#but she has him ensnared in her quiet little web all the same. she is everything lily can't be for him

[foursaints]

actually the idea of petuniajames infidelity has crazy potential and is making me feel insane. this one has an extra kick to it... and they were both complicit

[strawberrystarcake]

S U N S H I N E .

ampo story number 5 !! no it's not late what are you talking about ^____^ @a-million-possible-outcomes

It's a rare thing, this sort of light.

Mornings come unforgivingly cold most days, crisp with ice and snow and the silvery winter film that never quite goes away. I’ve grown accustomed to it, and perhaps that’s why I notice straight away that something has changed. Summer, it seems, has come.

It finds me in my bedroom. The sunlight spills in through the window, golden and warm, washing over me like something novel and familiar all at once. Beside me, my best friend lies tangled in my sheets, staining them strawberry. She’s staring at the sky, or what little is visible from where we’re curled on the bed.

(I do not think about how she makes me feel the same way the sunlight does, with all that liquid light pooling in the dark of her eyes. I do not think about how the sunlight itself is almost drawn to her, like a moth to a flame, except in this case the flame has fallen into its own trap. The beguiler beguiled, ensnared in a web of its own design.

I most definitely do not think- we are more alike than I thought, the sun and I.)

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she asks. She knows what I’ll say to that. “I want it. It’s that kind of beautiful. Do you get what I mean?”

“Yes,” I say, because that is what I always say. It’s a familiar back-and-forth. She’ll say do you get me and I will say yes, because I know her better than I know myself.

Silence again. The sun rises in the sky, bleeding from gold to white. She is curled beside me, now, and looking at me like the proximity means nothing to her. It probably doesn’t, I think, wryly and ruefully all at once, and whatever comes next goes both unspoken and unthought.

.

(Here is what I do think, mulling over the things I did not think and the things I did not say: maybe one day, I’ll stop lying to myself about everything that truly matters.)

.

I kiss her for the first time on the way home from a movie, three blocks from our tiny suburban neighborhood with all its stifling comfort. She tastes like strawberry sugar and the salt of her tears.

“Here,” she whispers when we part, tugging me into a diner by the road. It’s an old place, made all up of dusty white tiles and busted neon signs and milkshake stains on the driveway. She, with her wild hair and sunlight eyes, shines ebullient against it all. “Kiss me again.”

And so I kiss her again. Hold her close again. The day is warm again. In our little winter town, all there is to warm me is my love, and it burns. It flows through me like molten gold. My blood thrums hot underneath my skin.

She shivers against me, laughing saccharine-sweet against my lips. I close my eyes and take a shuddering breath. The world spins, slightly, and I feel half-drunk on sunlight and laughter and the artificial-strawberry scent of her hair. She’s all the sort of lovely that turns a person into a fool, and in that fleeting moment, all I can think is- how lucky I am, to have known her in this life.

.

“He’s beautiful,” she whispers, one quiet silver day, and I look up.

They say that when the heart breaks, you feel it as if it were something physical, something more than a metaphor. I never gave it much thought myself. I’ve only fallen in love once, and I’ve always believed that one’s heart can only break on the pavement if it flies high enough to fall.

On that day, I am flying high enough to see the stars that twinkle in her eyes when she looks at the boy across the courtyard, and I am Icarus in the flesh, wax melting white-hot down my back. The ocean is no refuge, no relief, no balm for a broken heart.

.

He is beautiful, really. And sweet. And perfect. His eyes catch and shimmer in the sunlight just like hers do and he’s kind; so, so kind. He’s perfect for her, hovering exactly at her level like I never could. When she could have him, why would she settle for anything less?

(The taste of jealousy is not pleasant, but it is addictive, and it’s not something I can chase away. It’s bitter under my tongue and bitter down my throat and bitter in my heart and lungs.)

.

It’s the typical story. I’m only one girl of hundreds, falling deeper and deeper and wishing desperately for just one chance. But that chance never comes, and a part of me- the part that just wants to keep me from getting hurt worse than I can take, I expect, or perhaps the cruel part that presses down on my heart with ice-cold silver hands- knows that I am not going to be the exception.

So I know how this ends, and hope that she does not know it too. I will watch from the sidelines until the end, staying silent to see her smile and fall in and out love and, in the end, make a life with someone who is not me. Someone I can never compare to, reminding me of everything that keeps me from her.

Glass walls are crueler than concrete, I think. They come with the electrifying, egregious, aching awareness of what you will never get to have.

.

He doesn’t last a week. None of them do. They just get better and better, worse and worse. Boys with sharp tongues and boys with silver souls and boys who hold her in the night, curled in her room across the street, prying their fingers into the cracked thing just behind my breastbone again and again and again. And in between all her perfect boys, her eyes burn with angry discontent, and she kisses me to forget the taste of them.

.

I will never have her, not really. I’m good at dulling her pain, and I’m good at holding her through the night, after she has cried all the tears she can cry. I’m good at pretending I’m not selfish, that I don’t let myself believe sometimes, when she is wrapped in my arms under cover of velvet night. I’m good at being hers, even though she will never truly be mine.

.

“I love you,” I say, one day. It sounds like an apology, spoken in the tones of earnest regret.

“I know,” she says, quiet as anything. The golden light of sunset does not glow in her eyes when she turns to me. “I know.”

taglist: @abysslll @chaotic-queer-disaster @quixotic-ethics @crystallaer @double-cross-my-mind @moondrop-jellyfish @marveladdictt @crystalias @wherearetheplants @matcha-chai @fierreth-who

[ohnomybreadsticks]

What if I also happened to rock up like a greedy little gremlin and whisper 19 for some Fringilla&Cahir BroTP?

@jaskiersvalley you know I can't resist when you give me the chance to write my absolute favorite buddy duo!! The song you got was "Bad Habits" by Ed Sheeran, which did stump me for a little bit XD But I hope you like the modern AU I eventually came up with!

Fringilla & Cahir, 676 words

Rated T for references to past alcoholism and bad relationships, emotional hurt/comfort, recovery, friendship, and domestic fluff (including platonic cuddling)

---

It occurs to Cahir, as he stands and carefully stirs the pot of hot cocoa on the stove, that this is very much not how he imagined his life turning out. Even just one year ago he would never have been able to visualize himself in this situation - standing in a pair of fuzzy pajama pants and a warm, clean hoodie, breathing in the delicious scent of slowly warming hot cocoa in his own kitchen. Hell, a year ago he wasn’t sure if he was in a place where it wasn’t clear just how many more months he was going to last.

To be fair, it isn’t just Cahir’s kitchen. Fringilla bustles in and sets to work pulling mugs out of the cabinet, holding two up for his inspection. He nods at the orange one shaped like a cat that had a tail for a handle, and she grins as she sets it down next to her purple mug with green frog silhouettes hopping across it.

“Looks like halloween came early” She jokes, turning to fish the mini marshmallows out from where they’d gotten buried somewhere in the cupboard.

“You mean like three months too late” Cahir corrects, which earns him a tongue stuck out in his direction.

“No, I mean early for the upcoming halloween. In like nine months.” Fringilla’s retort loses some of its effect because she’s giggling to herself at the slip up already. Those giggles turn into full on laughs as Cahir cracks and starts laughing himself.

Fringilla is a huge part of why Cahir is where he is, and he suspects she feels much the same. They both have skeletons in their closets, vices they work every day to leave behind. Cahir doesn’t wake up every second day with no memory of what he did the night before aside from the blood under his fingernails and the cracked skin on his knuckles. And Fringilla doesn’t spend her waking hours ensnared in a thousand invisible webs, all connected in and out of that damn phone of hers.

They had found one another by chance, crashing together not like lovers but like two drowning people clutching at the same life raft. They had finally figured out they could paddle that raft far away from the metaphorical whirlpool if they worked together, and they’d never looked back.

