken to you.

The only food that could be properly warmed in time, by sheer coincidence, is the broth you had insisted upon. The Lady’s pet, you’re surprised to find, is still alive but Lady Dimitrescu has never been one to kill her pets on purpose. For as long as you have worked for her, at least. The only caveat is that Mihaela has to spoon feed her carefully and her bloody drool and tears must be wiped away after each spoonful. Her pet has already ruined the front of her new dress.

You positioned Rachel nearest to the Lady and she practically vibrates with nerves while she fills Lady Dimitrescu’s wine flute. She isn’t as nervous as you think she should be. She doesn’t know that her husband is currently with Miss Daniela, though. Or that the Lady knows of her extra martial activities. The stringent adherence to the supposed sanctity of marriage is the only hold over from her protestant upbringing.

Other than the broth, there are a series of rainbow-coloured jellies shaped like butterflies and flowers, arrayed together on their plates to form a meadow. There are a range of cakes; cheesecakes and pound cakes, red velvet and the ever-present chocolate cake that Miss Bela has already smeared all over her sleeves. Miss Daniela’s favourite, pineapple cake, remains untouched near the candelabra.

It isn’t until two in the morning, once the main course is served, that you bring Rachel’s husband into the dining room and Daniela forces the gardener next to her mother. Lady Dimitrescu kept intensive records on all families under her duty of care; she knew the time and date of all births, deaths and marriages of her subjects. She knew when they ate well and when they starved, she knew when they prayed and to whom, she knew when their children came of age and when their adults reached old age.

The Bradley’s were what she had deemed a trial group. Given special privileges to inspire a new flavour. But that was rather tangential. What mattered was that Lady Dimitrescu found their taste unsuited for any palate; Rachel’s indiscretion was merely the icing on the cake.

Lady Dimitrescu rubs the drool off her pet’s chin, “Mr. Bradley.”

Rachel’s husband has a voice that sounds strange with how quietly he talks, his accent slurring the ends of words with the start of the next, “Yes, my Lady?”

She smiles, her teeth stained pinkish. She pulls Rachel’s corpse forward with a finger hooked around the collar of her dress, and it falls forward and splatters a bowl of broth over him. Her throat is a mess of bitten out tendons and mangled vocal cords. You are impressed, as always, that Lady Dimitrescu has not one drop of blood on her dress. “I believe you lost this.”

He breathes through his nose, “Rachel.”

She drags her finger through the weeping hole and licks a drop from her finger.

“Why?” He asks with an emotion you can't identify. He doesn’t try to run, or freak out, or even go for the steak knife sitting pleasantly on the table next to his plate.

“She was an unfaithful whore,” Lady Dimitrescu sneers, “You didn’t beat her hard enough.”

He doesn’t blink, “That’s barbaric.”

“Don’t lie to me, Mr. Bradley. Your face isn’t suited for it.”

A muscle feathers in his cheek when she looks away from him. He isn’t old, but he isn’t young either and he’s missing fingers from frostbite. He has a ruddy complexion, but you suppose he’s handsome. In the way that stuffed elk heads are handsome.

Daniela, blissfully unaware, picks up her blood covered cake. “Oh, I love pineapple cake!”

…

“You were nervous earlier,” Lady Dimitrescu says, after the table has cleared, “Why was that?”

“It’s already been corrected.” You reply.

She sighs out a long string of smoke, “Has it?” You don’t answer and she laughs, a quiet chuckle that’s more a sigh than anything. She flicked the ash from the end of her cigarette. “Mother Miranda wanted to speak to you. A call will be coming through later.”

You nod. “Very well, Madame.”

Lady Dimitrescu looks at you, and you look at her. She blows smoke in your face and you squint against it. It means you don’t see her hand as it comes to stroke idly at your cheek, or the way her pet looks at you from under the table.

You frown at her, “You’re upset with me.”

She doesn’t answer.

You lean into her hand a little and she twirls a strand of your hair around a finger, pursing her lips. “I can’t fix it if I don’t know what’s wrong.”

“There’s nothing wrong,” She mumbles, and you lean towards her to catch her next words, “I just hate not knowing things.”

You step away from her and head towards the door. “Don’t look at me like that. I told you to get used to it.”

She doesn’t speak again, the usual banter she responds with lost in the vague expression of disdain on her face.

…

The phone rings late the next day, while you’re busy scrubbing at the dishes to help keep everything running on schedule. You end up taking the call while folding the loose clothing that hadn’t been folded in a week.

“Dimitrescu residence.”

“Finally,” Mother Miranda sighed through the phone.

“Mother Miranda.”

“Wesker.” She replied.

You pause, wrestling down a sudden lump in your throat and settling the phone between your ear and your shoulder. “Hello.” You say unevenly.

Mother Miranda’s laugh is no less lovely through the speaker than it is in real life, “You’ve been well, I take it?”

“Very well, Mother Miranda,” You flex your free fingers, then grab another pair of stockings, “You wished to speak with me?”

“I did. Have you had any relapses?”

“No, Mother Miranda.”

“You're healing properly?”

“Yes, Mother Miranda.”

“Excellent. Vanessa wanted me to inform you that she’ll be there on the morrow.”

You drop the shift you were folding. “Excuse me?”

“Did Alcina not tell you?”

“It must have slipped her mind.” You say lightly, placing the shift back into the basket.

“Vanessa will collect more data, but your condition is promising. I’ll call again in a week with the results.”

“Thank you, Mother Miranda.”

She laughs again and you can imagine her clearly. The dark red velvet of her armchair, the hewn strength of her face, the glimmer of her dark eyes. “Take care.” She cooed and hung up.

You place the phone down gently and stand there in silence until Mihaela calls you to the Lady’s room.

…

You try to keep your temper in check when Mihaela leaves but struggle with it to a point that you have to look at her pet instead. Even that doesn’t help, because her pet has dropped all pretence of being meek and glares at you from her spot. She isn’t near the Lady, curled instead behind the bed with a glare towards you.

She should be grateful that she only lost her tongue.

It takes you a moment to realise that you’ve let the silence drag on too long to be polite and that Lady Dimitrescu has abandoned her own charade of being engrossed in a book of poetry she hasn’t touched in years. You flex your fingers.

“Madame.” You say but forgo a bow.

“You’re upset.” She observes mildly.

“God forbid I have a temper.”

The room goes silent again, but you aren’t in a hurry to smooth it over, cataloguing the shock that twists her face. Her eyes are wide, and her smile shows too many teeth, but you’ve never been one to shy away because of a few fangs. She rises from her chair, stepping over the bloody stain in the carpet as she looms over you.

“I beg your pardon.”

“I could ask the same.” You snap.

She raises a brow.

“How dare you,” You snarl, jabbing a finger up at her, and you struggle with your words, “How fucking dare you!”

[dariaslore]

Birds

Set during the Coven's days. Griffin finds out about Valtor's demon form and things may be darker than they seem. Will she go away? Warnings: angst, dark stuff, some contents may be triggering.

She couldn't sleep.

He had told her he would be away all night, when dark magic was stronger and could be practiced at the highest levels. It was one of the many training sessions with his mothers, her presence wasn't allowed this time, the meeting was strictly reserved to the wizard and the three witches. At first they didn't take place frequently, but since a few months, now that the Company of Light was proving to be more of a threat, she had found herself spending more nights alone than usual, holed up in the mansion's library, waiting for his return. He came back extremely tired, without even the strenght to speak, his only desire was to lose himself in the night, hugging her like a safe port.

That night, too much time had gone by. It was three in the morning and he still wasn't by her side. Anxiety was devouring her, tossing and turning in bed, then she would get up and walk back and forth the room, trying to kill time. She would grab a book just to throw it away a minute later. Half a cigarette smoked, the rest was garbage, now she would light up a new one. She couldn't find peace, she knew the three witches and every scar on Valtor's body as well. They always wanted more and more and were never satisfied, he was up for anything just to gain a bit of their approval. And this was lethal.

She left the room they shared and, as her feet were pounding on the floor faster and faster, looked for the room where training usually took place. And there he was.

Gasping, hands shaking and her gaze caught by fear.

She opened the door. The pungent smell of iron flooded her nostrils. She decided to follow its scent. She felt her airway closing and blurring sight, icy needles paralyzed her heart. Her vocal cords refused to vibrate the unspeakable horror in front of her eyes. A connection had been cut off, her pulsating golden irises were screaming and the sound was dying inside of them.

She saw him tossed into the darkest corner of the room, like a used and forgotten toy.

Bowed head, his face hidden by his blond hair in an act of shameless shame. He was shaking, had goosebumps, and she could see his ribs move through the swollen white skin as he breathed. He had never looked so thin and frail, his figure so thin compared to the red scales that swallowed him bite after bite. They started sporadic from his chest and then slowly thicken on his arms and hands deformed into long claws. They painted the portrait of a beast and found maximum expression in the two huge red wings wrapped in a shield, protecting him from the cold of the outside world in an embrace. It looked like the monster was trying to save its own prey. It emphasized the misery, the greatness and strength of the red hunter and the labored breathing of its pale victim. Naked and with his back torn.

Blood overflowed copiously, snaked elegantly dragging its red vital flow downstream, it marked the grooves of his ribs and suddenly fell silent, insinuating itself between the inanimate tiles of the mosaic on the floor. His milky skin was imprisoned in a network of faults of flesh torn apart by the fiercest of beasts. It was scarred, its edges matched perfectly with the width of the claws of his hands, she could feel their power sink into his taut muscle fibers, stretch them to the ends like springs, and tear them away as waste material, a further obstacle to the main organ that he was burning to find. So he dug again, and again, in an unbridled greed for a proof of his humanity. The pain wasn't enough, he wouldn't stop until his claws gripped his beating heart. He had to tear the flesh, the dress of his existence that now felt too tight with the darkness that threatened to overflow and pick him up again in its coils.

"Go away..." he murmured.

Valtor had perceived her presence ever since she had stepped in, fear washing through her veins. She was the last person in the universe who could see him reduced to that. He trusted her, she had been the first person to dig under his surface of powerful narcissist wizard, making him discover a different person. Before her were all the things that weren't and would never be. He was never going to sleep with anyone, he did with her, he had never had a real friend, his mothers had taught him to calculate everything based on utility and how anyone was just a pawn on a chessboard. He had aquaintances, many flirts with countless women and men, and he was never the one in love. And neither were they. For each of his lovers he already knew, the moment when he left their bed, that all that would remain was one more meaningless hot night, an exercise of the word love. They all carried out in the same way, with an absence of words, and he was conscious of being but an object of lust due to his body and his power. And then, she came into his life, the only woman immune to his fiery charme and who even seemed to hate him. He had never spent an entire night on a sofa eating junk food and talking of the most diverse topics, he did with her. He had never received a hug, she hugged him, after a mission with a positive resolution. He never cared for the feelings of others, now he couldn't stand sadness to veil her eyes. She had occupied his heart and not only he loved her madly, she was also his best and only friend. He trusted her, but he didn't trust himself and the monstruosity living inside of him.

"Valtor..."

She couldn't believe it was him. She spelled his name with dragging slowness, almost reluctant to attribute the name of the man she loved to that foul creature. It was him, it had taken two words, a plead to walk out the door and go away.

"Griffin, please, go away, now."

"You're hurt" she said when the only thing her spinning mind could still focus on were his wounds.

"Go away!"

"I wanna help you."

A loud roar cut through the air, and she found herself on the ground, overcome by the power of his claws. It burned and shone bright red on her thigh between the silk of her nightgown, it wasn't too deep, a shallow cut. He had hurt her on purpose for the first time.

Another scream and another sob. Valtor was looking at his hands with wide eyes. He was forced to protect her in the only way his other self knew: violence.

"Are you happy now I've hurt you? Help me? Who do you want to help, a beast? I'm a freak. Look at me Griffin, look!" he cried amid sobs that threatened to suffocate him, too large and noisy that struck his lungs like prisoners in a desperate flight to freedom. A distorted chant broke his larynx, his swan song.

Lying on the floor with an itching cut and blurred thinking, she saw right through Valtor.

She had already heard of those feathered winged creatures earthlings believed in. She realized he was an angel. A fallen one.

He wasn't born for all of this. He was a creature of pure light bound to an eternal exile in darkness, and although the flame that burned within him tended to return to its original light source, it was held back by the iron fist of darkness. She was a creature of the dark too, a witch, but she had decided to be one, he was tainted and that made him the greatest shadow of all. The monster that enveloped him, moving the threads of his very existence, fed every day on the fiery light of his soul, now reduced to a mere flame. His monstrousness came from this destructive coexistence between light and dark, in which only one of the two would have definitively won. The flame burned, it couldn't keep silent and was responsible for his injured back. Darkness was close to him, so he had scratched it off, like a stain on a piece of precious silverware, he wanted to perform a desperate act of purification through his blood to finally wash himself away from the darkness and to get back to the pure light being he had always been meant to be. At least once.

It was written in his eyes which were shyly looking at her through his hair's wheat strands, although he tried to hide them under layers of ice and indifference. His pupils were imprisoned in a web of red capillaries, but they still managed to keep their last drop of pure humanity. It wasn't the same look he gave her every night as he adored her body, neither that of the sarcastic and ironic wizard, it was the one of every time his mothers would have criticized him, of when he tried in every way possibile to impress her, just to snatch her a compliment or a smile. In those moments he tore his heart out of his chest and fed it to his tormentor, craving for trivial affections.

She got up from the floor confident and proud, knowing what to do.

"Go away!" he yelled.

Griffin approached him ignoring all his moans and wrapped his face in her warm hands and traced every feature with her fingers. She felt the difference of texture between his skin and the red scales staining it. She stroked his nose, forehead and lips. She raised the corners of his lips, uncovering white fangs. She smiled and kissed him. Just a smack.

He was blown away, stuck in an idyll that tasted of her. Adrenaline was rushing, he had made it.

She grabbed his hand and looked him straight in the eye, the gold of her irises had never been so metallic. Maybe tired of lies, the purple-haired witch was so determined and a slave to curiosity that she delved into the darkest of truths, even one that would harm her. It wasn't over, she knew it. He was trying to play it cool, but with his eyes in a runaway dance and his smile crooked to the left, he had the classic facial expression of a child who had succeeded in getting away with something.

"Is that all? Is there anything else I should know?" she asked firmly.

That question was a cold shower. He shook his head. He was lying, there was so much more she should have known, the whole side of himself he never had control over. What she was seeing now was just a glimpse of the monster he saw every morning in the mirror, when all humanity crumbled to pieces and his eyes lost their pupils. But he still didn't want that kiss between them to be the last. She would have loved him until there was but a drop of man in him, but after that?

"You're lying Valtor. Show me, don't hold it back"

"Please, I can't!"

She would have run away. He was trying to become human again and she was asking him to show her the monster.

"Just do it!" she ordered, clenched fists and fixed pupils.

"Why are you doing this Griffin?"

She didn't answer him. She was emanating ice from all over her body, posture was stiff, back straight and lips tightened. She wouldn't give up until she got what she wanted.

He started changing, his body turning into the twisted fantasy of three long gone witches, and soon all human features were erased from his face. Stripped of his blond hair, abandoned to the ugliness of his inner skeleton. Now he was way bigger than her, the monster's palm almost the size of her entire face. All his senses were on the alert, looking for the easiest way to kill, the purpose for which it had been built. What she was in front of was a machine ready to kill, plus her neck was so thin.

She didn't even flinch. She did exactly what she had done beforehand. She watched the monster's facial expressions changing, how his blue stoney eyes were boring into her body, finding the most effective way to kill her. And then as if she had read his mind, placed that exact same palm she had held before around her fragile neck, playing the beast's game.

"It would be so easy, wouldn't it?

Damn, it would. The demon could feel her neck cracking under its strength and the air leaving her lungs in her last attempt to breathe.

"Squeeze, what are you waiting for?" she said giggling, but an invisible force was holding the creature back, incapable of applying any pressure. It screamed with rage, not realizing what was going on and why the smile on her face was getting progressively bigger and brighter. She enjoyed the fear flushing down her veins, it was too much to handle and that was making her steady. With her mind blank, she leaned over and with its hand still over her neck, kissed the creature on its mouth.

Leathery red scales began to retreat like clouds after a storm, finally letting his white skin breathe. The demon, his wings were gone.

Valtor broke down in her arms. He was too tired to express the growing happiness inside. He couldn't believe it, something like this had never happened before, getting rid of the other Valtor so quickly was an intangible dream. Everytime his mothers made him assume that form, he would spend hours of excruciating pain, waiting for the beast's claws to disappear. He holed up in the darkness, allowing himself to be consumed bite by bite, seeking in his mind an end to his labyrinth of torment. She had been the first one to get him out of there, a gleam of light at the end of the tunnel. He hoped it could've lasted forever.

He plunged into her eyes like a lost puppy, letting her capture his soul in her thick lashes.

"Don't I scare you? How can you kiss that beast? You must kill the monster Griffin, I'm begging you! Free me, save me, I can't bear it anymore! "

The more he tried to chase it away, the more he felt it crawl through his veins like a poisonous liquid. It was choking him from the inside, he could feel it making its way through his mind, it was making fun of his neurons in a black pool. He felt his head throbbing, unable to contain all that anger and hatred. He screamed in pain in a soundless space, one day he would tear his skull to pieces

"Where are you ?!" he said screaming at the top of his lungs. He couldn't see straight anymore, his whole body shaking with anxiety, blood rushing through his veins and his heart loudly pounding in his chest.

"Hush, I'm right here. I'm holding you, see?"

"D-don't leave ..." he begged her and rested his head on her chest.

"I'm not going anywhere. I'm with you, look at me." She cupped his chin in her hand, so he could meet her gaze again.

"Come on, we must get to our room, your wounds are bleeding."

"Your thigh..." he glanced at her leg with his face twisted in horror. Guilt building up.

"It's just a scratch. A pinch of magic and it will go away. It doesn't even burn anymore!" Griffin tried to reassure him.

She concentrated and teleported them to their room in a quick snap of fingers.

"Can you stand up?" she asked him.

"I- I ..."

"Don't worry, I'll hold you. You can do it."

She put an arm around his shoulder and tried to hold him by the waist, taller and heavier than her, backing him was hard: she had to.

Valtor stood up. Pangs of pain. He was weak, his knees buckling, joints croaking, it was as if his bones were breaking from the inside out on by one. He groaned in protest.

"I know, hold on, it's just one more step."

He freed himself of her grip and met the soft mattress of the bed they shared.

Griffin helped him sit up, covered his lower body with blankets, then she placed her hands on his back, focused and chanted a spell. Wet: blood between her fingers. The magic tickled the torn cells giving them a smoother edge.

"I'll be right back." she said. Then she rushed to the bathroom and, in the wooden cabinet, she found a cotton cloth, some ointments, flasks and some bandages. His wounds were too extensive and deep, she had managed to stop the bleeding and somehow reduce their size, now she had to worry about disinfecting.

"This will hurt just a bit."

"Get your hands off of me, now!"

He spun around, his voice high and firm, swollen veins and a sunken neck. It was a defensive act, it seemed to her the desperate move of an hunted animal fleeing its tormentors, veins darting with fear and aggressive bearing, pretending to be the one who holds power. But she wasn't his mothers, she couldn't get upset, he wasn't lucid and this complete reversal of attitude was proof of that. He no longer held the reins of his thoughts, he was finally letting them gallop on their own, fragments of past and present intertwined together. He proceeded by associations of ideas in an increasingly blurred time boundary: the disinfectant burned like Tharma's lightnings on his legs.

"Calm down. I'm not here to hurt you." she said. She had all her senses alert, he approached her by burying his nose in the hollow of her neck, he smelled her skin, traces in the air, caught violet and amber.

"It's me. Look, it's just disinfectant." she reassured him by pointing to the bottle on the bedside table.

Valtor retrated, recognizing it was the woman he loved and not one of his mothers in front of him. His heartbeat became slow, shoulders down, now he almost seemed like a lifeless doll in front of her. He let her keep on her work without any complaints. She finished dressing, then she bandaged his wounds in deafening silence, she could only hear his breathing.

"Stay there." she whispered softly heading towards the little wooden cupboard in the room.

It had been her idea, she felt like a stranger in that house and the thought of going down four floors each time to get to the kitchen, risking meeting her witches, made her shiver. Of course, she was much freer than any member of the Coven, somehow the Ancestors respected her, listened to her plans and strategies carefully, never a word of mockery, all she had received in years of service was advice, few compliments and an expression she could not discern. They were alert, analyzing her, looking for flaws and weaknesses, Liliss stammered something out under her breath, the others two nodded. She felt watched, stalked, obsessed with the thought that sooner or later they would've chained her too in their perverse game. For this reason she avoided all actions, tried to keep relationships with the three as detached as possible, remaining a puzzle in front of the witch of illusions was her goal.

She opened the cupboard and placed the material on the table. She put some water in the electric kettle, opened the inlaid wooden casket and began to choose the most suitable herbs, lightly caressed each one, letting the fragrances dance in her lungs.

It reminded her of her dad, as she watched him as a child as he made her a cup of tea whenever she was down in the dumps. He caressed the herbs in his study with delicacy, immersing himself in the pungent smells, then he would call her beside him in that olfactory research, telling her the benefits of each plant and how to make the most of them, and it was the sharp rosemary for healing, mint for stress, balsamic anise. In that little corner of nature, with the well-known brilliant notes of the cedar peel and the skilled hands of her father who mashed the leaves, her mind relaxed.

She waited for the herbs to finish their brewing time, then she poured the tea into a white porcelain cup adding a teaspoon of honey.

"I made you some tea. It'll help you feel better. Open your mouth, please."

She softly blew on the cup, cooling it off just a bit, and brought it to his mouth. Valtor followed her command, the smell was heady, notes of lavender, hawthorn and red tea sang as the hot liquid ran down his throat.

When he had finished to drink, she put the empty cup away and wiped his lips with her thumb. She kissed him on the forehead and let him lay down, tucking the sheets.

"Griffin ..." Valtor suddenly mumbled.

"Tell me."

"I- I ..."

"It's okay, you can tell me whatever you want."

"Why are you not angry? I- I ... hid you a part of me."

She had no right to be angry. She couldn't be when those pure eyes were fixed on hers in search of certainties. He was looking for answers and confirmation in her words, when she at first still could not realize what she had just seen. Such nonsense could not be described and questioning was useless. What could be rational about the cuts he carried behind his back or the red scales that covered him? Nothing.

What was rational about the man usually full of himself who was now trembling with fear in front of her?

"Why should I-"

"You must be."

Rather, he wanted her to be. He wanted her to scream, spit every insult, every slimy truth, so that he could sink into the depths of his self-contempt. Yet, she was calm and taking care of him. He didn't deserve it and couldn't stand her stare full of love that should've been directed towards someone way better than him. He was a hero for trying to save her from the horror that bore his name and a coward for wanting her still by his side. She hadn't run away from fear and it pulled her even closer to his heart. It was killing him.

"I know, I should've told you." he continued. "My mothers created it, something I have no control over. They wanted to try a new spell today and things spiraled out of control and- "

"And you hurt your back." she said.

And it hadn't been even the first time.

He was 7 years old, missing incisors and messy blonde curls, when he used to curl up in a corner and gaze out at the sky and the garden below from the large living room windows. He envied the swallows, they were weak, tiny fragile bones destined for a meal to a larger predator, ephemeral existences with a noose around their necks given by the true and only mother nature, yet they sang, they whirled in the sky unaware of any danger in an eternal spring. It was the same with flowers, they would be waiting a whole year to show off their magnetic colors and then bound to perish in a sweet smell that penetrated his nostrils. They all died in a quick smile, almost a game of darts, they threw themselves at maximum power towards the target of no return, as if they didn't care about the ending, it was just a necessary condition for their fleeting beauty. They slowly went towards death not feeling its weight for their entire existence, nothing more than a momentum. Blink of an eye, his irises were now laying on the various paintings hanging around the room: Liliss had an obsession for art and each painting had to represent a specif mood of hers. There were battle scenes, clanging of swords, diaphanous women with bare breasts standing face to face with a young men gambling in the dim black of oil painting. Stormy seas, forests and then aimless flowers and seagulls. Why were they still? What had stolen their right to chase each other across the sky? Someone had decided to enchant them in a precise instant, in a fixed scene against their will, while their fellows whirled free. He felt sympathy for the water lilies forced not to close and for the always red apple stuck in the basket, perhaps because he himself was a still life, the flying, the wanting, the perishing were out of his will, the one of a lacquered image. It was crystal clear in the definition itself, still life, how could a being stained by nothing have vital momentum since its very conception wanted it still? He was still life. In a frame, sick with rot and alive in the stroke of the eternal puppet position imposed by his mothers. Rot bit into his bones, poisoned his nerves and threw them into a muddy puddle where the reflection did not match his will.

His child self decided he would free every little bird from the canvas and destroy all those paintings, he hated still lives, so he bit his lip as hard as he could until the taste of iron flooded his mouth. He moved on to something else, now the game was scratching his skin to color it pink, holding his breath with the utmost force. He learned to control his flames, wanted to test its power and chose his arms as a target. He was a teenager and as he shortened his hair with scissors, he thought what it must be like to stand in their place and be cut off. And he felt it on his skin. It wasn't like anyone would've noticed, the wounds merged with those inflicted by the Ancestors, leaving cords of raised skin. He was their toy, therefore he demanded to be broken and he would help them by making their job easier. Wasn't it what a good son must do?

"At least my blood is red, isn't it?" he said as he interrupted his flow of thoughts. Lips twisted into a sinister smile and wide eyes.

"Of course it is red, but what do you mean?" she replied bewildered.

"It's good news. I'm a beast, it could've been black or blue as well, but it is red just like yours."

His calm tone spelling poisonous words hit her like a shard leaving her heart shattered.

"You're no beast." she said.

"And what would I be if not a creature? These feelings, this warmth towards you, how do I know they're mine? How do I know they're not controlling me and you're just an illusion of Liliss? Are you real Griffin? Can you answer? "

His pupils dilated, he spoke to her in a swirling crescendo, his voice rose, it cracked, its rhythm accelerated hysterically, breathing short and broken, his fingertips digging deep into her arms' skin.

"You can't love me! You just saw it!" he spat out.

She stared in horror at the atrocity of those words. Reality was mangling her eardrums as a cat scratching on a chalkboard.

"Griffin, these eyes, this hair, are just a wrapper, a beautiful case for the most hideous of gifts. If I hadn't looked like this, would you have even looked at me? Would you have ever spoken to me or would you have run away?" he asked. He asked her what she would've done, when he was the one who wanted to escape the mirror every morning. He saw the monster chuckling there behind him, next to his immaculate reflection, laughing, enjoying the blond's stupidity for wanting to conceal his true essence, as if a line of defined eyeliner and eyebrows would've done the trick.

"You're still making questions." she whispered in wonder.

"I must know!" he screamed. "I need to know if you're willing to love a monster, because ... that's what I am."

Griffin cupped his cheeks, her hands so gentle and soothing, and she smiled, the most beautiful he had ever witnessed, a glimpse of light in the pit of darkness his life was.

"You're still questioning, Valtor. You're the answer. You want me to tell you that you are good, that you are a man, to confirm something that runs in your blood, and you still do not know what it is. The answer is your own self, in your doubts. You are worried, you are taking care of something and in this action there is humanity. I cannot give you the answers you are looking for, but I can say that I feel them here. "

She placed her hand on his heart.

"When the spark in you has gone out and your vocal cords no longer vibrate, with no doubt, you'll be a monster. Without even realizing it, you'll spread terror and death, emotions will be unknown to you. But you have those and they're beautiful. You're human, Valtor, this is why you hate the beast, hence you fight. But this back means giving up, these tears on your face, well, they're a victory. I hate the monster, as much as you do, but it's not the one with red scales and big wings. Your own monster is living inside your mind, it feeds off your insecurities and how I'd like to kill it off if I only could! Free you and look at the man, I can say it outloud I- I... L-lo-ve."

Her voice cracked, the word love hard as tears tried to find their way. She held them back and took his hand between hers, in what looked so much like a promise.

"Valtor, I'll never love the beast. I love you."

"What if I were to become one? Would you give up on me? Would you ever leave me in the dark, alone? You'll never leave, will you? Will you always be by my side? Don't lie, please."

The witch hugged him eagerly as her heart broke under the weight of the demons in his mind. The adult with the oversized ego had collapsed into a child to be protected.

She lay down beside him and slowly started stroking his hair, lulling him to sleep. Another sob.

"She left me Griffin, she left me alone in the darkness with that monster. I'm scared."

"Who left you?" she asked softly.

"Believe me, I was good, I had never done anything wrong. I was small, useless, and it was too strong, I couldn't beat it. I was afraid of the dark, and she wasn't there to protect me. So dark ..." he spoke feebly, he turned his head.

Eye frames the void, remembers a room with a forthcoming beast, roaring flames, pain. The vague phrasing, frightened of giving voice to his nightmares, chased his weaknesses with choked breath, tried to catch them one by one, but they were dripping off his lips.

"Who are you talking about?" Griffin asked shaking his hand, giving him all the courage to speak up his mothers never tried to give him.

"Mom." Valtor stammered, gasping. Without even the pronoun my, he was almost referring to entities out of time and space whose name trembled leaving his mouth. She knew he didn't have a mother, the blond man in her arms was a creation of the Ancestors, yet he was longing for a family, bonds made of genes and flesh.