Okay, that was bullshit. Cahir knows he looks back sometimes, and so does Fringilla. Whether to reassure themselves that it can’t get them any more, or with a rather more longing glance is too early to tell. All he can tell is that they’re here now, on solid ground, in the little apartment they saved up to buy together. And that he’s never found a friend who makes his life quiet as good as Fringilla.

…And that he needs to pour the hot chocolate now, or it’s going to burn in the pan.

Cursing at his own wandering mind as he hurriedly lifts the pan off the heat, Cahir manages to get it mostly into the mugs and only a little bit onto the counter. Fringilla is out in the living room turning the tv on, so he manages to clean it up before she has time to tease him about it. He even pops the marshmallows in for both of them, piling the sugary little delights up until they all but spill over the sides. Some of them will melt anyways.

Cahir carries the mugs out to Fringilla, and she pats the sofa enthusiastically next to her, urging him up into the pile of blankets ready and waiting. He doesn’t need to be asked twice, folding long legs underneath himself and settling comfortably next to his best friend. By the end of the movie they’ll doubtless be tangled together on the sofa, blankets wrapped around them and one (or both) of them fast asleep. Cahir isn’t sure just what he did to deserve this life he could never have imagined, but he knows he’ll never lose sight of just how thankful he is to have it.

[blushingbucky]

stay with me | diego hargreeves

pairing: diego hargreeves x gender neutral!reader

word count: 1.1k

requested by anon.

summary: you’re there for him. you’ll always be there for him.

author’s note: I really loved this prompt and who doesn't want more of angsty season one diego? let me know what you think!

You could hear the muffled shouts from Diego’s bedroom, your only solace in the overbearing Academy.

The Argument of Grace raged on, and on, and on. Was Grace really a threat? Had she truly evolved into her own independent being? You weren’t sure, but as Diego’s partner, you were inclined to agree with him. It was only out of obligation you met his siblings; while you’d grown attached to Klaus and Vanya, it was Grace you truly wanted to know, to meet. She was more than a caretaker, more than a vacuum cleaner to be thrown in a closet.

She was Grace. Diego’s mum. His only comfort in an abusive home and prison of second-best. But to you he was first, the only calm in your storm. And to him, you were everything. The escape from competing for favourite child, the anchor in his tumultuous waves.

Diego walks with gentle footsteps to meet Grace, guilt threatening to swallow him whole after she heard the last whisperings of dispute. It starts with a “Mum, we need to talk.”

And her reply, ever the slightly-oblivious caretaker, twists the knife further in his chest. “Okay, but only for a minute. I need to finish this cross-stitch.”

Diego knows he shouldn’t ask, shouldn’t provoke her, but he has to know. Needs to know if she’s a lie spun by his father, another web to ensnare little Number Two in another competition. “Everything you did for us when we were kids… for me… why’d you do it?”

The real meaning lies unsaid. Was it because you loved me?

Her smiling answer sounds like a lie and before he can stop it, before he can hesitate, he wonders aloud, “Is that you saying that? I mean our father, he made you. When you think something, is it like he’s telling you what to say?”

The real meaning lies unsaid. Is your love for me a lie? Is it a trick by my father, even in death?

And he knows Reginald is gone, but all he can see in Grace is him. The thought of Grace reciting a script concocted by Reginald’s twisted imagination churns his stomach, breaks his heart. She didn’t do anything wrong, but she’s just a cog in the machine that is the Umbrella Academy.

“It’s okay if you hated him” falls from his lips, and Diego wonders where the thought came from. Hands shaking as he lowers into a crouch, eyes soft and heartbroken. “We were just tools in an experiment to him. Nothing more. So I’m saying, I would understand if… you know, if— if you wanted to hurt him.”

There lies the real meaning. Did you kill him? Are you dangerous? Have you truly evolved?

“Now, now. Mr Hargreeves was a great man.” Grace relays the practiced speech, listing Reginald’s accomplishments as industrialist, inventor, Olympic gold medalist and suddenly Diego can’t take it anymore. Can’t stand the awe in her eyes at the very mention of the cruel, cold scientist.

His fingers clamp down on her shoulders as he stands, half-hoping to shake her awake to the truth. He can’t stand her praise of the devil. No more will he lie to himself, no more will he hope for redemption.

Diego’s long given up defending his father, and now Grace must do the same. She has to feel something, he treated her worse than anyone and in all those 30 years, she was never given a room to sleep in. Not even a change of clothes.

Her eyes sadden and for a moment Diego dares to dream. Maybe she’s changed. But as the familiar, oblivious smile returns, the small bloom of hope in his chest withers. He lifts his gaze to look at the “just paintings” and with a final sigh, he turns and walks away.

. . .

The house is quiet in the aftermath of the fight, and Diego finds you in his room. “Come with me. I need you for something.”

“What is it?” lies unanswered as he leaves the doorway as fast as he arrived. More questions burn in your mind but you stand from the bed and follow him. You find him in Grace’s corner of paintings, feet having just reached the landing when he begins to speak. The intimacy between the pair and the expression on his face is enough for you to hang back, to watch the scene unfold.

Her humming’s interrupted by Diego’s soft concern, gloved fingers on her shoulder a reassurance.

Watching on, your own confusion matches hers. What is Diego doing? Why did he need you? What will happen to Grace? Once Diego settles in front of her, the answer dawns.

He’s going to turn Grace off. Eyes of horror meet sorrowful, and you know he doesn’t want to do this. He doesn’t want to believe she’s dangerous, doesn’t want to entertain the thought that his mother never truly loved him. But he must. For the sake of his family and Grace’s own safety, Diego must turn her off.

And it hurts.

But he must.

With a shaky breath, Diego cuts down her arm with a knife, exposing the wiring and intricacies of the machine that is Grace. Her confusion can’t deter him from the task, can’t stop him from reaching in to slow the steady whirring.

With water building in the eyes you fell in love with, he whispers reassurance over soft sobs and quivering lips. “It’s gonna be o…”

And now Grace understands, giving him the encouragement he’s always gained from just her pride in him. He’s still a child when it comes to her, when it comes to his speech. “Remember what we worked on. Just picture the word in your mind.”

It’s enough for him to manage, “It’s gonna be okay, M… M-Mum.” The whirring slows and fades, the cross-stitching limp in mechanical fingers.

He can’t believe what he’s done, and you rush forward from your hiding place to wrap your arms around him. Diego’s limp as he falls into your arms, knees collapsing to the ground as he sobs. Your kisses to the top of his head, his scar, his cheek are gentle and wet as your own tears run. It’s heartbreaking and it’s not fair and there’s a broken boy in your arms.

There’s a broken boy in your arms and you don’t know how to put him back together.

The tears eventually fade, and red-rimmed eyes meet your own as Diego grips your arm for comfort. “Will you st… st-stay with m… m-me? You— you’re... you’re all I ha-have, now.”

Tears threaten his eyes again, and their depths are full of anger and hopelessness. His stutter’s showing and your heart just breaks for him because it was she who’d given him perseverance, given him the words to picture in his mind. How could you possibly leave him now?

In the cupping of your hands against Diego’s cheeks lies your answer, fingers quick to swipe away the tears. A heavy heart and gentle lips press against his forehead, whispering “Of course, my love. Always.”

[p1nkwitch]

Ok, there are i think 5 more parts and the little arc is done, then it will be time for random bits, but maybe i will just put those directly into ao3 instead of here.

@nonbinaryeye Heeey angst fest! i feel you will like this.

Also one more thing for the next few chapters. I had to shuffle and rethink some aspects for the characters since there can only be one per session. So either Jon or Elias had to win the light player spot and im afraid its not Elias this time. Im happy with what i chose instead for him but its just a heads up. I feel it suits him well considering several of his actions.

Due to unforeseeable events that you refuse to divulge or go deeper into, you are currently tearing apart the room you are residing in. You are ELIAS BOUCHARD and you are furious beyond repair, beyond imagination and you are also HURT. That man has no right to hurt you. No right whatsoever.