"Mom left me and the darkness came for me. It was so cold, I couldn't move." Darts of frozen darkness, enveloped in himself like a shivering maggot. The creator speaks, the son obeys. The creator breaks his will, sets the rules, commands. Violence, punishment, obedience, blood and broken bones. The cold becomes stronger, snow cuts his face, the son gets tired, he begins to ask questions, he strives to know the purpose of everything. "Your purpose is us Valtor, without us you are nothing" Belladonna ruled.

No words, another cry that desperately asked to be given voice. He was hungry for love.

"I don't want to be a creation. I can't be their son, Griffin. I feel it, I sense it, even they are not that powerful to create life out of nothing. It's burning inside of me, I don't belong to this planet, Whisperia's not my home, but somehow I ended up here with them, the mighty son of the Three Witches. Maybe I wasn't a good child, was I? I wonder if she remembers me. I don't remember her, one moment she was there to hold me, the next she was gone. I can still imagine her touch and scent on my skin, I bet she smelled of roses, because I love roses, don't I? I ask myself where is she now, what is she doing and if she is proud me or if she ever loved me. But she's not here. Belladonna, Liliss, Tharma never left me, though. I know, they're definitely not the mothers of the year, but they never left me. I'm a weapon, I told you, the most powerful of them all, they can't lose me. They hate the man I am, but they appreciate the beast and therefore I'm sure they would never leave me.That's why deep down I think they may care about me, I got what they need. I love them."

He smiled as he tossed his head back among the silk cushions, knowing how much a fool he was making of himself. She was still there, strong and still as always.Trembling lips, every cell of her body was fibrillating, they wanted to detach from it and rush on him like thousands of shooting stars, build him a shelter, save him from his mothers and love him, giving him a bit of that care he had always been denied. She knew her love wasn't enough.

Meanwhile Valtor wondered how much easier it would've been to turn off the light and let himself be swallowed up in an endless dream. Darkness would become his new home, and without even the small glow of its flames, it wouldn't be dark anymore, just nothing. No sound, no fight. Maybe she could've been the one able of dragging him out the pit he had digged himself. He raised his head and tried to meet her gaze for the last time, his lids starting to feel heavy.

"Griffin I don't know how much longer I will be able to keep the monster away. That's why I need to know that no matter what you'll stay by my side. Will you? "

"I.."

Interrupted sentence.

He had already fallen asleep without even waiting for the answer to how much he wanted it to be positive. It was easier to unstich himself from reality and follow the threads towards the dreamlike enchantment, in which the canvas tapestry with their smiling faces imprinted would never unravel.

She sighed. It was her turn to cry now.

She didn't know. That was the answer that was so difficult for her and it was breaking her heart. All the words of courage and comfort that had come easily from her before were now dead in her throat, none of them were for her. She had seen his blood slipping right through her skin, she had touched what was the most intimate about him that somehow managed to appear so right as it sneaked into her bony hands. The red of his blood fingerprinted his pain, left her the keeper of what was dearest to him. As the sea after an undertow regurgitates its treasures on the beach, the darkness in him had left away the most precious of his secrets: she had felt his humanity, now it was up to her to decide whether to wash it away or dry it and no soap would have ever canceled it. She could not wash her hands, she looked at them in the twilight of the night, turned them again and again, searched for escape routes between the lines of her palms, but the more she squinted her eyes in search of a pattern, the further she was pushed away. He was now in her hands.

She threw herself into the silk of the bed and looked at him: eyes closed and his lashes tickled his cheeks slightly. How could a monster be so human? And she, how could she be so hypocritical, unable to give an answer and yet she was hugging him? And fuck, how much the cut on her leg hurt.

Perhaps their relationship was a ship on fire on the high seas. Water and fire, a beautiful tragedy to be consummated in sync until one annihilates the other. Water never dies, it changes shape. The heat of the fire would've forced it into crystalline darts that would hurt the sky like swallows at dawn.

She was a bird. A real one.

Birds fly away.

[deathchamber6172]

Short Story: Silence

Here’s another part of DC’s series, it’s more in depth what exactly happened in the lab. It’s a bit longer then the other stories though. 

Repost with credit. DC is my character. 

Warnings; experimentation, blood, cannibalism 

My body felt numb, it felt heavy, and I couldn’t move.

Everything felt it was pressing into me, squeezing my chest until no air filled my lungs, did I wish for death? Though I knew deep down, he wouldn’t let it happen. His little precious experiment can’t die, not when he’s almost had me to perfection.

     Quiet vibrations pounded inside my head as his assistants walked towards me, they opened my cell and pushed my bed out. I knew too well where we were going. It was his lab. And no matter how many times I have been there, fear crept inside of me. I wiggled around and tried to move my body. My gag moved around from my lips, and I opened my mouth to yell. 

Nothing… 

Nothing came out. 

    My mouth moved around, but nothing came out. Pure silence as bile rose in my throat. I looked at the assistant, my eyes widening in horror, and she only smiled at me. 

Softly patting my head, she leaned over to me and cooed, “Poor sweet thing, you can’t talk, can you?” She giggled, hands caressing my throat. “We removed your vocal cords so you won’t scream during the process.” Her hand moved to my cheek. “Don’t worry, you’ll get them back- after the process. Which ends in a year… if you are good,  sweetie.”

    My eyes blurred as I stared at her.

“Aw, don’t cry. This is for the greater good, you’re too sick.”

Greater good…

    Greater good? How is torturing and messing up people for the greater good- this is not a cure. 

I tried to scramble up as we entered the pure white room, but the leather straps dug into my wrists. The belts fastened on the bed. Flashes of action movies filled my head, I wasn’t strong enough. My tears began to fall faster and faster. There really isn’t an escape.

    A warm chuckle filled the room and the little clicks of heels to the floor pounded in my ears.

He was here.

    I turned my head to face him, all the vision of blood and darkness all became a reality here. He slowly smiled at me, brushing his hand against my face.

    “I’m so sorry that I had to take your vocal cords out, but you scream too bad when we perform. And consider it as a punishment for biting my finger.”

Mixed thoughts buzzed in my mind, should I be sorry or not?

“These creatures of evil are becoming too common and too powerful in today’s world. We need some form of defense. Which is where you and your family come in. I may have discovered a way to make someone one of them- or partly.” 

Pain…

    Everything hurt and burned, my skin felt like it was on fire. He did not hesitate to cut open my skin, revealing the red-flesh and organs. Stringing them up on display. Injecting my body with weird liquids to see what happens. I couldn’t count the times I’ve passed out from pain and had woken up to the surgery going on still. My jaw felt numb with the amount of times I’ve tried to scream. 

All I could hear is the sloshing wet thumps as he tore my insides apart, shifting them around and hauling them up. Even placing some of them on the table beside us. It made me sick, but the bile stayed in my throat as I just laid there, my eyes scrunched shut. I didn’t want to look- to see all the blood and-

    His shadow hovered over my face. “I’ve finished for today, you did so good, sweetie.”

I didn’t know how long I’ve been stuck here- stuck as his little lab rat. Everything went by slowly as each ‘day’ passed with him tearing my insides out and placing them back. My mind is blurry as I just stared at nothing and sat there. They have allowed me to free myself from the leather straps since I’ve been good. Though, there is something else behind their reasons.

    My senses have been changing, I’ve been able to hear them before they entered the room, and the scent of my blood has become stronger. However, my body has been rejecting whatever food they gifted me. The toilet has become my friend this past week.

My mind is making me think things- things that are wrong- awful- disgusting. And the food has changed. It’s a dark color and smells disgusting, but they force it down my throat. Saying it was going to keep me alive, but that’s a load of shit. It’s for their experiment.

Death…

    That doesn’t sound too bad now. I would chuckle, but I resorted to staring at the white ceiling, and closed my eyes. He said today, my mind was the next thing to be taken off. I wasn’t too sure what he meant, but I could only guess. As it had been years since they started to change my body- I don’t even know what he’s been doing to the others.

My doors opened and in came the assistants. They hauled me up, pausing me towards the familiar pathway. I slowly walked, letting my gaze wander to the other cages and white walls. Everything was white and pure, yet it was black and corrupt. 

    My gaze flickered up once we reached the lab, my glaring increased when realizing he was there. Standing there with a small smile as I was shoved into the chair, my wrists strapped down.

“How are you feeling today sweetie?” He asked, placing his hand on my cheek and I only glared at him. “There is no reason to be angry at me.”

He picked up the mouth guard, pressing it to my face as I squirmed away, and lifted my head up. Feeling his fingers trace my cheek, I jerked to the side, letting my teeth clamp on his finger. He squealed, leaping away, cradling his bleeding finger. The tang of blood filtered through my mouth as I bared my teeth at him. 

    My face snapped to the side as my cheek stung, the pain only lasted for a second as one of the assistants held my head and held it still as he strapped on the guard. My mind had caught up to my act, horror flooded into my body and I froze.

I messed up.

I messed up.

I messed up!

Sharp pain coursed through my body. I lost track of how many things he had injected into my head- now money needled pricked my skin. My vision started to turn blurry. He tilted my head up, smiling at me, “Sweetie, how are you doing? It’s halfway done.”

    My head dropped down when he walked away, and when he came back, my gaze flickered over to him. A shiny-dull metal circle was in his hands. Being too foggy to process what was exactly going on until he placed it on my head, and hot-searing pain flooded my nerves. I opened her my mouth to scream, but without vocal cords, nothing came out, and sickening sweet silence filled the air.

Hungry…

Must feed…

Feed me!

The blackness from my vision cleared, and the scene before me sent me silently screaming back. I spat out the mushy piece lump in my mouth, and scooted further away. The body was torn apes, flesh gone to the bone and organs were tossed around. 

What happened?

    I glanced down, another silent scream ripping through my head at the fresh-bright red flesh costing my body, and the trail that followed me. Tears burned my eyes, as I covered my eyes, curling up on the floor. Did I? I clawed at the floor, wanting to scream up.

The door opened, and footsteps echoed towards me. A hand grabbed my chin, forcing me to look up. He kneeled there with a grin. “You really are a monster.”

[nimsajlove]

Freezing cold (Echo)

Same thing, but Echo’s thoughts.

Brothers-AU  Ao3

“Freezing Cold”

*~*

Kriff, it was cold! He didn't know exactly where and when he was, but it was really cold. A picture shot around in his head, the shuttle! He felt a hard scratch in his throat and then an incredible warmth on his cheek. What happened? Who was that before him? He could see the shadows in front of him, they were backlit and he didn't know why? Daylight? The light in the hangar? Or fire? Was that the enemy? Hastily he put out a hand, the one he could feel for itself. Maybe to defend himself, maybe to hold on to the person. Under no circumstances did he want to be left alone! Please no! The shadow in front of him took his hand and squeezed it briefly, then it embraced his face and he felt a careful caress, he knew this touch!

He squinted hard, driving the images away in his head. This couldn't be the shuttle or the cruiser! The light was wrong. Briefly his vision blurred again, something itched uncomfortably in the back of his head. Inside, not from the outside! A disgusting feeling. Again he drove away the shadows and disturbing thoughts and the figure in front of him smiled when he finally saw her. This was wrong! "Hey Echo, it's me.", mumbled the one who couldn't be Ahsoka! Ahsoka wasn't that... big. The Togruta in front of him looked a little more stretched than the girl he knew, the drawings on her face had stretched a little too. But they were the same. He blinked, registered that she wasn't wearing the akulteeth, and blinked again. What was going on here? Oh man, too much thinking gave him a headache. "Commander?" His throat hurt too. It didn't scratch, it was more like someone ramming a knife into his vocal cords. "Hi.", the older Ahsoka smiled and he saw the tear on her cheek. Briefly he saw other figures out of the corner of his eye, clones? They weren't from the 501. “How do you look? Where am I?” His training kicked in immediately. Capture and adapt the situation.

 "It's okay, we'll take you home." She avoided him! He wanted to reach for her again, everything hurt! He suppressed an exhalation too hard and watched Ahsoka look over her shoulder at the door that was probably at her back. “Enemies, and not too short. Maybe five more seconds…” He fades out the rest, despite his headache he had already taken in the information. Five seconds until the enemy would be with them. Five. Fives! "What happened?", he demanded to know, the pain in his throat slowly subsiding but it was hoarse and his eyes ached in the light. What happened after the citadel? Had she been able to take care of the others? Fives, Cutup, Hevy, Droidbait. Were the others well? Suddenly she pressed her lips together tightly and pulled her eyebrows down, he knew the look. She wasn't going to tell him anything, so something had happened? Something bad? His headache forced him to abandon these considerations and move on to the important things. But there was one thing he wanted to know. How many of their birthdays had he missed? "At least ... how long?", he asked and she sighed deeply, a little triumphant feeling in him. She still couldn't keep her mouth shut for long. "Too long brother." An unsatisfactory answer, but probably the only one for the moment. She patted his shoulder, her finger warm and calloused. He looked down her arm while she exchanged short words with another, she was covered with minor bruises and cuts. On her shoulder he saw the burned skin from a grazing shot. They would never get out of here the direct way, at least not alive. The tickling in the back of his head was there again and he allowed it, the images were strangely familiar. Plans, numbers, orders.

 * ~ *

 Breathing heavily, he slumped to the floor, the shuttle vibrating slightly below him. That was familiar, sure. A little relieved and more relaxed, he wanted to rub his hand over his head, but immediately stopped. There was no hand and no hair on his head. Frustrated, he dropped his head on the floor and grimaced, every implant in his skull acted upon contact with the hard surface and he didn't even try to suppress the hissing. Immediately a hand on his temple and warm fingers massaged his scalp as best they could. He looked to the side, Ahsoka's bloody hand hanging limply over her knee. She avoided looking at them, instead looking worriedly at his sallow skin. He was doing better than he had for hours! She, on the other hand, just looked miserable, blood covered one side of her face and she looked tired. "Sir, maybe you should lie down.", he muttered and she actually smiled, she looked like she was about to cry again.

"I got you back!“, she sighed and he sat up again. The Bad Batch around them fell into apparently familiar rituals, so Echo found it easy to ignore them. Puffing, he straightened his back and squeezed Ahsoka's hand once, it was longer and slimmer than before. How old was she? "How many years have I been gone?", he asked quietly and Ahsoka wanted to rub her temple, but then quickly let her hand drop again. She grimaced. "A little over a year.", she sighed, looking down on the floor, her shoulders hunched and one hand clenched into a fist. "I am-" "Stop.", he interrupted her and she looked up again and again there were tears in her eyes. "You came back, that matters." She sniffed a smile. Now seemed the time to get the rest of the information. "How are the others?", he asked carefully, it was not unlikely that one had fallen. Ahsoka's cautious reaction only made him feel uncomfortable, but she didn’t deny the statement. "Still alive, I think Fives will be very happy." Her voice had become quieter and weaker, every second seemed to rob her strength. He looked up. "Hey Tech, how much longer is it going to take?", he asked Tech and the clone turned its head to give him and Ahsoka a long look. "I'm hurrying up.", he said then and looked ahead again. Hunter joined them and offered Ahsoka a hand. "General, we have more comfortable seats than the floor.", he teased and Echo blinked, General? He must have missed a lot there. "General? What about Skywalker?”, he asked, hearing the worry and shock in his own voice. Ahsoka got to her feet and smirked, despite her obvious pain. "Oh, we have a lot to tell you."