PETER LUKAS is your husband and he has broken up with you, but not like usual. Not like any of the ways before. This was not him and you refuse to acknowledge it, the fact that he actually did by text was even worse. Your sprite and Jonah are both watching you in your destructive fury. Both with different expressions on their faces.

BARNABAS looks like he wants to say something, yet the acidic look that JONAHSPRITE gives him stops him on his tracks. His double is not destroying the room and the only reason he can think of is that the words that the lonely man used with him, actually cut him deep.

It had been cruel and callous in a way that Peter rarely was and even less with him, with either of them. After all he had been the first to say that Jonahsprite was just as real as he was. So to hear him say the opposite was quite jarring, not even that, but to be told he would prefer the cat back instead of him was unbelievable.

You pick up your INDESTRUCTIBLE CANE OF KNOWLEDGE and ask your question. The handle had a crystal 8 ball that would answer anything you needed.

“Does Peter Lukas love me?”

You wait for the answer, for the single word that has appeared every time you have asked that same question since getting the weapon in question. Sometimes you were in a land on your own and the man would not answer back your messages, so you asked the object and knew without a doubt that Peter was just being stubborn and nothing else.

Its not because you loved to hear the confirmation of it.

The ball goes from clear and shiny to dull and grey with fog inside it.

NO

It takes a few seconds to comprehend what you just read, shaking it again you asks.

“Is Peter Lukas in love with me?”

NO

You start to pace and breathe harder.

“Does Peter have any feelings for me??!!”

The words take longer to appear as if it was trying to parse them through, but the answer leaves Elias frozen in place, feeling a deep pit of despair.

HE FEELS INDIFFERENCE AND HATE

PETER LUKAS CAN'T CARE ABOUT JONAH MAGNUS

“Why?!” You punch and hit the wall out of pure rage instinct and hurt. The others in the room flinch. The anger, hurt and grief is too much and you end up letting a sound more animalistic than human.

You don't expect it to tell you an answer, it's not that good yet for full complete answers, but somehow it does.

It's not the answer you wanted.

THE EYE HAS NOT GLANCED TO THE LONELY

AND THE FOG HAS TAKEN A HOLD OF HIM

IT TOOK HIS HEART AND NOW ITS HOLLOWED OUT

THE SPIDER SPINS HER WEB ON HIM

AND NOW THE EMPTY MAN THINKS HE HAS NOTHING

CONGRATULATIONS YOU PLAYED YOURSELF

You are-

No

Elias is done with the narrative, done with the game and the web that got him here.

The thief of heart walks out while the other two follow, he goes until he finds the room he was looking for. Annabelle, Jon, Oliver, Martin, Basira and Melanie are there.

“So you started this and told no one?? What now, we are dooming another world again? Is that it, how many times can you-”

“What did you tell him Miss Cane?” The room goes quiet and everyone stares at him.

“What is wrong with you-”

“Melanie if you don't shut up i will leave you brain dead before you can stab me again. Annabelle what did you tell him to convince him to help?” Said woman was staring at him with mild interest, but did not seem to care much. Annabelle was the only one of them left who had not reached god tier and was in her original body.

Melanie started to move in his direction but the detective stopped her.

“I told him the truth, that there is no other way out, he went willingly if that's what you are concerned about. I did not lie or manipulate him in any way. As for anything else, i told him what he already was thinking, but did not want to say out loud” She waves him away as if it was nothing, as if she just didn't basically ensnared him and doomed him.

“You should treat your toys more kindly less someone else picks them up to play with them. Then again… you do have a history to turn a blind eye to the lonely when its picking apart something you care about” Her eyes turn to something on his back and he knows Barnabas and Jonah are there.

“What are you talking about?” Jonathan, curious as always.

“He just wants to know how I got Peter to help me start the scratch. I just asked very nicely and explained myself and he went willingly that's all, he starts it and Simon gets all of us out”

“Yes, but we leave him behind don't we?” Her smile has fangs on it.

“A price he was happy to pay as long as he was alone, it is the only thing he asked for” No, he is not losing this easily.

“Tell him to stop”

“I'm afraid I can't, and even if I did, he would not listen, too far gone. He is taking the worst parts of his aspect and mixing it with forsaken he is a lost cause now. I'm sure once we make a new earth you can find a replacement, it's in your nature after all to interchange Lukas for Lukas”

Elias is fairly reasonable, he only ever acts out in panic and when he knows he has an advantage.

Which is why he doesn't understand why the next thing he knows is that he is bashing her skull with the INDESTRUCTIBLE CANE OF KNOWLEDGE, over and over again, his ears were ringing and he was sure he could hear the others yelling at him, an arm tries to grab him and he shoves as much painful knowledge into the head of whoever is trying to stop him that they release him.

Before the first hit connected with her head however, Elias actually saw the surprise and fear in her eyes. Annabelle did not expect him to react like this.

She did not expect him to care at all.

By the time he is done, her body is lying on the ground with cobwebs and spiders spilling out of the remains of her crushed head. Breathing hard he looks around and sees everyone with their weapons raised at him, except for Basira who was on the floor holding her head and Oliver who merely nodded at him.

He already knew someone was going to die.

Oh.

“I- i think i might have overreacted” The faces of sheer incredulity hit him and before any of them try to stop him Jonah grabs his shoulder.

“He will be in the land of Time, if we hurry..” They won't make it back he knows.

Elias doesn't want to die, but he is so angry at Peter.

No, he is furious at him. After all this time and after everything.

This is not how it ends.

Holding the cane he makes a run for the window and jumps out.

He flies as fast as he can to go and beat up his husband to death. If Peter shall die it would be by his hand, he won't let him leave him first, not like this. Elias will never let him have the last word over him and will not let him die like he wants either.

[lazylazyhowl]

prehension (of snakes and cherry blossoms)

prehension (noun) – gripping firmly, apprehension by the senses; understanding

["See me." In the dead of night, the line between far shore and near shore, blurs.

They meet, and it's 23 years too late; but they might as well.]

Written with SasuSakuTwitFest Day 2 (Connected) in mind.

AO3 Link

ko-fi

—

Have you heard about building B?

.

A peeling coat of faded yellow paint, partly overtaken by chalk graffiti and moss. The building is a little worn and faded, more obviously ill-maintained compared to the rest of the school.

Classes haven’t been held here for years now, ever since a newer building was founded right next to it.

The hallways are lined with locked doors. There are crisscrossing caution tapes blocking off stairways, and the dust-caked windows are bolted shut, leaving the air thick and musty.

.

A senior died there twenty years ago. They say the ghost of that student still walks those empty corridors even now.

.

.

.

It’s when she’s wandering through the east wing of the second floor that Sakura comes across him in one of the storage rooms.

Rows of stacked desks and chairs are pushed against the wall at the side, and miscellaneous items crowd the cobwebbed shelves. He’s sitting by the window on the opposite side of the entrance, chin in his palm as he stares out the dirty, moon-glazed glass.

He seems to be a senior, but she can’t be sure. The colored tie that’s supposed to set the grades apart is missing from his uniform ensemble.

Sakura’s heart has jumped from sheer surprise upon catching sight of him in the corner; now it begins to speed for an altogether different reason.

He has a sharp profile and endless dark eyes that’s framed by long thick lashes. His equally dark hair contrasts a pale skin, washed colorless by the moonlight, and millions of dust particles float lazily around him.

It’s an otherworldly sight that sends goosebumps up the sides of her arms, and her better instincts tell her to leave immediately and leave him be.

Still, her feet remain glued to the spot by the door as she smooths clammy palms against the knitted sweater she wears over her uniform.

It wouldn’t be a stretch to say it was love at first sight. Quite a loaded situation for lightning to be striking, too, and there’s no sense to it at all. She just knows he’s taken her heart without having to lift a finger.

“Annoying…”

She hears him mutter. His voice is deep, so quiet that she might have missed it if not for the silence.

“You there.”

Before Sakura can react, the boy turns his head and looks straight at her.

.

.

If you ever come across the ghost, no matter what you do, never look it in the eyes.

.

She gasps and takes a step back, her puny heart leaping to the hollow of her throat.

When he drops down from his perch, his height unfurls. He’s probably a good head taller than her. With the moon at his back, his eyes don’t glow in the dark or anything, not even the slightest glimmer, but she senses the weight of cold lead from them all the same.

.

You’ll meet a terrible end.

.

“Those eyes are quite something,” he says, and Sakura hastily lowers her gaze away, her stomach twisting into nauseous knots. Oh god, oh god, what has she done? She shouldn’t have looked, shouldn’t have dallied around.

“I-I’m sorry.”

She sees his shadow on the gritty tiled floor, looming closer, and considers fleeing. But then again, she has a feeling she wouldn’t get very far.

“I’m sorry,” she says again, wringing her shaky fingers together. “For staring. I’m so sorry.”

“Look at me.” He’s still approaching her, and she begins to make out the mud on his shoes, how his uniform is disheveled in that rolled-around-in-in-the-dirt way, opened at the neck to reveal the strong lines of his collarbones.

“I’m sorry…”

“It’s fine. Lift your face.”

Sakura shakes her head no and squeezes her eyes closed for good measure. She hears him sigh.

“Sasuke.”

Though it was out of nowhere, what startles Sakura more is that his voice has come from right in front of her. She can feel him, well inside her personal space and blocking the moonlight.

Her heart is in overdrive. She blindly takes a step back and almost trips over herself.

“Wh-what?”

“Name?”

She puts a hand to her chest to try and contain the beating there. Her thoughts are a jumbled mess. “I-I’m sorry?”

“Name. Yours.”

It takes her a moment more before she finally gathers her wits. “S-Sakura…”

“Sakura, huh.” He says her name in this slow, considering drawl, and Sakura flushes anew. Can he see her blush? Can he see the effect he has on her? What will he do, knowing this? She tugs at the long sleeves of her sweater and brings them up to hide her face. She never thought it to be the case, but she’s exactly the type to get tricked by men, isn’t she?

“U-um, Sasuke…san?”

“Drop the ‘san.’”

“I’m sorry…”

“Stop apologizing, annoying.”

“I’m so—okay…” Sakura cringes, her head sinking between her shoulders. She can still feel his gaze on her, feel self-conscious about her large, sweaty forehead, and every strand of hair that’s out of place. Having her eyes closed only makes it worse. “Sasuke…kun…then?”

He makes a noise in his throat, and it’s hard to tell if he’s displeased or not.

“You shouldn’t stay here, Sakura.”

She loves it, Sakura decides, when he uses her name, regardless of context. It sends this warm fluttering down to the pit of her belly.

“…Well, neither should you,” she says from behind her sleeves. “…Sasuke-kun.” She tests and can't help another rush of heat in her cheeks.

Sasuke’s silent for a length before saying, “Fair.”

“Let’s both leave then,” he says, and it takes her a moment to respond.

“Huh?”

“You and I. Let’s leave here together.”

She’s not sure what to say to that, not even sure if she quite understands, but she can’t deny she likes how he’s said it.

She likes it a lot.

“Sakura.” Her skin ripples again. When he says nothing else, she cracks her eyes open to take in the chest of his shirt, missing a few buttons; the hand that’s he’s holding out to her. (There’s dried blood on his knuckles, under his nails.)

“No?” He presses, and she wants to shake her head and tell him it’s not even close to no. It’s scary how much she wants to take that proffered hand, damn the consequences. And because of exactly that she holds back, tucks her hands closer to her chest to restrain herself.

“I…”

She watches with a held breath as his hand looms so near she can make out the callused spots on his palm and smell burnt smoke on top of the rust of blood. His fingers skirt near her chin, her windpipe, but not quite touching.

“Look at me,” he stresses, “when you speak.”

“No…I…”

“Our eyes already met. What are you still holding back for?”

Her breaths grow shallow as her pulses quicken into deafening booms. Sakura can’t find fault with his argument, though she’s not sure if it isn’t just because she’s also tempted for justification to look at him again.

(A part of her hopes, maybe the curse can be reversed by pretending their eyes never met.)

“It’ll be fine,” he says, and she’s so tempted to believe him.

Sakura swallows, her mouth dry. Her eyes dart tentatively up a few times before she finds it in her to look at him. (She has to crane her neck to even meet his gaze.) Her chest tightens as she stares into his eyes, transfixed by their depths. Most of all, his mouth quirks in this little pleased, knowing smirk, and it’s unfair.

“Come with me, Sakura.”

That’s unfair, too.

Sakura doesn’t think she’s afraid of him anymore. Never was, actually. But what he’s offering is unknown to her, and that’s scary. Leave with him to where? For what purpose other than just deserting this forsaken building?

“I don’t know how.” Sakura looks away. She’s aware that she’s not saying no, and the reality is that she no longer cares.

She just wants to be with someone so badly she might have followed anyone else, and Sasuke—Sasuke feels right. Perhaps this back and forth between them has only ever had one ending.

He holds out his hand to her, gesturing for her to just take it. She unclenches her fists.

“It’ll be okay?”

“Aa.”

“Promise me-” Her voice cracks. She screws her eyes shut and sucks in a breath as if all her unshed tears would disappear along with it. “Sasuke-kun. Promise me you’ll be okay, ‘cause I can’t-”

“Promise.”

His gaze is unwavering. Sakura chews at her lower lip. When her fingertips hover over his and hesitate, he only patiently waits, and it gives her that extra shred of confidence. With one last steadying breath, she slides her hand onto his and gasps audibly from the feel of his skin against hers.

His palm is rough like she’s imagined. Large.

So warm.

Human.

It’s been too long—twenty-three years in fact, since she last felt another’s touch, and the sudden swell of emotions is enough to choke her.

Sasuke’s strong fingers encase hers, interlace with hers and the firm grip brings such immense relief that she only knows to burst into tears.

“You’re with me from now on,” he tells her as he wipes at her cheek with his thumb, and she sobs harder. Through the blur of tears, Sakura can see him smile, see his eyes bleed a haunting, spinning red. They’re beautiful. Hypnotic. As if she isn’t already ensnared in his web.

“Okay.” She grips back at his hand just as firmly.

And she thinks, they will be okay after all.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Omake:

The school ground is quiet as they slip out through a broken window on the first floor, and Sakura can’t help but be nervous as she takes her first step past a point that up until just yesterday she wasn’t able to cross.

She’s tried to leave many, many times, only for her legs to freeze and her mind to be overcome with an irrational need to retreat to the very heart of the building. Where she belonged. Alone.

None of that tonight. Sakura passes building D and reaches the quad, drinking in her surrounding in quiet wonder as she trails behind Sasuke.

A lot has changed from the school in her memory, but the general layout is still the same, from where the statue of the town’s founder proudly stands, to the red eaves that hang over the guard office. They overlap with her hazy memories and fills her with a familiarity that eases her nerves.

Building A is still there as well, looking only a little less rundown compared to her building.

(Hers. No matter how lonely, it had been home.)

Sakura looks to the boy at her side; her new haunt, her tether. (Hers.) She still knows nothing about him beyond the name Sasuke. And those red eyes that have faded back to black soot is sure to be a loaded topic, too.

There are many things she wants to ask him, but she decides she’ll take her time learning. The truth is she has nothing but time.

“What?”

She's all giddy from that single glance he spares. Does he have to be so cool from every angle? Her gaze drops to his bloodied knuckles.

“Do your hands hurt?”

“Not really.”

“Did you hurt them breaking into the building?”

“No.”