[queen18xo]

The Cat And The Wolf

Chapter Five 

This chapter contains torture and non-consensual kissing, if that makes you uncomfortable or triggers you please don’t read :) 

Julian releases a pained groan as he comes to, static buzzing in his ears, his eyes flitting beneath the fluttering eyelids. The first thing he notices is the rough exterior of rope biting into his flesh where it's twisted suffocatingly around the skin of his wrists and ankles, preventing him from moving. The second is a familiar baritone voice frantically calling his name. Geralt's voice is rough and gravelly, the depth vibrating through Julian, setting his rising panic at ease. 

"G-Geralt,'' Julian slurs, his words sticky and slow, his tongue heavy in his mouth, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears. 

As Julian's eyes blinked open, he was greeted by suffocating darkness. Even with his mutations it was a struggle to see anything of note about where they were. There was dry dirt beneath his bound hands; he could feel as the dust crumbles beneath his fingertips. He could see the warm glow of Geralt's eyes, their unnatural luminosity illuminating the darkness as they remained steadily trained on him. 

Julian continued with his observations, ignoring Geralt's presence for the more pressing issue, which currently was finding an escape route. The Wolves of Kaer Morhen were used to blunt force; it was unlikely Geralt had thought of anything other than fighting his way out. However, Julian was a Cat, Cats were cunning, and they were fast, he would get them out of this with minimal damage, he had to, Geralt couldn't get hurt because of him.

"You forgot something when you ran," Valdo sneered, his mouth turned up unpleasantly, his voice making Julian shiver. The Cat's blood freezes in his veins, his back straightening stiffly, his muscles contracting beneath the ropes keeping him bound. Julian growls defensively, his lips curled up, baring his sharp canines. 

The out of tune clang of his lute being tossed onto the dirt floor caused the Cat to flinch, his face scrunched up in a wince as the piercing noise resonated through the still air surrounding them. "You used to sing so sweetly, do you sing for your Wolf the way you sang for me?" Valdo purred, slipping two thick, grubby fingers beneath his jaw. 

"Don't touch him," Geralt snaps his chest rumbling dangerously, warm golden eyes flicking to Julian’s. Julian lifts his head in defiance, refusing to be cowered by his ex-mentor, his blue eyes shining with conviction as he keeps his eyes trained on Geralt, the older Witcher unknowingly bringing him comfort. 

"You would sing so sweetly, my sweet Jaskier," Valdo whispers, his vile breath fluttering across Julian's chapped lips. Julian groans, his stomach rolling with disgust. Valdo dug his fingertips painfully into the meat of Julian's cheek, applying a crushing pressure to the Cat's lower jaw, the bone creaking beneath his punishing grip. Julian stifles a distressed whine as he feels the bone creak and bend beneath Valdo's fingers; his forehead glistened with a thick sheen of sweat as he fights the onslaught of pain threatening to break him.

 "Useless, you were always so useless, nothing more than a pretty toy, hmm." Julian pulls his gaze from Geralt's meeting Valdo's dull, slitted cat eyes, his own eyes hardened by a steely determination. Valdo pulls himself from Julian’s space; he stands close, leisurely brushing the dirt from his trousers. "Tell me, does Geralt use you the way I did?" Valdo smirks watching as the determination in Julian's blue eyes falters. 

Julian thrashes against the ropes restricting his movements, the ropes tightening and sliding wetly against around him as his delicate skin breaks beneath the abrasive material. "Leave him the fuck out of this, Valdo," Julian growls menacingly, the cold warning tone causing Geralt’s hairs to stand on edge. 

"Oh dear, little kitten," Valdo tuts with mocking sadness, his eyes glinting with amusement in the dimly lit cave they were being kept in. Valdo's fist connects heavily with Julian’s already purpling cheek, Julian's head snaps to the side before dropping limply as the Cat whimpers, cringing as he feels the velvety trickle of his blood falling from his lips. He can feel as the cold air brushes the split skin and blossoming bruises across his abused cheek. 

His apologetic, watery blue eyes meet Geralt's, the older Witcher's chest aching as he sits uselessly watching Julian fight against the pain. Geralt's sharp canines bite into the soft flesh of his bottom lip, the sharp points easily tearing into the supple, pink flesh. The scent of Geralt's blood in the air is imperceptible as it mixes with the metallic tang of Julian's. Julian's blood oozes sluggishly from his lips, painting them red, the droplets of crimson darkening and dampening the dry dirt beneath the Cat.  The steady sound of dripping blood pierces the silence. Geralt's heart beats heavily in his chest as he watches Julian's head hang limply, the rhythmic drip of blood connecting with earth unsettling him. 

The toe of Valdo's booted foot violently connects with Julian's ribcage, a deafening snap ringing out through the darkness. Geralt cringed, straining against his bindings, furiously trying to break free, desperate to prevent Julian any further pain at the other Cat's hands. Julian screamed out, the first noise of distress to escape him, his vision blurring as a searing pain burnt through his chest. 

Valdo stepped closer, leaning down he gripped Julian firmly by the throat holding his body inches from the ground, Julians bound hands clawing uselessly at the man trying to break the crushing grip on his throat, His breaths leaving him in wet gasps. "You're nothing but a whore Jaskier," Valdo spat, globs of his saliva spraying across Julian's reddened face. Valdo dropped Julian to the floor, his injured body colliding harshly with the unforgiving ground beneath him. 

Geralt watched on in horror at the vindictive treatment Julian was enduring, knowing a weaker man would've broken already. Valdo tangled his fat fingers in Julian's messy hair, ripping his head back, exposing the vulnerable flesh of his throat. Julian whimpered brokenly under the rough treatment.

"Has he seen you like this Jaskier?" Valdo whispers, his vile breath fanning across Julian's cheek, causing the young Cat to retch. The rough pad of Valdo's tongue connected with the flesh of Julian's throat, the older Cat licking a thick, possessive strip across the man's flesh.

"Don't be jealous." Julian snarks, his voice shaking as he strains against the man's violent grip. Geralt bites back the urge to scold the young Witcher for escalating the situation; he struggles to keep his eyes on the scene before him, his heart constricting painfully in his chest seeing Julian abused in such a disturbing manner. The way Valdo touched Julian, showcasing a familiarity with the young Cat’s body that leaves an unsettling pit to form in Geralt's stomach, the older Witcher fighting down the urge to retch. 

"I have nothing to be jealous of darling, you've always been mine," Valdo chuckles darkly, he grips Julian's bruised face in his large hands holding him firmly in place as Julian fights against his hold. The man pulls Julian into a bruising kiss, his tongue forcing itself past his still lips. Valdo pulls away from the abused man, a thick string of saliva still connecting their lips. Valdo pushes Julian away, moving off in search of something. 

Julian's body slumps tiredly against the solid stone behind his back, his shoulders sagging in defeat as he keeps his ears trained on Valdos retreating steps. He focuses his eyes back onto his surroundings, unable to meet Geralt's searing gaze, shame curling in his gut as he fights back a broken sob. 

"Julian," Geralt whispers gently into the silence; he watches the way the cat's body strains to avoid turning to him. "Julian, talk to me please, what can I do?" Geralt asks his voice thick with guilt for being unable to comfort the young man twisting sharply at his insides. 

"I'm fine Geralt," Julian's voice is shaky and tight, his usual sweet tone now croaky and rough from the bruising that coats his flesh and the strain caused to his vocal cords from pained screams. Both Witchers freeze, the sound of returning footsteps bringing their conversation to a halt. Geralt flicks his gaze to Julian; the young Cat couldn't possibly hold out against the violence for much longer, Geralt struggled uselessly against his bindings, praying his brothers had realised they were missing. 

Valdo walked straight for Julian pushing his drooping head harshly back against the rough wall, the smaller man groaning tiredly as the back of his head connected with the concrete wall. "Arse," Julian growled his blue eyes meeting Valdo's with a rage Geralt hadn't expected from the Cat. 

Valdo laughed. "There's my boy, thought I'd lost you for a moment there Jaskier." Valdo reached out a hand stroking against the Cat's abused flesh; in his other hand, Geralt could see a short blade glinting in the dim light shining from the cave's entrance. 

"Not your damn boy," Julian growls, twisting himself away from the older man's touch as he fought down the acidic sting of bile rising in his throat. Valdo grabbed a fistful of his hair, preventing him from pulling away. He twisted Julian's head until his fiery blue eyes met Geralt's worried golden ones. 

"Think your Wolf is going to save you?" Valdo sneers, forcing Julian to face the Wolf Witcher. "Or maybe daddy will save you again?" Valdo chuckled, his lips brushing against Julian's cheek. Geralt felt a growl rising lowly in his throat at the man's words. "Oh wait, he's dead." Valdo's laugh echoed loudly in the barren space he was holding the two Witchers in. 

Sadness flashed briefly in his eyes before being replaced with a calm fury, Julian's blue eyes stormy as they met Geralt’s, the icy look sending an involuntary shiver through Geralt. In an instant, Julian had ripped his hair from Valdo's grips, his jaw clenching against the searing pain in his scalp. He twisted his head, his mouth opening wide before biting down hard on the flesh of Valdo's wrist. The man screamed out, blood dripped from the corner of Julian's mouth as his canines pierced the man's flesh. Valdo easily knocked him away, his face twisted into a grimace, Julian leant back against the wall, a feral grin splitting his face as a drop of blood rolled past his lips. Julian's shining blue eyes met Geralt’s, his breath caught in his throat at the sight of the younger man, the feral gleam in his eyes setting his blood alight.

"Fucking feral brat," Valdo marched over to Julian a wicked smirk on his face and an almost proud gleam in his eyes. With a firm hand on his knee, Valdo plunged the sharp steel edge of a dagger into the meat of Julian's thigh; he closed his fist around the hilt, twisting the blade further into the flesh. Julian threw his head back; his bottom lips pulled between his teeth, his eyes clenched shut, his fringe sticking to his sweat-dampened forehead as he remains perfectly still despite the agonising pain flooding through his thigh. 

"Julian!" Geralt croaked, his mouth moving before he could gain control of it, is bound wrists reaching out for the Cat. Julian's eyes flicked over to Geralt, his heart hurting as he noticed the broken look in the Wolf's eyes, Julian released his lip from his teeth, offering the Wolf a shaky smile of reassurance. He'd suffered through worse alone, with Geralt's unceasing presence by his side he could endure anything Valdos' sadistic mind could conjure. 

"Don't worry Wolf, Julian here is a well-trained Cat," Valdo paused pulling the blade from Julian's leg, the wet squelch sickening as the flesh released the dagger. "I should know, I trained him." Valdo stated proudly as he trailed the bloodied blade down the front of Julian's shirt, leaving a trail of blood in its path. Geralt's lips twisted into a frown, various unrelated puzzle pieces, snippets of stories all meshing together to paint a disturbing picture of the kind of training Cats went through. 

With an effortless flick of his wrist, Valdo's blade sliced through Julian's shirt, leaving the man bound and bare-chested in front of the two older Witchers. Geralt turned his eyes away, refusing to look at Julian's exposed skin. Despite his desire for the younger man he wanted Julian to bare himself to Geralt on his own terms not because he was forced. 

"Well, that won't do." Valdo stomped over to Geralt; he dragged the Witcher by his long silver hair until the man was only inches from Julian's injured body, Geralt resolutely kept his eyes trained on the ground. "Watch." Valdo ground out. 

"No." Geralt spat back, meeting the Cat's eyes defiantly. Valdo tightened his hold on the silver-haired Witcher, forcing the man's head further up, despite his restraints Geralt valiantly fought against the handle. 

"Stop, Geralt, just watch, please," Julian sobbed begging the Wolf, his defiant demeanour finally slipping, unable to watch Geralt fall victim to Valdo’s cruelty. "Please Geralt," Julian whimpers, Geralt's sad eyes meeting his watery ones. 

Geralt gives a slight nod steeling himself.

"Okay," he whispers shakily pulling himself from Valdo’s hold, his gaze slowly moving to Julian's bare chest. The dim light reflected off his torso, his pale skin marred with various scars. 

"Now this is getting fun," Valdo knelt at Julian's side pressing the blade lightly against the toned flesh of Julian's stomach. "You remember the rules sweetheart?" Valdo asked in a mockingly sweet tone, Julian nods stiltedly in response, readying himself for the familiar sting of steel against the sensitive flesh of his torso. 

Beside him Geralt gasped, his pupils blown wide, bound hands trembling where they rest against the dirt. Valdo drags the blade repeatedly against Julian's torso's soft flesh, the young Cat counting the cuts steadily, his voice barely more than a whisper. Blood steadily pools to the surface of each shallow slice left behind by the blade's sharp edge. Julian's icy blue eyes meet Geralt's he flicks his eyes down to the blade before tossing Geralt a subtle wink. 

Julian has Valdo on his back in a flash of unexpected movement; blade clasped in his hands. He smirks up at Geralt, who sits staring slack-jawed at the young Witcher, his eyes shining in awe. Valdo squirmes uselessly beneath Julian's muscular thighs, the younger Cat smashing the hilt of the dagger violently against Valdo’s temple, the man's eyes rolling back into his head. 

"Julian," Geralt whispers, hands reaching for the injured Witcher. 

"Not now Geralt," Julian's voice is a strained waver as he speaks, he slips the knife's edge out of his palm, blood trailing down his dainty, still bound wrists. With his hand now round the hilt Julian makes quick work of divesting them of their bindings.  "Fuck," Julian groans as searing hot pain floods through his leg like lightning. 

Geralt's eyes land on the hole in Julian's leg that is still steadily oozing blood, alongside the various slashes across his torso. Without a second thought or a moments hesitation, Geralt sweeps Julian's lithe frame into his muscular arms. On slightly unsteady legs, he begins the trek back to Kaer Morhen Julian cradled protectively against his chest, the young Witcher's blood slowly soaking through his tunic. 

"You brute," Julian slurs playfully as his vision begins to cloud, finally giving himself over to unconsciousness now that he is safely held in Geralt's caring embrace. Geralt watches as the younger man goes limp in his arms, his steady pulse a comforting sound in Geralt's ears as he gets them back to the safety of the keep. 

[thefaithie]

WC, Chapter 9

Wrong Conclusions Chapter Nine: The East Arrives

"How long ago did they call?!"

"Almost ten minutes. I had to spend that long getting Raven out of her mirror-"

"If you would've just called my name, I would have left faster!"

"Did they sound hurt!? Were they getting winded!? What was going ON, Cyborg?!"

"Look, man, I dunno! The communication went fuzzy and neither one would pick up after that! You know as much as I do, okay!?"

All three Titans' nerves were on edge as they sped towards the hospital, Cyborg in his car, Robin on his motorcycle, and Raven deciding to go by air. They were still half a city away because Raven's powers weren't working as well as she would have hoped. The time in her mirror did the opposite of help calm her down, and leaving abruptly had left her more unstable than ever. She felt less safe teleporting them than taking the ten minutes to arrive on the scene, otherwise. So all Robin could do was ask Cyborg for details that the metal man simply didn't have while Raven kept on the lookout for signs of danger.

Finally, after almost ten minutes of non-stop driving and flying, the hospital came into view. The three Titans were relieved to find Starfire flying through the air, throwing star-bolt after star-bolt at a small group of pale men wearing the same type of clothing they had seen the 'Vampire-Guy' wear the week before - tight, black body-suits with thigh-high boots and belts just about everywhere. All four pale mans had the same golden eyes as the previous villain, as well as the same shade of black for their hair. Only none of these individuals decided to slick it back like the original had, which would have taken away from the 'Vampire' effect, had all their fangs not been long enough to almost reach their chins.

One had short hair; he was the largest, basically just a wall of muscle. The second had medium-long hair and bangs in his eyes; he seemed built for speed, with a thin just muscular body and an almost gangly appearance. The third had hair down to his shoulders that curled up ever so slightly, and he appeared to be almost identical to Robin's size and shape. And the last had a low ponytail going down to his waist, and was tall but strong, holding himself in an almost regal manner - the obvious ringleader of these jerks.

Starfire threw her green, fiery bolts at the four of them, her expression strained with obvious panic. Though almost every star-bolt connected, causing cinders to fly in every direction, the four pale men remained unharmed. In fact, it only seemed to tickle them; they cackled louder as more green clumps of energy attempted to harm them. They couldn't even singe their clothes.

"Hey, Urres'l?" The one with the short hair called out. "Is it me, or does that Tamaranian look familiar?"

The question caused Starfire to pause, too shocked to focus on continuing hr attack. Familiar...?

"She should," Urres'l, the ringleader with the long hair, replied calmly, flicking his pony-tail behind him.

"Seriously? From where?" The fast, gangly one asked, earning himself a light smack over the head from the one with slightly-curled hair.

"Ker'rk, Gerood, are you two idiots or what? That's the princess! Don't you remember her? The five of us had some fun during our war with them," He grinned widely, giving Starfire a spin-crawlingly hungry look.

"Really, Wer'nel?" The muscled one with the shortest hair - Gerood - asked, scrunching his face as though he was trying to get a better look at Starfire. "What do you think, Ker'rk? She does look almost the same, just kinda stupid without the royal armor...But they all kinda look the same, all kinda orange..."

"I agree," Ker'rk, the fast, gangly one, replied. "We should give her a proper greeting, though, regardless, while Or'lesp is running around inside."

"Ooh, I DO so enjoy proper greetings," Gerood snickered, stepping in front of his companions, overshadowing them easily with his excess mass. Before Starfire could fly further up towards safety, the pale man gave a loud, ear-splitting shriek. The vibrations emanating from his vocal cords actually managed to shatter window after window of the hospital until the vibrations reached Starfire. Once the soundwave hit her, she let out a loud cry of pain and began to fall to the ground, powerless and flickering in and out of consciousness.

"STARFIRE!" Without thinking, Robin sped right towards the girl. He saw her, falling like an angel whose wings had been lopped off, going faster and faster towards the earth. But his motorcycle was going faster and faster as well. He was right under her, and she was no more than a few feet away...!

Just as he was about to catch her in his outstretched arms, safe and sound, there was a black and white blur of color, and rather than her being in Robin's arms, she was a few feet away from where Robin should have caughter her, in Ker'rk the speedster's arms, instead.

"Too slow!" the pale man teased. Robin eyes widened in shock before gritting his teeth in rage, wanting nothing more than to hit this guy until his fangs broke off, but instead, Robin had to swerve his motorcycle to the side, narrowly avoiding a violent crash with a wall.

"Let. Her, GO!" Raven appeared from the shadows beside Robin, her eyes, both pairs, glowing a bright red beneath her hood. "Or you're going to *sorely* regret it."

"Ooh, brothers, is it me, or do I smell the foul scent of Azarath?" Wer'nel cocked an eyebrow, waving his hand under his nose like he smelled something fowl, as his kin began circling around Ker'rk to form a living barrier.

"My, I do as well! The stench of the land now dead! Now, brothers, is it me, or is that the odor of Trigon the Great upon her as well, of all things?" Ker'rk snickered, tossing Starfire's limp form lazily onto his shoulder, her backside to the Titans.

"Trigon...?" Raven was surprised, not having expected to hear that name again for years to come, much less with the title 'the Great' attached to it, and so soon. It was enough for her extra pair of eyes to vanish and the redness to fade.

"Yes, I see the resemblance now," Urres'l muttered, rubbing his chin in thought. "The dark aura is difficult not to recognize. This must be his daughter! How odd, I expected her to be...larger."

"Who cares about larger? She's the right shape and size for ME," Ker'rk licked his lips with a purple tongue, careful not to cut himself on his own fangs.

"Eu-eugh... Tell me he isn't hitting on me," Raven looked down at Robin with a look of pure disgust. It was usually Starfire who got all the cheap lines, and Raven preferred it that way. She didn't need villains like Red X staring at her body parts inappropriately as she threw them into walls.

"Worry about that later," the Boy Wonder hissed through his teeth, not tearing his eyes away from the group of Vampire-like villains for a moment. They had Starfire... Right as he decided to tell Starfire how he felt, something like THIS had to happen. It always happened like this...It was inevitable.

"Aww, he looks so worried!" Wer'nel barked a laugh at Robin. The vampire-look alike scanned the ground around him, looking through the rubble left behind from Starfire's attacks and Gerood's shriek. The pale man soon found a pole and kicked it into into the air, and then caught it in his palm. He twirled it several times in his hand to get the feel of it, and then pointed it with a hint of challenge at Robin. "What? You scared for the Tamaranian? Think we'll hurt her?" he taunted, before giving a much darker smile. "Wow, it sounds like this masked-dork's known us all his life..."

"Tch, I could take him out with one hit," Gerood snorted, unimpressed, cracking his knuckles. But before Robin could pull his extendable pole out from the thresholds of his belt, Gerood was on the ground via a large beam of bright-blue light produced by sonic waves.

"Boo-yah!" Cyborg cheered as he watched Gerood fly back, his arm still in its sonic-beam mode. "Why don't you pick on someone your own size, huh, beef-cake?!"

"Nrrgh...At least I'm actually made of beef, tin-man," Gerood growled, clearly embarrassed as he clumsily pulled himself back to his feet. He then tilted his head to the side, cracking his neck.

"'Tin man'? Oh, I KNOW you just didn't-!" Cyborg was instantly riled up. "I'll let you know I'm made of steel and iron with some titanium reinforcements!" He screamed before charging.

While the largest two men fought one another, both of their sound attacks canceling each other out mid-air, Robin clashed metal with Wer'nel, his staff now out of his toolbelt. Out of the four, Wer'nel was the most aggressive fighter; he wasn't interested in what was going on inside of the hospital - all Wer'nel was after was a good fight, and Robin was an almost worthy opponent. Both of them were equally fast, equally good at dodging, and had similar ideas strategically. If Robin got a hit in, Wer'nel returned it within two or three blows.

In fact, their battle was so well-matched and so enthralling that neither one noticed how Ker'rk began to run circles around Raven, merely to annoy her. He was far too fast for her to be able to get a solid grip on him, and anything she tried to trip him with, he merely ran around. No matter how many things she tried over-shadowing, she couldn't keep up...

"Looks like your friends are all busy, Princess," Urres'l muttered to Starfire's body as he held it in his arms. He had taken it off of his quick brother's shoulder when Ker'rk had begun running. Starfire did nothing more than groan and slightly turn over, as the victims of his brother's screech usually did. Urrse'l chuckled, watching the various battles, seeing his brothers doing nothing more than toying with these Titans. Good. they were all distracted.

Just as Urse'l began to float up from the ground to enter the hospital, he felt something small hit his ankles.

"Hm?" His golden eyes slowly drifted to down to his feet, where he saw two small humans in odd white-and-red uniforms. One had a tooth missing, and they were holding hands, sending identical, enraged looks up at him.

"Suelte a la señorita Starfire!" They shouted in together. The very sight of them caused a wave of laugher to burst through Urres'l's mouth, floating down slightly due to the weight of the two kids. His laughter didn't seem to make Mas and Menos any happier.

"Vayamos!" Mas said, and with his brother's nod, the two began to run at their top speed, stopping every few moments to send kicks or hits to the pale man's face. Their speed caused their hits to have twice the power, and the training Bumblebee had made them go through had caused them to begin gaining some muscle of their own.

"Augh! What an annoyance...!" Urres'l tried to catch the two as they attacked, but their speed was too much for him. He was used to Ker'rk taking care of such annoyances. Urrse'l turned, trying to get the attention of his fastest brother, but his eyes widened in shock at what he saw.

Ker'rk had both of his arms held behind him in a painful manner and was drenched thoroughly with water as an slightly feminine Atlantian boy held his brother's down. A bright-yellow arrow had frozen Wer'nel from the waist down, while leaning against the block of ice was a boy with slicked-down orange hair and the same type mask as Robin's. Gerood was grunting, walking backwards as something tiny with the wings of a bee was shocking him from all sides, causing him pain, and because of his large size, leaving him incapable of fighting such a small annoyance off. Just as Gerood was about to finally knock the small fly away, it grew to the size of a normal person, and a dark-skinned woman in yellow and black stripes, and knocked him to the ground with a very forceful kick right to the nose.

"Figured you guys could use some help," Bumblebee said with a wide grin, buzzing above Gerood. "Good thing we showed up. You're losing your touch, Sparky."

"I was just puttin' on a show," Cyborg muttered, crossing his arms over his chest with a pout. "I didn't want the others to feel bad 'cause I finished my guy off first, you know how it goes..."

"Yeah, just like Robin here didn't have any problems with this guy," Speedy muttered, tapping Wer'nel's nose with another arrow just as the pale man attempted to bite him, causing the upper half of the pale man's body to freeze, as well.

"Raven, are you alright?" Aqualad looked up at Raven, still holding Ker'rk's arms behind his back. All he got in response was a rather shy nod from the gothic girl, but that was enough for him, and he put his attention back to keeping the gangly boy from escaping.

"Augh-!" While Urres'l had been watching his brothers' defeat, he had completely forgotten that Mas and Menos had been preparing to attack him. While the pale man's attentions were elsewhere, the two had finally gotten together and bitten his hand at the same time. The sudden shock of the pain forced Urres'l to jerk and let go of Starfire, causing her body to fly into the air.

"STARFIRE!" Robin made an attempt to reach her, but he was too far away. Thankfully, Mas and Menos were prepared for this.

"Tenemos nuestra Señorita Starfire!" They said as they caught the purple-clad girl in their four arms. Once she had landed safely, the twins let out identical sighs of bliss, but then looked at Urres'l with hatred in their eyes. They set the Tamaranian down with the utmost care, and then sped off to team-kick the enemy.

Their feet connecting with the midriff of the pale man. He gave out a choked gasp, which let the speedy boysknow they had done what they had wanted -- knocked the wind out of him. They flipped back to their feet, releasing their grip on one another. The two were about to take hands again, when three small, sharp boomerangs flew out from behind them and hit Urres'l in the each shoulder and right under the left arm. The third one wasn't aimed as carefully as the last two, and caused the shirt of the pale man to rip slightly, and allow a small amount of blackened blood to drip to the ground, whereas the first two merely pinned the man against the nearest wall of the hospital.

Mas and Menos turned around to see Robin glaring daggers at the ringleader of the Vampire-like gang. In his hands was his metal pole, and he held it in a highly threatening manner. The twins cowered slightly as Robin walked past them, but then the two ran towards Starfire to try and awaken her as Robin held his pole to Uress'l's throat.

"What, Do. You. Want?" The leader of the Titans demanded with a snarl. Cyborg and Raven exchanged mildly-worried glances. Robin hadn't been this angry since their last encounter with Slade.

"Me?" Urres'l asked coyly. "My ruler -- which your people so greedily keep in this prison, as though he is nothing more than one of you lowly humans, or a Troq like that girl there. We will be taking him back and proving again to the universe that we, the Chiserran, are the mightiest of all races! Your planet will become nothing more than prey for us to feast upon!"

He began to laugh maniacally, but stopped as Robin pressed the pole more firmly against the ringleader's Adam's apple. turning the laugh into a strangled choke.

"You're looking for someone in the hospital?" Robin asked, this time more to himself than anyone else. He thought on it a moment, eyebrows furrowing in thought. "But...if you're looking for someone inside, why are you out here?"

Just as Robin said those words, he got the answer.

Inside the hospital there was a loud crashing sound and part of a wall above them came crashing down. Bumblebee quickly used her Stingers to shoot at the smaller parts of it out of harm's way, and Aqualad forced some pipes beneath the ground to rise, open, and send rushing water at the largest part to slow its fall.

"Beast Boy's still inside!" Raven called to Robin in a panic, but Robin had already understood what had happened. The group outside was nothing more than a distraction. Starfire had taken them on so the civilians inside wouldn't have gotten harmed. She had left Beast Boy to the one trying to kidnap whoever this 'Ruler' was. And Robin hadn't understood this. The Boy Wonder had completely lost his head when he had seen Starfire falling.

And now, it may have cost them Beast Boy, as well as the innocent people within the hospital.

Disclaimers:

Starfire, Beast Boy, Raven, Robin, Cyborg, Silkie, and pretty much everything but the plot at hand and the Chiserran belong to © D. C. Comics/Cartoon Network/Kids WB

9/2019 Edits:

Still working on this! I started a new job this week and I'm adjusting. Everyone in my family is, lol, especially my little muffin with daycare. But we're making it. Just exhausted in between.

[shemakesmusic-uk]

INTERVIEW: ALA.NI

UK-born, Paris-based artist ALA.NI will be releasing her upcoming sophomore album ACCA on January 24.  

ACCA consists primarily of dense, harmonically intricate vocal arrangements with sparse or no instrumental backing at all. It’s the followup to ALA.NI’s debut 2017 album You & I and while some critics made comparisons to the likes of Ella Fitzgerald and Judy Garland, the infectious beats and rhythmic tunes on ACCA owe more to Dr. Dre and Errol Dunkley than Billie Holiday and Sarah Vaughan.

ALA.NI initially envisioned her second album as a completely a capella project, and indeed ACCA is made up almost entirely of human voices (beatboxing serves as percussion, and she lowered her own vocals with an octavizer on several tracks to create the illusion of bass).