Sakura tries to contain an amused grin. She can see him being quite a frustrating conversational partner in the future, but for now she’s quite enjoying it. “How did you hurt yourself then?”

He doesn’t say anything for a while, and she can see the cogwheels working rapidly behind his faraway gaze. “Trash disposal,” he tells her, a full ten seconds later that she has to wonder what exactly he’s filtered out before coming to that answer. He pats her head. “Don’t worry about it. I clean up pretty well.”

As they leave the school ground and continue walking in silence, Sakura thinks about the smoke she’s smelled on him. Has she gotten involved with a pretty dangerous person after all?

[headoverhiddles]

Moving Shadows - Mr. Corrigan (Christopher Lee) x Reader [Smut]

Synopsis: Visiting a friend in rural Wales one night, you get lost on the way, and end up at the house of the long shadows. You and one man in the mysterious gathering of strangers attract each other.

Notes: This is from the spooky movie House Of The Long Shadows! Christopher Lee is especially sexy in it, acting alongside Peter Cushing and Vincent Price, so I thought I'd do up this spooky little smut in honor of October! 🎃🕸️🦇

Also!! If anyone has actually seen the movie, this fic disregards the twist. Cause I didn’t like it lol. 

It should be right this way.

Then again, that's what you told yourself an hour ago. Looking at the blinking out time on your crappy car radio, you frown. It's nearly the middle of the night, and you can't, for the life of you, find yourself on this gigantic map the prickly station worker had handed you.

There, in the distance.

Flickering lights from lanterns in the window draw you to a huge manor, at the end of a winding road. You can barely see through the heavy downpour of the thunderstorm, but you can tell it's not your friend's house. He's not that rich.

Well. It'll have to do for now, at least until this rain dies down.

You pull up the road, and thankfully, the gates are open. You park by the door, and run inside, covering your head.

Drenched and cold, you hurry inside... only to find that the entryway is less than welcoming. The light you saw in the window seems to have vanished, leaving the old place in complete damp, eerie darkness. You peer around, through the cobwebs and outlines of furniture. Or what could be furniture.

"And just who are you, now?"

You jump, and put a hand over your heart. A tall man with a flickering candle illuminating his face stands behind you. He appears more than a little inconvenienced by your appearance.

"I-I just came in from the rain. M-my name's (y/n) (y/l/n)... I didn't mean to intrude."

"Yes, that seems to be the common greeting tonight," the man sighs, and you frown.

"Wh-who are you?" you ask softly, shivering. The man stares for a second, then holds the candle closer to your face. Seeing how cold and disheveled you look, he sighs a second time.

"You had better come in, Miss (y/l/n). I don't want to be responsible for the death of a young woman on my front doorstep." He leads you in, and down the dark hallway somewhere.

"So. This is your place?" you ask, blowing on your hands. The man nods curtly.

"It should very well be."

Not really understanding what he means, you blow harder into your cupped hands, and the man looks over.

"Here," he mumbles, taking pity on you. He removes his tuxedo jacket, and drapes it around your shoulders.

"Oh, I couldn't," you start to say.

"You can and you will," he replies gently, eyebrows lifting a little more kindly than when you two had met. "You're freezing half to death, my dear, and I won't have it." You smile, managing to blush under the cold. He's a gentleman, and a handsome one at that. His hand hasn't left your shoulder, and you bite your lip as you look back at the slightly older man. He is very attractive, even in this low light. Just your type.

"Are you--" you begin to ask,

"Great. Who's this one now?!" a loud, grating voice rings out. You two come up on the entrance to a lavish dining room, containing a somewhat gaudy banquet table set for six. You quickly run over to the fireplace, and kneel down to warm up. The rest of the people in the room, who seem to be dressed for some sort of formal event, all stare curiously.

"Oh sure. Just come right in, make yourself at home," the young man with the loud voice huffs, tossing his hands up. The older gentleman from the door clenches his jaw.

"Need I remind you, Mr. Magee, that this is my house, to invite in who I see fit?"

"Hardly," an older, posh British man says with a distasteful little purse of his lips. An eyebrow is raised.

"The same reminder goes for you and your family, Mr. Grisbane."

"I never!" the posh man begins.

"Oh, I don't think we should fight over it," a shorter elderly man cuts in, hurrying over to pat you on the back, "Our doors are always open to those in need, like this poor young girl."

"My doors," the man from the door smiles tightly.

"But think of the web she has now ensnared herself in," Grisbane says pointedly, turning from the bowl of punch, "Think of that, Sebastian." Sebastian bows his head, silent.

"I... I really am sorry," you speak up, feeling like you're in the way, no matter how many people argue about it. "I'll be gone in five minutes, tops. I just wanted to dry my--"

"No, no. You will stay here until this rain stops, and that is final," the man says sternly, and walks over to you, glaring at Sebastian until he hurries back into his corner like a door mouse. "My dear. You have not been properly introduced, and as we have concluded you will be staying for the time being... I suppose the right thing to do would be to acquaint you as well as I am able." He looks around at the others.

"Lionel Grisbane, as I have come to know," he nods to the posh man by the punch, who gives a solemn nod back. "Sebastian Grisbane, his younger brother," the frightened little man nods as well, "Author if I am not mistaken, Kenneth Magee..."

"You're not mistaken," Kenneth quickly confirms, shooting you a wave.

"--his... friend, Miss Norton. Everybody, this is Miss (y/n) (y/l/n)." He turns to you, taking your hand to shake. "And I, am the owner of this house. Mr. Corrigan."

"That is a matter of perspective, I would say," Lionel mutters.

"Mr. Corrigan," you repeat, captivated for a second by the intensity of his stare. "Pleased to meet you." You remember your manners. "All of you. I really do thank you, it's just that-- I can't see anything out there, and the maps look like a bunch of garden snakes trying to get jiggy with it!" Ken and Mary Norton burst into quiet laughter, and you blush as you realize the sort of people you're around.

"Sorry."

Ruffled a little, Corrigan nods.

Lionel checks his watch. "Well. On that note. Before the lovely Miss (y/l/n) made her grand entrance, we were discussing a matter of utmost prudence."

"Oh, yes," Kenneth sighs sarcastically, "The matter of your locked up brother who escaped somewhere in this godforsaken place?"

Your eyes widen, as you pretend not to be too shocked. Had you happened upon the wrong house this late at night?

"You're scaring (y/n)," Miss Norton bites her lip, and you turn.

"No, I'm... okay, really. I have no business being here in the first place."

"But she could help," Lionel narrows his eyes, stalking toward you, "She could lure him out."

"She will do absolutely nothing of the sort," Corrigan steps in to once again stand up for you. You smile a little, and he straightens up, standing by your side.

"I'm afraid the only remaining alternative we have then, is to split up," Lionel says, lighting a candelabra one wick at a time and glancing up through the orange glow. "Divide our investigation throughout the property."

"Oh," Sebastian starts to fret, downing his glass of wine. You look up at Corrigan, who seals his lips into a tight line. It's decided then. You suppose going along with all of this would be safer than staying somewhere by yourself, during... whatever it was that you had the misfortune of happening upon tonight.

---

"I'll stay with Miss Norton," Kenneth starts off by saying, "We'll investigate the basement."

"Myself and Sebastian will look around the main floor," Lionel says, "Which leaves Miss (y/l/n) and Mr. Corrigan the upstairs."

"So it does," you nod, and take his arm. "Mr. Corrigan? Lead the way."

He swallows, and the two of you take a candelabra, navigating the stairway up as thunder booms outside. Branches cast spindley shadows, and with every occupied spiderweb you nearly walk through, your nerves are set even more on edge.

"Well, I've got to say that with some maniac brother on the loose, I'm starting to regret stopping in to wait out the storm," you tease, tightening your grip on the arm of Corrigan's well-tailored suit. He inhales through his nose, and lifts the candles up to the peeling wallpaper.