Along with Iggy Pop, Lakeith Stanfield (Sorry to Bother You, Atlanta, Get Out), makes an appearance on the album, but make no mistake: ACCA is pure ALA.NI. She wrote, produced, and arranged each song herself, layering up hundreds of vocal tracks in order to create an immersive, hypnotic world that blurs the lines between vibrating vocal cords, bowed strings, and blown reeds.

We had a chat with ALA.NI more about the story behind ACCA and the making of the record, collaborating with Iggy Pop, her struggles in the industry and more. Read the full interview below.

ACCA is dropping in just under two weeks. What is the record about lyrically and what does it mean to you?

"Lyrically, I speak on love of course, but from situations like the abusive relationship of a friend ('Hide'), my definition of love ('Wales'), a relationship in turmoil ('Van P'). 'Papa' was a poem for a friend that took a journey, via Mexico, into becoming a song. 'Le Diplomate' encounters a brief encounter with a french diplomate. I wrote about segments of my life."

You & I was written a capella but ACCA was created completely using a vocals-only technique which I think is so awesome and creative. What inspired you to make the record this way and what was your favourite part of the creative process?

"I always write a capella but with visions of instrumentation around it. With the ACCA album, the first song that made me feel confident that I could make a whole album based just around my voice, was 'Le Diplomate'. I wrote it for the man himself. It was not intended to be a song, but after I reviewed it and impressed myself with my mouth trumpet noises, I was convinced that I could conceive a whole album like this. I like working with parameters, so no instruments was a good one. Although after 3 months away from the studio recording process and some deep consideration and after being told by my mentor that it can't be "the ALA.NI show", I decided to add some subtle additions in the way of a male voice and low end instruments to the compositions. Accordion, bass clarinet, electric bass. Producing for me is like cooking. You add and taste, add and taste. Balancing the flavours out all the way.

"The process was...well I often used the words, "a brain fuck!!!!". It was a lonely process too. I had some stages with other musicians, but that was only for about 10% of the studio time, for the rest, it was just me and the engineer. My favourite part of the process was putting down the vocals. I love harmonising, so that was so satisfying....the rest has literally turned my hair grey! Ha!"

You & I had very much a a jazzy kind of vibe but the tracks from ACCA so far have a fuller and more upbeat sound.

"I never said ever, ever that I was a jazz singer. I have never wanted to limit myself like that, as I know I have many different ways and styles to express the music in me. The ACCA album allowed me to enter more into being able to move my body. I was stuck behind a stagnant mic for so long. I think that was the real reason for giving myself some beats."

You collaborated with legend Iggy Pop on a track for the album. How did that come about? We hear he is a big fan of yours?

"He is just too cool and cute and so incredibly giving of himself. I saw him perform recently in London and I felt so touched and happy and proud to watch this man at 72 do his shit! Damn! What an inspiration. He is a fan and I am so blessed to have his support. I literally got my people to ask his people if he'd like to collaborate and he simply said "yes". I went out to Miami to record him at his studio and it was one of the most surreal moments of my life. Directing Iggy Pop in the booth..."erm Mr. Pop, can you do that again please, the last take was shite!!!" Ha!

"He actually said this about me recently on his radio show...

"I worked as a guest once on one of her tracks and she came to America to produce it and brought a whole suitcase full of incredible microphones with her and she’s a perfectionist, her attention to detail is daunting and I had to toe the line, she’s tough."

"It's not true...honest..."

What do you hope fans will take away from ACCA?

"I have no idea. I can't control their ears or minds. I just made the music my heart wanted to make. I'm just happy to have them receive it...words from my heart. Whether they think its good or bad has nothing to do with me. You can't please everybody."

This is true! So, do you have plans to tour ACCA and if so, how will you translate the record on to the stage?

"This exercise too has been a head fuck. I have decided to go for cello, accordion and beatboxer for my live set up. Cello has a voicing that is very close to the human voice, so it works well and is so versatile as an instrument. Accordion has been a treat to work with. I never thought I'd be working with such an instrument, but it too is versatile and adds a very distinctive tone and texture to the music. I had to convert 300+ vocal parts into instrument parts, which was a fun (not) exercise. Beatboxer can do the most craziest things with his mouth. We are all learning to make mouth noises. Its a nice bunch of us on the road. I'm happy to be around good hearted, passionate people to make music with."

You've been in the industry a few years now. What challenges, if any, have you faced? And how did you overcome them?

"Hahahahahah!!!! It's daily and it seems to get worse the more I push to change the norm. Females are hugely under represented in the music industry, so its a daily struggle. I basically manage, produce, create myself, so its not an easy task I have given to myself.

"I don't have a tour manager, because I hate the fact that when I arrive at a venue, no one talks to me when I do have one. They only liaise with the "male manager" and not the artist. They are not used to dealing directly with the artist, especially a female one who knows exactly how she wants her gear set up. Oh, the fights I've had just to have my monitor where i like it. Its pathetic!"

That is absolutely ridiculous! But sadly, many women in the industry have similar stories. If there was one thing you could change about the music world today, what would it be?

"More tits, less dicks!"

Amen! You have had such an impressive career so far. What has been the biggest highlight for you to date and what are you looking forward to in 2020 and beyond?

"I remember nothing. I do the shit and I move the fuck on. I'm terrible like this. I like to be present and forward thinking.

"My career and life are so inter-twined, that for me, I keep it simple...I am just happy everyday to be alive and to be blessed enough to be able to do the work of my hearts calling. Thats all i ask for. To be able to continue to do the things i want to do....freedom."

ACCA arrives January 24.

Photo credit: Martin-oger Daguerre

[randomlifeunit]

“Paralyzed”

Rated: Teen and up

Warnings: PTSD (Post-traumatic stress disorder)

Part: 13/?

Sean knew he needed to go back to school. It had been haunting his dreams, dogging his every step. The thought surfaced at random times—when his dad left for work; when a friend texted him. When no one texted him, because they were in the middle of class. When he talked to his therapist.

His therapist, while sympathetic, gently continued to encourage him in a forward direction. He kept trying to make up his mind to just do it, but something inside him tried to crawl screaming up into his throat and seize his vocal cords every time.

His phone buzzed on Thursday afternoon. He looked at the message casually before doing a double-take. Rebecca?!

Hi, Sean. I hope you don’t mind me getting your number from Angela. I’ve been thinking about you, and just wondered how you are doing.

Rebecca

Sean’s eyes widened and he felt both pleasure and anxiety churning in his gut.

Before sending a reply message, he looked it over once more, indecision making him hesitate.

Hi Rebecca. No, I don’t mind. Thanks for messaging me. I’m doing okay. Trying to talk myself into going back to school.

Punching send, he headed downstairs to work on washing dishes, hoping he hadn’t shared too much. He set his phone on the table and rolled up his sleeves, trying to keep from stealing glances back at the blank screen.

The mounting guilt and anxiety about school and work drove him from room to room, scrubbing here, picking up there, running a load of laundry, making his bed. He tried not to look at the discoloration on the wall where his mirror used to be. His dad had asked him if he wanted a new one, but he hadn’t thought that was a good idea. Suddenly angry at the memory of the incident, he hastily ran downstairs to grab a hammer. He ripped a framed picture off his bedroom wall, yanking the nail out, and moved to hang it in place of the mirror. Hammering the nail forcefully into the wall felt good until he suddenly made contact with his index finger. Swearing loudly, he dropped the hammer on the floor, squeezing his eyes shut and holding his finger tightly. Frustration and anxiety warred in his mind, and he felt like he was going to go crazy. Shaking slightly, he grabbed his phone and a jacket, and decided to go ride his bike. He jogged downstairs and locked the door on his way out. Grabbing his bike from the garage, he swung his leg over and sat down, trying desperately to block out the memories that were attempting to flood his mind. He was just going for a bike ride; nothing more! “It’s no big deal!” he ground out through clenched teeth. He strapped on his helmet and took off down the road, trying to outpace his feelings. His heart racing, breath heaving, he flew across the pavement, homes whizzing past him in a blur. Tears drying on his face, he pushed himself faster, and faster, as he reached the outskirts of his neighborhood. All he knew in those moments was the heavy ache in his chest, the blood pounding in his head, and the deafening rush of the wind in his ears.

Suddenly Sean’s awareness came down to earth with a thump. The park loomed ahead of him on the right. How had he gotten this far from home? As he turned in and coasted down one of the main paths, he spotted a park bench ahead. He climbed off of his bike and sat down hard, fatigue beginning to crash over him. He put his head into his hands and tried to get his breathing and heart rate to calm down. A sudden vibrating in his pocket made him nearly jump off the seat. Blowing out a breath, he grabbed his phone out. “Hi, Dad,” he answered it, trying not to sound as breathless as he felt.

“Sean! Where are you?” Dennis asked, sounding exasperated and worried. “I’ve been trying to reach you for 25 minutes!”

Sean panicked for a moment as he looked at his watch. He’d been out for 2 hours? “Woah. I’m…really sorry. I totally…lost track of time,” he said in between breaths. “I’m at the park.”

“What are you doing there?” his dad asked incredulously.

“I…rode my bike here,” Sean said, wincing at the worry in his dad’s voice.

“You rode all the way to the park?”

“Uh…yeah,” Sean answered awkwardly.

“You could have left a note!” his dad rarely raised his voice at Sean, so he knew he was in trouble this time. “I had no idea where you were or what had happened to you!”

“I’m sorry, Dad.” Sean put a hand over his eyes. “I didn’t mean to worry you. I wasn’t thinking. I’ll head home right now.”

“I’m coming to get you,” Dennis said. “It’s going to get dark soon. Stay put, okay? I’ll be there in about 30 minutes.”

“All right,” Sean answered, feeling the remorse climbing higher. He hung up, leaning back on the bench, feeling more weary than he had in a long time. Dread filled his stomach as he waited for his dad to arrive.

As he looked at his phone, he saw he had a reply message from Rebecca as well. He didn’t want to read it right now–he felt too overwhelmed and exhausted.

Dennis pulled up in the SUV a half hour later, and Sean peeled himself off the park bench, feeling like his legs were weighted. Dennis got out and popped the back open, helping Sean lift the bike. Sean was grateful for the help— fatigue and guilt felt like they were crushing him simultaneously.

He got into the passenger side and buckled in, putting his head in his hands.

They drove in silence for awhile before Dennis spoke. His voice had softened somewhat. “I’m glad you’re safe. You had me pretty worried. It’s almost dark now and I…I just can’t lose you again, Bud.”

Sean’s gut twisted, his guilt razor-sharp. “I’m really sorry.” It felt lame, but no other words seemed adequate.

“You’re sure you’re all right, though?” Dennis asked, concern still evident in his voice. Sean blew out a breath. “Yeah… just tired,” he answered wearily, feeling on the edge of tears.

“What possessed you to ride out this far from home?” his father pressed.

Answering that question felt harder than it should have been. Sean’s eyes squeezed shut and he felt himself tensing up. “I was at home, while all my friends were at school, and I should be there, but I’m not. I should be working in the afternoons. I should be…getting better. I should be stronger than this. I’m so tired of being a disappointment to my boss, my friends… everyone.” His gaze flicked hastily to his father before looking away again. “I grabbed my bike and… just… tried not to feel, I guess. I don’t even remember how I got out this far.”

Dennis nodded slowly, remaining silent.

“I… I want to have a normal life. And it’s so frustrating to not be able to do the things I want–need–should be doing anymore.” Sean’s hands curled into fists, shaking slightly. Tears welled in his eyes and he blinked rapidly, trying to hold them at bay.

Dennis glanced at his son as he turned onto their street. He placed a hand on Sean’s shoulder. “We’ll figure this out, okay? It’ll be all right.”

“All right,” Sean answered wearily, wishing everything were different.

Once they arrived home and the bike was put away, he fled upstairs and collapsed into bed, eager to forget everything, and faintly hoping tomorrow might be different.

[builder051]

Had sometime requested #74!? I'd love to read that one

Back to the mania that is Spiderman… Here we’ll have some concussed Peter and a little freaking out Tony.

I’m sorry if this is similar to the other concussion fic I’ve written or to any concussion fic ever written, for that matter.  There’s just kind of a way I like to do things, you know?

___

Mr. Stark’s voice is loud in Peter’s ear.  Peter wants to tell him to shut up, but he can’t hear the individual words.  Better stick it out.  The message might be important.

“…ok?  Hey, kid, come on.”  He feels his mask parting company with his face.

“Not a kid,” Peter tries to say, but all that comes out of his mouth is a groan.  The vibrations from his vocal cords rise through his jaw and his face, bringing on a wave of dizziness that’s baffling because Peter’s pretty sure he’s lying down.

“Alright, that’s something,” Mr. Stark says.  “How ‘bout opening your eyes.”

Peter does, but it’s not much of an improvement.  Everything’s terribly blurred, and the light pouring in from all angles feels like acid washing over his eyeballs.  He blinks a couple times and decides he prefers his lids lightly closed.

“Ok.  You’re conscious,” Mr. Stark declares, relief obviously flooding his tone.  “Let’s sit you on up…”  Hands slide under Peter’s shoulders and yank him upright.  Well, at least that’s how it feels as he moves through space, vertigo smashing from all sides.  Peter keeps his chin down to his chest, but it still feels like his head is spinning on his neck.

“Look at me,” Mr. Stark instructs.

Raising his chin and tipping his gaze upward takes more effort than it should.  The motion brings on crashing nausea, and Peter clenches his teeth together.  Some kind of invisible fishing line seems to be connecting his lips with his eyelashes, and Peter screws his eyes shut again as well.

“Oh, geez.  You’re kind of missing the point here, kid,” Mr. Stark says.  “Look at me.  With your eyes.”

Oh.  He can do that.  Peter scrapes his eyelids up to reveal very blurry Mr. Stark leaning in close.  Peter’s mouth inexplicably gapes once more, and he settles for a disorganized prayer that his body won’t take it as an invitation to spew rising stomach contents all over the place.

“Yeah, ok,” Mr. Stark mutters.  “Your pupils are pretty blown.  I’m guessing you can’t see that well?”

“Hm,” Peter exhales.  He does his best attempt at a nod without moving his head.

“Shit,” Mr. Stark hisses.  “Worst-case scenario.  I should have a protocol for this…”

“I’m ok.”  Peter’s not really sure why he grinds it out, except that it feels natural.

“I’d totally believe you,” Mr. Stark starts.  “If I didn’t just watch you get thrown into a wall.  I’m not trusting that you can sit up by yourself right now.”

The metal ironman gloves are still clamped around Peter’s shoulders.  Funny.  He can barely feel them gripping his body.  Maybe his arms are going numb.  Or maybe it’s that anything outside the cacophonous throbbing of his head just registers so much lower on the scale of sensation that it doesn’t seem to matter.

Peter would really like to go home.  Lie down.  The brightness that keeps rudely inserting itself and making his eyes water tells him it’s daytime, but the drowsiness pulling at Peter’s consciousness is more like the feeling of staying up till 3 in the morning to play video games against his (and May’s) better judgment.

“Not sure I was supposed to follow that,” Mr. Stark says, moving his hand to behind Peter’s back.

Oops.  Was he talking out loud?  Peter doesn’t think he was, but it seems like he’s been wrong a lot lately.  Like thinking he could use webs to tie up that scientist’s mechanical limbs on his own…that was a pretty crappy choice.

Speaking of that… “Where’s the…the thing?”  Great specificity, Pete.

“The thing?” Mr. Stark repeats.  “Not a comic book I read.”

“No, the…the doc…”

“Oh, our friend Mr. Octavius?  The one who just gave you a head injury?”  He looks at Peter with a mixture of incredulity and pity.  “Not a priority right now.”

“Why?”  He was doing terrible things, right?  And that’s why he and Mr. Stark were fighting him, right?

“I’ll hunt him down in 48 to 72 hours when I’m sure you aren’t dying of a brain bleed,” Mr. Stark says.  Then, “Come on.  Think you can stand up?  If I help you?”

Peter’d like to say no, but he doesn’t get a chance to reply.  Mr. Stark grips Peter’s elbows and maneuvers him to his feet.  Peter feels the sway externally and internally.  “Whoa, ok.” Mr. Stark tucks his metal-clad arm around Peter’s shoulders to hold him steady.  It does nothing to stay Peter’s sloshing stomach though.

“Off to the car,” Mr. Stark says.

Ok.  That must mean they’re going home.  Peter thinks longingly of his lumpy twin mattress, the endearingly temperamental showerhead… But he’s going to have to stop off at the toilet before he can shower or sleep, though.  The sweat on his upper lip is beading up as his stomach clenches ominously.

Mr. Stark’s talking to him again.  “…chill upstate with me for a while.  May is going to kill me if she sees what happened to you…”

The words don’t sink in.  The mucousy gunk clogging Peter’s throat must be blocking up his ears as well.  He’s on the verge of asking Mr. Stark to clarify, but words aren’t what rises when he opens his mouth.  The first trickle of vomit is small and unexpected, but then Peter’s knees buckle as the second wave forces itself out, almost projectile, spraying partially digested food and acid over the ground and the front of his suit.

“Jesus Christ, kid,” Mr. Stark mutters, holding Peter around the waist at arm’s length.  The third retch produces less, and the fourth is practically dry.

“Alright,” Mr. Stark says when Peter’s coughing and smearing puke over his face with his shaky gloved hand.  “Worst-case scenario confirmed.  You’re concussed as hell.”

Peter’s still too nauseous to think, so he just vaguely nods, which makes him dry heave again.

“Calm down and breathe.”  Mr. Stark slaps him on the back a couple times.  “There’s Happy with the car.  Right there.  Hopefully he has trash bags.”

The interior of the car is mercifully dimmer than the bright sunlight outside, but the hunching over and stepping up necessary to slide into the back of the SUV is sickening all over again.  A rumpled plastic shopping bag materializes in Peter’s lap.  He means to say thanks, but he gives a gross hiccup instead.

The drive is painful.  Peter feels fairly carsick even before the vehicle starts moving, and he’s throwing up again within minutes.  After his body evacuates a couple tablespoons of yellow bile, Peter lets his bowling ball of a head fall backward and bounce off the headrest.  Which hurts.  He shuts his eyes.

“Hey, hey, no sleeping,” Mr. Stark chides, poking Peter in the shoulder.  “Not yet.”

“Tired,” Peter groans.  And maybe he’ll feel less like dry heaving if he’s asleep.

“Yeah, but if your brain decides it likes a permanent state of unconsciousness, I’ll be on the line for child abuse resulting in death, so I’d rather you didn’t do that right now.”  Mr. Stark sighs.  “That…came out harsher than I meant.  Just…please don’t die.”

Peter doesn’t know how much time’s passed when Mr. Stark supports him out of the car and into the Avengers facility’s spacious entryway.  The plastic bag he’d been puking into is gone, and Peter’s starting to feel like he needs it again.

“Mr.…” Peter manages to whisper.  He gags, meaning to cover his mouth with his balled fist, but missing a little.  Spit hits the hard floor with an amplified sound, and Peter fights the invasive dizziness that threatens to send him down too.

“Ok, geez,” Mr. Stark murmurs.  “I would give you an MRI, but I don’t think you’re ready to lay on your back right now.  How about a change of clothes and a trash can?”

In his current state, it sounds like the best proposition Peter’s ever heard.

[fleetwoodmoth]

//Debris

The sky is falling and where are you?   

Ace/Daniel and Eight/Jacob belong to @jorgancrath

“We’re meeting up with the others, where are you?”

           “Coming,” Nobody’s voice was even as they slipped down a short incline and back into the shadows of a lower street. Ace’s location pinged on the hud in their helmet like a beacon, a goal in all the chaos. Their head was spinning, their ears still ringing from a blast impacting a little too close for comfort.

           They weren’t unused to combat, but they were Hidden and they were a sniper, they liked distance. They shook their head, ducking into an alleyway before slipping past a blown apart door of a small residential building.

           “How are you holding up?”

           “Fine.”

           Their replies were clipped, short, not that they were known for speaking a lot; but if they spoke too much now they knew they wouldn’t be able to focus.

           “One block off,” they said.

           “Good, Eight and I are with—“

           Again Nobody’s ears were blown out, the crash and subsequent explosion rocking the building above them. They clasped their hands over their ears, nearly dropping their rifle to the floor as they tried to steady themselves. It was then that the groaning began, they could nearly feel the deep bassy vibrations in their chest as the building began to crumble.

           “Shit.”

           “Nobody?”

           They could barely hear Ace on the other end, their ears ringing too loudly and the crashing of building debris too much for them to process his words as they took off for an exit. They could see the dim light of the outside, the sweeping light of a Cabal ship as it flew by. It wasn’t far, they just needed to run. Run.

           “Run!” Polaris’ voice erupted in their head as they dodged a large slab of the ceiling that had come down. They stumbled, the view of their escape going sideways, only a few feet now, they could touch the threshold when all they could hear was the rumbling of debris and their own screaming.

           “Averi? Averi can you hear me?” Polaris’ voice was weak, trembling, the ghost nowhere to be seen, in fact nothing could be seen, it was all darkness. Nobody blinked heavily, an incessant pounding in their skull preventing them from finding focus. Next came the pain, it was numb at first, a strange coldness that traveled up the side of their abdomen when it started to unfurl across their ribs, a frigid stinging that took their dust filled breath away. They wanted to scream, to release the pain into the air like it would do something about it. They tried to look around, to locate the damage done to their side which they were slowly starting to realize traveled down their leg as well, but they were immobilize. They could feel their helmet bent in in places, seeming to be barely withstanding the pressure around them. The building. It was starting to come back, and it was starting to feel more like a nightmare than reality.

           “Don’t try to move, we’re pinned, I can’t get you out I’m… we’re…”

           Even as excruciating pain spread through their body there was a deeper ache, like the air had been ripped from their lungs, a coldness that seemed to be radiating from the inside out.

           “The light, it’s gone.”

           Their heart jumped into their throat, their mouth gaping wildly as they not only struggled to breathe between their cracked chest armor, but because of the overwhelming realization that they were stuck and they could die.

           “I’m trying to heal you, but I don’t have much left in me, I need you to stay still.”

           Nobody could feel the pounding in their ribs increase as the panic set in, the sound of their own breath heavy in their ears as they tried to keep from getting vertigo from lack of oxygen.

           “Breathe, Averi, we need to call for help.”

           Help. Right, there were still people out there. Ace. Eight. Ikora, Joker, Cayde. They were out there and they could help.

           “Call. Call them.”

           “Who?”

           “Them,” their voice broke harshly, their tightly reined control over their breathing starting to slip.

           “Sending out a signal to all available guardians. I don’t… I can’t receive a signal, only transmit, I won’t know if someone is coming.”

           “Please.”

           “Okay.”

           “This is a distress signal to all available guardians, we’re stuck, buried, injured. We need help immediately. Repeat this is a distress signal to all available guardians…”

           They weren’t sure how long they called, how long they laid there beneath the rubble, how many times they slipped out of consciousness only to wake up screaming again. It could have been minutes, it could have been hours, and maybe Nobody was dead, they wondered if this was hell, to be eternally trapped screaming for help only to have no one hear them. Finally they had grown dizzy from yelling, calling for help when Polaris’ distress signals ceased to calm their nerves, they felt their eyes roll back as they gasped for air, waiting for it to filter back in through the debris when they heard voices. At first they thought it was a hallucination, something their oxygen starved brain cooked up to ease them into the afterlife. But as their senses began to come back to them they realized they weren’t dreaming, there were voices, and not just any at that.

           “Help!” Their voice cracked heavily, echoing into a harsh pitch.

           “Help! I’m down here!” They screamed, tears that had dried momentarily starting to flow freely again.

           They’re down there, help me move this.

           They could hear them, they felt only feet apart yet miles away as they heard the shifting of stone.

           Nobody?

           The voice was still muffled and they needed a minute to breathe.

           “Shit, no, no, hey buddy keep talking to me,” they could hear the desperation in Ace’s voice as it became clearer.

           “I’m here, I’m here,” their voice faltered, their vocal cords having been thrashed from use.

           “I need you to keep talking or I can’t find you, take the other side of this Jacob,” they could hear him closer now.

           “I see a hand!” This time it was Eight’s voice, a little more worn than usual, but it was him none the less.

           “It hurts, Traveler it hurts!” Light had started to trickle in above them, bouncing off the visor of their helmet.

           “Shit.”

           There was a dragging, grinding noise and suddenly pain shot up Nobody’s leg, a scream ripped from their throat as they heard Ace curse again.

           “Stop stop! Not that one.”

           The pressure subsided, and they felt their vision dim, the toll the lack of oxygen took on them easier to realize in the light.

           “Please,” their voice was weak, barely a shaking whisper as darkness encroached on their vision. They had thought they had stayed conscious but it was obviously not true seeing as the next time they opened their eyes they were fully bathed in light, two figures overhead as they tried to orient themselves. They were wedged at an odd position, halfway facing down while their legs were curled upwards like they had tried to tuck themselves into a ball. The air stung wounds they hadn’t even gotten to see yet as a pair of hands started to maneuver them from their tomb.

           “Get their legs,” Ace’s voice was quieter now, grave, as he started to pull upwards.

           The motion made them stretch, opening wounds, a gagging noise leaving their throat as it took their breath away.

           “Get the helmet off,” it was Eight who spoke next, two arms taking up Nobody’s legs in an attempt to get them out easier, finally they stopped moving and it took a moment for Nobody to come to full consciousness. They felt fingers at their throat, the action alarming, old dull memories kicking up panic in their stomach as they tried to grasp at whoever was assaulting them.

           “Hey, hey, it’s us Nobody, it’s Danny, we’re not hurting you.”

           Nobody blinked, eyes still blurry, and although they were no longer in the pitch black it was still hard to see. Their grip softened on Daniel’s wrist and he started to work again at the clasps of their helmet, obviously bent from being in such a wreck. Finally though there was a click and the helmet loosened before it was pulled from Nobody’s head.

           “Averi,” they choked out as they blinked past tears, trying to get a good look and Ace.

           “What? What is it?”

           “They’re bleeding a lot,” Eight said quietly, somewhere off to the side, the act of turning their head to look difficult as Nobody tried to fight back the black blotches that swam in their vision.

           “I’m Averi, please, don’t forget. My name, me, I’m Averi,” it all was muddled together, the only thing in their minds that seemed a constant was a need for them to know.

           “Don’t forget. Don’t forget, I’m Averi,” they choked on a half sob half yelp as something was pressed to their side, a hand finding theirs.

           “Averi.”

           Their breath caught in their throat as he said it, heart pounding against their ribs and a throbbing in their head that blurred their vision. They saw a mess of white hair, and realized they had Eight’s hand in a vice grip.

“Averi...Averi, we won’t forget you. We won’t cause we're going to make it through this. You are going to make it through this or so help me God."

They tried to focus on Daniel’s words, tried to find his eyes, tried to find Jacob beside them but it was all mixing into a swirling mess of lights, colors and sounds. They squeezed their eyes shut, choking down another sob as they felt a hand on their side, pain shaking them to the core.

“They’re bleeding too heavily, we need… we need help.”

“They’re coming.”

“Danny…”

Their eyes slid open again, vision blurred but they could see the both of them.

“Please, don’t forget.”

“Stay with me Averi okay? Keep looking at me, keep those beautiful eyes on me yeah?” They weren’t sure if Daniel’s voice had wavered or if they had imagined it.

“I can’t stop the bleeding,” Jacob’s voice was barely above a whisper and Averi saw Daniel look over.

“Press harder.”

Nobody hissed as they felt the pressure increase, a steady throbbing that wouldn’t cease making them want to vomit. They let their eyes slide shut, they needed rest, just for a second; it was then they felt gloved hands pressed to their cheeks.

“Hey, can you open your eyes for me Averi?”

They forced themselves to look up, to meet Daniel’s eye again.

“Remember movie night a few weeks ago? Remember falling asleep between Jacob and I? You don’t sleep that soundly at home and yet you were snoring like a baby,” Daniel forced out a laugh and Nobody felt their head clear slightly as the memory popped up amongst the fog of pain and adrenaline.

“We’ll be like that again yeah? Just have to stick around, will you? Will you stick around Averi?”

It took all the energy they had to nod, their throat too dry to speak.

“Good, okay, I’m glad, I’m happy about that, what about you Jacob?”

“I’m happy, I’m happy,” Nobody felt a squeeze at their hand.

Nobody felt a smile tug at the edges of their cracked lips, trying to breathe deeply despite the pain in their chest. Their head was throbbing and everything felt like it was starting to slow down. It was hard to blink, or rather it was harder to open their eyes after closing them.

“Stay with me Averi, yeah? Stay with us?”

Nobody tried to nod, tried to respond but they were finding it too hard, everything, every minuet exertion that would have normally been easy was draining.

Stay with us Averi… Averi we love you stay with us… Stay, Averi. Stay.

[lsdandkizuki]

In The Eye of the Storm

New John Lennon fic, this time featuring Paul and John’s love of Paul! Can also be found on my AO3 account here.

Summary: While sailing to Bermuda, John has a transformative experience. Summer, 1980.

The weather was just right for a seaside holiday. The stars guided him in a South-Easterly direction, which took him to the sparkling shores of Bermuda. His father was a sailor; he was born to be a sailor.

Of course, these were not really the reasons he took to the ocean on that sunny June day. The true reason was that the sea was the absolute opposite of everything he’d seen for the past five years: blank, featureless and fucking claustrophobic white walls now gave way to blank, featureless, never-ending water-surface.