"That brings me to a question that's been weighing on my mind."

"Mhmm? Ask away."

"What the devil are you doing this far North in Wales, Miss (y/l/n)?" Corrigan asks you.

"Visiting a friend. Or, I was. Didn't expect my night to turn out like this," you laugh.

"Yes, well. Can I confess something?" He leans in. "Neither did I." You two share a chuckle.

"I was going to ask you something earlier as well..." you bring up, and bite your lip. "Are you married?"

"I'm not," he admits, keeping his eyes ahead down the creaking hallway, "Not any longer. My wife passed away."

"Oh," your face falls as your any possibilities for the night are dashed, "I'm sorry to hear that."

"I appreciate the sentiment, but it was years ago. Nine, to be exact. I loved her, but she was sick. I've moved on with my life, as she would have wanted." He looks down at you. "Why do you ask?"

"I was just curious," you say, and your eyes flicker down to his lips. He parts them.

"Miss (y/l/n)--"

Suddenly, you feel a door knob along the wall. "Here," you whisper.

"Let me go first," he puts a hand in front of you, and moves forward. "Is there anybody in here?" he asks, lighting the oil lamp on the wall. At once, the room is illuminated, so reveal what appears to be a woman's uninhabited bedroom.

"Doesn't look like there is," you say, checking under the bed. Corrigan checks the closet, and sets the candelabra down.

"I'm starting to believe that crazy family downstairs fabricated this entire peril, in a ploy to get us out of the house," Corrigan looks up grimly.

"Why would they want to do that?" you ask, "You own it."

"They've got it in their heads that since this was their ancestral home, it still belongs to them. They are sorely mistaken."

"What do you plan to do with it?"

"Tear it down. Develop."

You shrug. "Smart, I suppose." You do love the charm or the old place, but it didn't make very much sense to keep it around if he didn't have any sentimental attachment to it.

Corrigan turns to do one last sweep of the room, but hesitates to douse the light. Your soaked through white shirt is falling down your shoulder to expose your collarbone, and the very top of your left breast.

"I..." Corrigan starts to say, and wills himself to take his eyes off you. But he can't.

"What?" you look up, brow furrowed in concentration. He lets out a breath, and you instantly recognize his expression. You can tell when a man wants you. "Mr. Corrigan?"

"We'd better continue our search."

You stand up, brushing your hair back. God, he's so much taller than you. "I don't think we have to go just yet. I mean... it's like you said. This could all be one big lie." You walk toward him slowly, and his back shuts the bedroom door. "You could be lying to me, too. And I could be lying to you. We're strangers, you and I, and everyone in this house. Exciting, isn't it?" You smile.

"Very," he replies darkly, eyes roaming down your body. Your lips turn up even more, as you encourage him to slide a hand around your waist.

"Think about who I could be. I could be a killer. I could be a virgin, innocent and ready to be shown how it's done..." You pout, then grin. "But I'm neither." You press your lips up to his, and he lets out a breath he'd been holding, moaning. His hands travel down, one cupping your thigh and the other reaching between your legs. You laugh, walking him back toward the bed with one hand around his tie.

"Not so much of a gentleman anymore, are you, Mr. Corrigan?"

"On the contrary," he whispers, undoing your buttons and laying you into the pillows, "I am always a gentleman." He moves downward, parting your legs and pressing a soft kiss to your panties.

"Oh," you breathe, and he kisses further down, swirling his tongue gently. Finally, he moves up, and resumes kissing you. After taking off his shirt, you break away. "I guess it'd be a laugh to assume you've got protection on you," you sigh.

"My only sexual partner was my wife," Corrigan tells you, chest heaving. "And yours?"

"I've had a few, but I'm tested and on the birth control."

He captures your mouth again, and you breathe in relief, wrapping your legs around his back. You use this position to your advantage, turning both of you over. "Do you like this position, Mr. Corrigan?" you ask.

"I can't say I object," he smiles, and you straddle his hips, lifting over top of him. He groans, holding your hips down as you start to rock. "It's been so long..." he whispers. "Nobody's wanted me the way you do."

"Nobody's cared for me quite like you did," you reply, dragging your chest against his as you sink down again.

"I can't imagine why," he rasps, "You're a beautiful woman." You blush, and ride him harder, moaning his name.

"I'm close," you say. He turns you both over, so that he's on top, covering you with his body, making you feel safe beneath him.

"I want to watch you finish in my arms," he mumbles against your lips, and you see his jaw clench as you grasp onto his bare arms.

"You're so big... god, you feel so good..."

"Mmm, (y/n)."

You gasp, and he growls, beginning to make each thrust harder, deeper.

"Please!" you cry, then bite your fist, remembering that you have to keep your voice down.

"It's alright," he says softly.

"But the others--"

"Pay them no mind," he smirks down at you, "This is, after all... my house."

You hold tightly onto him as you come hard, and he moans not long after, finishing at the same time. He rolls off of you, laying back on the pillows beside you. You sigh contentedly as the shutters shake, banging around to remind you of the current terrifying situation you should be worrying about.

"Listen to the rain coming down-- it's not letting up. I wonder if they've found anything down there."

"Or anybody," he huffs, stretching an arm around you. You cuddle into his chest.

"Made up or not... I'm nervous in this old place. You'll protect me, won't you?"

He smirks. "I'd take an axe to the head for you, my dear. An axe to the head."

[pruelockhart]

“the entire history of human desire takes about seventy minutes to tell.              unfortunately, we don’t have that kind of time.”  – richard siken

FULL APPLICATION / PINTEREST

HISTORY –

come, dear reader, won’t you settle in? let me spin you a tale—a tangled web of one, indeed—about a girl who smells sweet as white roses and is as satiny to touch as her gossamer-thin garments. this girl is just a girl; she has never been the girl. even so, this story is her story, and though she is not equipped to be the heroine of a story, or so she believes, she is the heart of this one. like a heart, she is swollen with the fullness of blood: thus, let me etch this tale into parchment with the blood of love, in crimson-ink of metallic-reek. 

it comes in three parts: a beginning, a middle, an ending; it is for you, dear reader, to decide which is which. 

let us anoint this tale the title of METAMORPHOSIS –

✧✧✧

i. THE EGG ;

before there is the girl, there is a man and a woman who live in faerûn by the sahrnian sea, bound together by a contract that is decidedly not the forest-fire love faerie-tales herald. yet that is not to say that love never comes, just because love comes after. when it does, it is a calm love, a steady one; a love that has never cost one to lose one’s mind, and has been grown, meticulously, over the passage of time and the trials and tribulations have littered the path of a match made by those who are older and have witnessed so much more life than them. it is not for years that the woman feels nature stirring within her body’s vessel, and when it does, it is with the undying bestowing upon her a gift that makes up lost time. 

when the girl comes, she comes from a belly more full than most. it makes sense that it is so, for there were meant to be two of them: a boy, and a girl. one might suppose that, in the end, there still were, yet only one in the way it mattered. 

( you decide, dear reader: which is which? ) 

she is born — and it is days, and days, before her time. no matter, a name still awaits her. prudence, they call her. pierce, he would have been.

from the beginning, she emerges from the ruddy cave of her mother’s womb incomplete. a greyish pallor remains where life ought to be warming her skin; it is as if he leeched enough life from her for him to choke on, and she siphoned her brother’s death through the connection only womb-mates share – and this is what she will hear in later years, when she asks about him. 

she will wish she hadn’t.