“But it’s not really blank,” John whispered, “That’s what’s so great.” Because there were always things, terrifying beings lurking in the dark under-surface – it was blank in the way a facial expression may be blank, concealing a raging soul. There was no more soul in his white apartment than in an empty record sleeve. Yoko squeezed his arm, and wished him silently to be safe. John kissed her forehead in response, buzzing with the excitement of leaving, praying for an adventure.

When the adventure arrived, it landed squarely in John’s lap. It was a storybook tempest: a crack of thunder exploding like shells overhead, the monochrome strobe effect caused by the lightning. The yacht rolled sickeningly, taking John by surprise as he was rocked about along with it. Tyler Coneys was laid low by the storm; John watched his white and greenish face as he staggered below deck. His two cousins followed close behind. There was sickness rising in John too, but there was always a sickness inside. This was a different kind of sick, something closer to the amphetamine rush he got all those years ago in Hamburg. Damned if he was going to hide in the galley through this.

Grabbing the mast, he stayed up, and proudly relished the sprays from all sides. He screamed to the skipper over the roar, “nice weather we’re having, isn’t it?”

The skipper briefly looked back at him from the helm to reply, and John saw that he too was becoming affected by such heavy boat-lurching. John couldn’t resist a little scoff – and he was the amateur here! “You got some balls, man,” the skipper yelled back, his cap flapping uselessly around his head, “this is the worst squall I’ve weathered in years. And Tyler’s a tough bastard, too.”

I’m tougher. “You alright over there?” John headed towards him, and found himself catapulted to the helm with a particularly forceful buck. “Want me to take over?”

The skipper was clearly more than willing to hide his head in the cosy cabins, and John enjoyed watching his conflicted expression. “Well, that is, I mean… If you feel you can… Christ, your first sailing trip… I shouldn’t, I really… Go ahead.”

Any sounds that may have come from the skipper, or Coneys, or any other human other than the voice in his own head, were killed by the waves. John found that a prospect equal parts terrifying and fantastic. He was alone, truly alone. Time to face the music. The yacht bucked again, horribly, John’s hands found the cool metal of the helm, and he gripped with all of his might. “Way, haul away,” he began to sing, raucously and joyously, “We’ll haul away Joe. The cook is in the galley, making duff so handy…” Here he was, the lowly cook, saving them from all from a storm only he could handle. He felt he had a right to be smug.

Fuck smug, he was on fire. He was soaking wet, but he felt completely alight, afraid to touch something lest it burn up in his presence. There was a groan from the yacht, a groan from the ocean. “The captain’s in his cabin, drinking wine and brandy,” John sang to them. “Away, haul away, we’ll haul away Joe!” The sky crackled, like something substantial, and suddenly John changed his tune to a wordless scream. He could not tell if it was a scream of euphoria or sheer terror, and this fact alone drew another yell from him. It was nearly lost in the wind, but he could hear it fine.

He continued to shout, and soon he realised he was shouting words after all: come on, come on, come on.

John had always been a believer in the here and now, but never had his life seemed quite so here and now as this exact moment. These last years, particularly, he’d been drifting in an aimless, placeless stasis, and it was difficult to enjoy the moment when every moment was identical to the one preceding and the one following. Now, though – truly, truly now – every potential sensation inside him was on its highest setting, and there was no sense of before or after. There was just him, whoever he was, and the moment. And, he realised, without the slightest glimmer of fear, this was a life-or-death moment. He had started sailing with this very trip, and here he was trying to weather the worst storm Tyler’s crew had seen in years. It was a recipe for disaster.

Sod that. Everything in his life until this point had been a recipe for disaster. He gripped the helm harder, and pulled it firmly to one direction. It was one-on-one now, Lennon versus Storm, and it was a fight he had no intention of losing. Now that, he thought, rather gleefully in the midst of it all, is what I call “Primal Scream.”

He was still screaming, but now the words were different, they sounded more like coming, coming, coming. Well, this was certainly an orgasm, if that word meant anything real.

The word brought something into his head. A clanging guitar riff, fast and clever, and distorted voice singing the confident words, you want a love that’ll last forever, one that will never fade away…

“Paul!” John cried, delirious, “What’re you doing here, you little bastard?”

Coming up, Paul replied, cheekily and tunefully, coming up, like a flower.

His hands loosened some. The storm was beating so hard on his ears, and Paul’s song was climbing up inside him, getting louder and louder, uncontrollably so, the dial on his internal amp ticking steadily up, and up, and up. He was not so much in the here and now anymore. Now more familiar feelings of the then and there, and the when and where, were beginning to creep in. Ah, friendly old doubt. How nice to see you. Do settle in.

Christ, what was he doing? He didn’t know how to sail. He didn’t know how to write songs, he hadn’t done for years. He could barely look after a single beautiful child like Sean, what was he thinking stepping out like this? His hands seized in horror on the helm. He could not move them. The sea seemed to laugh at him; he frantically remembered his battle with a surge of pride, then a surge of panic as he realised that this was no game, he could truly die here. But his hands, they still would not move. His mouth too was locked open in a silent cry, filling with salt and freshwater from the sky of blue and sea of green. What was he crying for? Was it help? Deliverance? It was certainly not joy, not anymore. Before he could examine the thought, a blinding flash of light assaulted him, and everything – the helm, the ocean, Coming Up – disappeared.

There was a moment of blackness, and with it silence, but Paul’s words still seemed to shape the air, making it vibrate with frequencies too high for his hearing. Coming up… Coming up… Up… Up… Get up… Get up, John!

“Eh?” The pillow on which John’s head had been peacefully resting was yanked out and promptly used as weapon. John groaned as it smacked him upside the head, but still he did not open his eyes.

“Come on, you lazy arse, it’s past noon!” John opened his eyes, finally. The world was a mess of blurs, with a splash of black on white, which he imagined was Paul. He fumbled around for his glasses, had a split-second of panic when he did not feel them on the bedside, until smooth fingers slid them delicately up the bridge of his nose.

“Thanks.” He shook the sleep out of his head, blinked twice, and there he was: sitting in his Weybridge bedroom, with all of its useless trinkets cluttered about in perfect focus, and there was Paul, with a hand on one hip and a pillow in the other. A magazine pose, really. His eyebrow was quirked at John; John grinned back. “What’re you doing here, anyway?”

“Getting you out of bed, clearly. Can’t have you snoozing all our precious time away. I want to show you something.”

“And here it is,” John smiled, “the great Paul McCartney’s newest masterpiece must have an audience, and all. It simply can’t wait for next rehearsal session, can it?”

Paul scowled, but John felt none of its annoyance. After all, Paul had specifically felt the need to come to his house, on a weekend, just to show him his work. It was as normal an event as it had been five years ago; still it brightened the day up a little. “Asshole,” Paul said, in a perfect East-coast accent. Who’s Kojack now? John suddenly found himself thinking. What a strange thought to have.

Paul’s hands had spirited up a guitar, and looking down with that irresistible concentrated-yet-effortless expression, he strummed a G, a healthy little chord. “To lead a better life,” he sang, “to B-minor, and then, interestingly, to B-flat, “I need my love to be here…”

It was a delicate, wistful tune, perfectly suited to Paul’s choirboy vocal cords. Like much of Paul’s work, though John had yet to tell him this, it was an eternal melody, one which seemed to have existed dormant in John’s mind already, until Paul had woken it up. It was painfully, shamefully good, and John felt two simultaneous pricks of pride and jealousy. The words were simple, and lovely. A love that was omnipresent and God-like – only rooted in the earth, hands in the hair, and all that. It sounded familiar to John. Even when Paul was not with him, he seemed to be, always here, there and everywhere. That was how he liked it. “It’s alright,” John told Paul.

Paul grinned at him, a completely sincere and proud smile, which caused John to crumble inside a little. “You love it.” A movement in the clouds outside caused the sun to stream hurriedly into the open room. It flushed Paul’s hair with brightness, and in that moment he became a figure burning with youthful potential, casual and elegant in his affluent talent, and of course John fell in love with him all over again. It was too unnerving a situation to address. John did not tend to waste time finding his female lovers beautiful, or mystical, in the way he found Paul. Their appeals were all ordinary, like the luxuries he now took for granted. Paul had something awe-inspiring mixed up in all that, which frightened him. “You written anything new?” He asked.

It was like a knife sliding into his back in another dimension. “Not for a few weeks, no.” Not for a few years. You knew that, Paul. Is it bad enough to torment me with your constant talent, now you have to remind me of my failures? Again, John was surprised by his own thoughts, sounding so bitter. He felt an uncomfortable nausea, as if the room were softly swinging in a breeze. He had not been that drunk the night before, had he? “I’ve hit a brick wall.”

“Don’t be silly. You’ve been lazy, is all. Sleeping ‘til noon is hardly good song-writing form, is it?”

It was not an entirely genuine chide. But the words hit home, because he was right. Cooped up in these white walls and the baby – hang on, though, that wasn’t right. He closed his eyes. Clearly remnants of his dream had spilt into the day. “Maybe there’s a song in that,” he mused. “Sleeping through the day.”  

“There you go,” Paul said, “write that down, then.”

The doubt and nervousness that took hold of him at this point briefly starved him of words. Paul tilted his head at him. “I do try to write,” he murmured. “Really I do. I’ve thrown away more scraps of lyrics than I can count.”

Paul put down his guitar, and sat next to John on his bed. “Why’d’ya do that?” he asked. “You could just come to me with it. We haven’t worked on a bit together in ages…”

John shrugged. “It’s crap, that’s why. I don’t like writing stuff that’s no good.” Since Yesterday. Since you flowered into a genius, and I didn’t even realise.

“So what? It’s got to be better than nothing, hasn’t it?” He was looking earnestly at John now, his playfulness vanished. They were sitting close together, and their hands brushed as Paul lifted a finger to scratch the side of his nose.

“I don’t know about that.” John squeezed a patch of the bedclothes in his fist, and found that they had a strangely stiff quality. Metallic, almost. “It seems a lot of things might be better off if I didn’t do them at all.” His son for instance – no. His sons. “I don’t believe in meself.”

Paul seemed to be about to contradict this, but he stopped himself. “I believe in you,” he said finally. Then he smiled again. “Here, don’t get teary on me now.”

John wiped his face, though he was not sure it was wet with tears, or something else. “How could I lose you, Paul?” He’d take it all back, just for one more wake-up call like this. “I can’t do it without you.”

Paul’s hand was warm and solid, a splendid impossibility in the wet and biting wind. John leaned into the touch. “I never left. I’m still waiting for you.” Something John had not felt since the summer of 1964 began to simmer inside, something good.

“Don’t go now, then,” he gasped. “I’m coming.” And then Paul laughed, a windy laugh, full of the wide expanse of the oceans.

“Steer your boat, Johnny.”

The squall was still raging, and John was still alone at the front of the yacht, still facing it down. With aching friction, his hands turned the helm. His feet skidded in the pools of water between the planks, but the doubt was completely gone. He had duties to fulfil, and he was believed in.

When Hamilton harbour bobbed into sight a week later, John was called by Tyler from the galley, up to deck. He blinked in the sunlight. “We did it.”

“Yeah,” Tyler’s hands were relaxed and practised on the helm, a world away from John’s chaotic tactics. “You got us through the worst of it.” He whistled. “This is your first sailing trip, isn’t it? How d’ya like the wind in your face?”

“It’s great,” John replied. The wind was low now, and the yacht moved almost imperceptibly through clam waters. But the adventure was not over, not by a long shot. Going by his blood bubbling with words and music, and the itch in his fingers to strum them out, it was only just beginning. “We’ve all got to step out once in a while.”

[idsaeran-blog]

𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐫. (wrd count; 649 ) + Detail the shittiest moment of your career (+5 exp.)

2015.

The track for El Dorado blares in his ears, sharp, heady and overly ripe like a forgotten breakfast peach. He hasn’t eaten that, breakfast, in a while. He’s been in a stiff for a while; his vocals have given out tremendously and doctors have commented on the strain in the cords; things aren’t vibrating as they’re supposed to. He’s on his knees, grappling at props, dear God why are there so many fucking props everywhere on this damn stage?

“Saeran?” A voice calls in his ears over the speakers that abruptly cut. Its wavelength swelters against his ear dumb, ripples off of his cochlea and sways to the fifth, sixth harmonic before fading into white light like an unwritten, metaphysical Doppler effect. 

Sweat drips off of his back and bodes the cold air, then the hot, then the extreme in between and the triple point where every state of matter merges into a plane of uncertainty. He’s not stable right now and the way he violently tears his headset out of his ears is alarming.

“...and you know...we can easily just...because nobody wants to come see their oppa come fainting and failing on stage. Maybe...yeah, Sewoon’d be willing to take over your parts. You can sit there on the ground panting. Reflect. Do you know his part-”

Saeran cuts the voice off quickly, clambering to his feet as his vision slides and bends in the refracted light. “No. No, let me...” He calls, holding a hand to his aching temple. He’s been coming down with something for days, almost a week now, right before the grandest stage of their careers thus far. He scrambles to his position, trying to catch his downing breath. “Start the music again, guys. I can do it.”

“No you can’t,” someone else cuts him off, throwing a water bottle his way. Saeran misses it and lets it hit his chest, falling back considerably far. Perhaps he’s dramatic in that sense, but this moment, this moment here is a devastating reminder, an emerald colored paint smear in the middle of the golden dreams he’s whipped up and spun in his scarred hands, oxidizing and leaving behind a harsh iron brick. 

The sad reality of being overworked, of non-stop, ‘round the clock, promoting and acting and appearing here and there shows in his ragged steps, his hoarse throat. He’s gone too far this time with the insisting, with the trying to bide everything and spread himself thin. The faces in the audience of the rehearsal, now reminiscent of sheep-speckled field in his blurring vision, they’re scrutinizing, taunting at the very least. Saeran’s never been sick before, not since he was a child. He’s made it through his trainee years, through the trecherous demands of his career as an idol thus far without struggle on an extreme and helpless physical level. It’s a devastating week and all of the emotional damage it’s caused takes a horrible toll on his form.

It’s a mirror of his dependency on this industry. It’s his drug, his xanax, his release. If he’s feeling anger, he practices. If he’s feeling pain from practicing, he practices more. If he’s reminded of the status of his life, he practices more. It fills his body with heat, with craving and desperation, he crawls towards its vices for clarity and then some. 

“I’m okay guys,” He starts again, slowly steadying himself behind his prop. They give him another chance, one lucky four-leaf relief shot to fuel his addiction to this complex, this plastic factory. It riles him up, he doesn’t care about the hazy feeling in his brain, the begging of his limbs to sit down. He can’t let them have his parts. His hard work, his fans, look at all the pressure on his back! 

The music takes off indefinitely but the week comes to a devastating end. Saeran’s pulled out of one night’s show.