✧✧✧

ii. THE CATERPILLAR ;

( when you feel unforgiving, dear reader, remember: it is a caterpillar’s job to eat; without an abundance of consumption, it cannot survive. it is this abundance of consumption that allows for the production of silk. it is this same abundance of consumption that is its undoing. )

years do not care if one is ready to bear them; they come, when they must, as they must. and so comes to pass the childhood that tries to swallow prudence lockhart whole, over and over and over –

as an infant, blood is filtered out of her body and fresh blood poured into her veins. it helps, some. it does not help enough, yet there is nothing more to be done; her parents must take her home, and pray to the undying god for the rest. they pray, and pray, and pray, as two people of noble blood and lucrative business-dealings rarely stoop to, for lack of need to need it.

as a child, prue is still a frail slip of a thing, with bones jutting out against taut bronze flesh in protest. fill yourself up, her mother pleads. you must survive, beloved. she offers her savory meals and sweet decadence twice, and anything she takes a suggestion of a liking to just as many times more — and it works; it takes time, but work it does, and prue’s cheeks round some and at times flush rosily, some weakness giving way to the minute miracles that are her tardy signs of life. it is not much, but it is enough, isn’t it? it is to the mother who has warred for her existence. who still combats for prue’s survival. 

when does the girl begin to feel that it might be her that her mother is fighting, when every frustration about her lessness, her inherent lessness, begins to steal the breath from prue’s lungs – for is it not her who is all poetry & rot, wisp-thin & about as flimsy? her heart fills with hot, vital blood then: it beats loud and clear as a belltower’s toll, cutting through all else with the potency of its truth. this is as much as i am, she beseeches in turn, as her mother had once done, except not, for graceless tears roll down her cheeks in impassioned rivulets and the voice that thickens with feeling.

how will you survive the world, beloved? her mother implores.

i might not, prue knows. i might not, she accepts.

it is the caterpillar’s destiny to unbecome –

✧✧✧

iii. THE CHRYSALIS ;

– unbecoming takes time.

it takes long enough that both mother and daughter grow used to it, initially, and then around it, ultimately. 

there is, after-all, the distraction of warfare engrained in the backbone of their precious faerûn. there is the journey to tyrholm, the settling into the dregs of hightown – not quite lowtown-bound, and not-quite-not. it fazes her parents to not be profound upper-echelons of society; her father, a man used to running the business inherited by the men in the lockhart family, and her mother, who had spent all of her time worrying for prudence and never had to about wealth. but prue, for her part, is accustomed to the notion of not-quite-right / not-quite-enough; the feeling might not be home, per se, and yet she recognises the walls of the house all the same – could walk its rooms in the dark, if she had to.

it is circumstance that calls the lockharts to castle tyrholm. 

it tears at her parents: her father believes in not squandering opportunity, and her mother would rather squander anything but prudence. even THE EMPRESS sees it, does she not, when she cants prudence’s head and observes her fragility? the king’s reputation precedes itself; would a heart as true and innocent as hers survive a court like his? within minutes, it is too late to ponder it any longer. within minutes, it is no longer a choice, but a deal already struck. just like a match: it cannot be unstruck. one can endeavour to douse a fire, but it is not the same as un-starting it.

for a time, the castle is one more place prue does not feel she belongs; it is alright, she tells herself. you are alright, she says – because her mother is no longer by her side telling her anymore, is she? silken thread ensnares the girl when THE WORLD knocks on her door one evening; it is lily-white, the radiance of their smile. prue does not understand why, then; she is nothing exceptional, she flounders for the right thing to do, and even then, she gets it wrong so much more often than she ever gets it right. perhaps, she will never understand why – why they are so kind, why they make her feel seen, why… 

and still, this once, there is no question of whether it is enough. they are more than enough.

for the first time in her life, prue discovers what it is to be warm.

✧✧✧

tell me, dear reader – is this a butterfly’s or moth’s metamorphosis?

—

HEADCANONS –

this little miss is twenty-three years old. she’s aurelia valmont’s lady-in-waiting / love-ah.

she came to court at thirteen years old, almost fourteen. she’s been living at the castle since, she grew up there.

y’all know her as prudence, but if you’re friends, she’s told you she doesn’t like being called that and feels more herself being called prue. that said? she looks so uncomfortable if you call her prudence, you can probably glean for yourself how she feels about it.

super soft, super shy, but always super put together and her make-up is forever Poppin’~ think effie trinket meets madame lebedeva; there’s some examples of cool shit she can pull off with makeup. if your kid wants a makeover, hit prue up, she’s got you!

baby girl is 5′3″, super petite & waif-like, but somehow always down at the kitchens eating something sweet

sometimes she takes her dessert to the library?? she reads the fantasy equivalent of children’s lit more than anything, but you can read with her if you want

she’s almost always by aurelia’s side and is never away for long, she basically gets separation anxiety at this point

very clever girl, but you’d never know it because she’s so quiet she melts into the background but if you wanna notice her please do and always feel free to reference the Lurker lockhart in your threads as a human easter egg

if there’s anything else anyone wants to know & play with, hit me up on discord at nayab ✨#4163 i’m so ready to get plotting with y’all and finding prue’s voice and unravelling her story!!!

[dokuhebi]

Shatteredxlookingxglass asked: For the Phobia prompts... Atychiphobia: My muse comforts yours after a (real or perceived) failure. -OR- Dipsophobia: Our muses drinking together. ~~ Dan @shatteredxlookingxglass​

Phobia Drabble Prompts Atychiphobia: My muse comforts yours after a (real or perceived) failure.  / Dipsophobia: Our muses drinking together. // @shatteredxlookingxglass The trees groan miserably as the deployed team pushes through thick and damp terrain. Familiar grounds branching off in to something far less known and safe. The forests surrounding Fire Country carried the risks of enemy shinobi, treacherous elements and beasts large enough to treat these expanding sequoia trees as little more than twigs beneath clawed or scaled feet. Unknown grounds or not however, as the group leaves behind the routes they have all explored throughout childhood, there is still one very familiar aspect to this. Danger itself. There is nothing new about the perceived sensation of a reaper tailing the group, waiting to find out which Leaf shinobi would be picked off first to be dragged to some unseen beyond.  Despite this graveness however, life continues to exist rather peacefully until chaos ensues. The greeting from a small rodent that scurries past, the ever pleasant and charming songs from the birds calling one another in the trees above. One particular little song, causing the viper to travel back in time in their own mind. 

“Why is she in a trap Taichou?” they are only eight years old, trained and talented enough to be deployed in to these lethal woods, with nothing more than a team captain as their guide. Their golden eyes are upon the small songbird, looking frantic in its prison, as the team captain stages another trap beside the one it is now ensnared in. It’s calls, pretty as they are, strike the child as a little sad. “She’s bait,” the man replies curtly, focused more on his task than the childs curiosities. Because food rations were now diminished, and he had a squad of shinobi relying on his lead. “But why do you want to lure a predator?” they ask again, childlike innocence compelling them to open her trap up for her release. As easy as coaxing a butterfly from a spiders web. Of course then, as Sensei had once told them, the spider would starve. Today, if they are analyzing their captains work correctly, it would be their team that starved. Although after meeting the birds eyes, the serpentine child has decided they very much wouldn’t be bothered skipping a meal on this evening. “I’m not baiting a predator. I’m baiting her mate.” That was the final answer the captain gave, and a firm lesson the child could not shake even in to adulthood. The little bird, clueless to its fate and the one awaiting its partner, would relentlessly call. And it would be the bond between two life mates that caused both to perish. Because hunters knew to exploit nature at ever turn. Because if one bird was caught, it would forever sing a song of rescue to its counterpart, and without fail, that counterpart would place fears aside to seek the other out. Be it a parent coming to a child, siblings, mates or cherished companions, care would be the catalyst. A jaded tale of love, if ever there were one. And while watching the songbird wailing in hope its partner would come, as if the other bird would ever be any help, the child watches with a little morbid criticism; stop calling, you’ll only get them killed.

On this mission, with Dan taking the position of team captain, a job that both offered honor to those who succeeded in missions or stripped it bare from those who failed, the serpent would once more encounter this lesson. This time however, they would be the foolish one who lured someone they cared for to harm. Ignorant to the fact that the danger they placed themself in, could so easily be translated over to a burden for someone else. Or so they would pretend. Dan had placed his team in a functioning order, but the serpent would break from it.  Pretending that amid this plan, an error was made where they could not properly take up the position they ought to. Pretending they had needed to improvise when something went wrong. It would be a purposefully made miscalculation on their part, knowing that Dan was never oblivious to them, knowing they could not escape the eyes of a trained Kato. In fact, they were betting on it. Within a few moments of intentional grave error, the serpent is well aware that they have walked in to a trap. One they admittedly would have survived with or without outside help. But only they know about their own ability to survive this without aid, and they would not need to prove this knowing their comrade wouldn’t be taking such a chance. Dan would arrive at their defense to mitigate the damage, he would arrive to ensure the vipers safety, as the two make quick work of the enemy forces. But the serpents action of drawing Dan away from his own position meant there were other casualties. Meant the part of the team abandoned faced another downfall. A downfall the serpent had calculated too, and found no sure way to avoid. They should have told Dan what they had sighted, they should have mentioned the inevitable loss. That was what a captain relied on, the honesty of the team, the cooperation of being a multi shinobi force. Orochimaru however, had feared Dan would ally with his team in the same fashion he had allied with the serpent in the heart of such danger. They were afraid, that he may meet the same fate. It is why they keep it to themself, why they can not bring themself to risk his life for the lives of those they barely know. It is also why, however, Dan ends up taking the brunt of failure. Why he is accused of losing a team, failing an assignment, and left with the mountain heavy guilt of that ‘fact’. Not a fact at all of course, if one knew there was a betrayal on the team. A betrayal due to something as innocent as a well formed bond - now, in the serpents experience, was that not merely nature at its most honest? They had on this night, been the little bird singing it’s companion in to death like a siren might. They were, and remain completely aware of it, the one who is the cause for the mans lowered morale and mood. The real culprit of failure. So it is perhaps, the least the can do to try help Dan drown away his sorrows for the evening. Why, on the sleepless night the two return home, they find themselves still clad in blood stained uniforms, hidden only by the dark cloaks that had shielded them from the outside weather, at the only open bar. These are times of war. Nobody notices the flash of a crimson stain, nobody asks whether or not someone has had too much to drink or not. They sit beside him, knowing they should be feeling remorse for their hand in this. That his guilt is a burden they chose to give him, feeling it a better consequence than death.  “The only thing that is not blue these days is the sky,” they mutter to him, observing the way the strong sake swirls at the bottom of their cup. Warranting a refill. Their golden eyes glance over to the man, offering the support a close companion ought to, company and agreement that life was just as insufferable as their currently downed comrade felt it was. Even if, at heart, they were simply relieved he had made it out in one piece. Even if his failure reflected in his eyes like broken glass. A little more sharp than broken perhaps. “We should just be glad it wasn’t you, or me,” they continue in the honesty of any shinobi who was both tipsy and well aware the man they spoke to was likely drunk enough to not remember what was being said, “places speak the names of everyone we know after all. I bet neither of us would ever sit at this bar again if the other died.” Because they have watched the way the dull but warm bar lights play tricks on the mans moon coloured hair, the way those same lights hit is ocean eyes. The way he takes up the space of the bar stool he sits upon, the way his frame blocks out the other patrons, shields them without thought from the room they prefer not mingling with, from the chilled breeze that threatens to crawl in from the open door. And they know, if that seat were ever empty, because the gods forbid something happened to him, they would certainly be unable to take their own seat ever again. It is when they catch the way the glass moves unsteadily in his hand, not curiously motivated so much as a result of impaired mobility, that they slip from their bar stool and settle the tab. Again - the least they could do. “That’s enough for tonight,” they mutter, more to themself than Dan, who was either saying something too drunk for them to understand, or else, was saying something perfectly comprehensible, but the serpent themself was the one too drunk to comprehend it. Whichever way it was, the midnight haired shinobi had decided the two have done enough poisoning for one night. Their own abode was closer, even if it did require a clumsy ascent up three sets of stairs. They keep a slim arm around the small of his back as they clamber up, once more unsure of whether their smaller form is giving him any support, or whether he is merely offering it to them. They had spent many nights interrupting his peaceful nights with their ideas. Entering with some new conclusion or finding, talking in their quiet but evidently enthusiastic manner, eventually succumbing to fatigue and falling asleep upon the very couch he offered them. Where the man would without fail find a blanket to draw over the serpent, daring not to interrupt the rare sleep they had managed. Tonight however, after fumbling with their locks, they would be the one to return that favor. Guiding him to their couch, helping him sit down and then eventually, covering him with a blanket after the polite effort of removing his shoes, cloak and flak jacket. Words are unspoken however, or perhaps only half spoken. They wonder if he knows them well enough. Did he hear it amid the rest of their ramblings? Did he hear it in their actions and behaviours? Did he hear it in their relief? Their excuses? Their every reaction - even their silence? ────   ‘I don’t want to lose you.’ Their svelte form sits in the gap left on the couch beside his abdomen, moving a strand of pale hair to investigate a gash on his forehead. Determining whether the cleaning could be left until morning, as to leave his sleep undisturbed. Finally determining that it could. It is not the only thought running through their mind however. They had made quite the promise to themself after all, one where they would not form attachments to people who were so fragile. Where they would not create a bond of any sort, when the human life was a fragile little flame so destined to burn out.  But now they had. Now they couldn’t say him leaving would have no profound impact on them as a person. And now, the only question they can both morbidly and fondly ask themself, as if looking back in to the eyes of that ensnared songbird, was who would be the death of the other first. 

[ambutasmallhuman]

New Battles

The old gods are not dead.

Their peak of glory is a fragment of the past, but like all legends, they do not belong to the time they were born into.

They belong to the world that remembers,

And no matter how sparse their believers,

They live on.

Perhaps they have been ushered into the corners of humanity,

Rather than the pedestals they once occupied,

But they are there.

And they are watching;

Listening;

Doing.

Hermes; once a messenger, always a messenger.

Except now,

Not for the immortals who sat on top of the world, but for the world they all reside in.

It’s an ugly place;

A land of despair and cruelty and heartbreak

And hate and sin and darkness,

But Hermes, his golden sandals now rusted,

His cheeks now sunken from centuries on the road

Spreads the message to all who need it-

For those who need it is everyone.

Hope is not gone,

He repeats.

Hope is never gone.

Often, the words fall on deaf ears- despair is skilled at blocking out the world

But sometimes-

Sometimes,

They hear.

They lift their heads for a second,

They peer out at the world from underneath heavy lashes,

Searching for the soul with a voice like hope,

And they nod.

That is all Hermes knows he is good for anymore.

That is the only message he needs to deliver.

Artemis, of the moon, of the wild, of the hunt.

Her first love stays constant;

For what change can a speck of green bring to a jewel in the sky?

But she is not someone who can love one thing-

And oh, how her two other great passions have warped with the time.

The wild is no longer what it once was:

The grass is no longer green,

And the forests no longer lush.

The beasts she once hunted and hunted alongside are but memories and imprints in hardened mud.

For them, Artemis wages a daily war.

She is a one woman army, and her defense is of the nature she so loves.

Now, her arrows are rarely aimed at the animals that still inhabit the woods-

And so rarely are they arrows anymore.

The modern era has churned out weapons of steel and ash,

And it is these that Artemis uses to hunt those who wish to hunt her and hers.

Ares, the warrior and the blood shedder,

Now fights a different war from the ones he once delighted in.

Because the wars of the modern day

Are not what they once were

Swords and armor and horses

Traded for guns and bombs and tanks

Battles of purpose and patriotism

Now meaningless, endless,

The means for destruction of this scale

Was never meant for human hands

Or cruel human minds.

This is the war that Ares wages:

He fights everyday,

Steel slashing, blood arcing,

Cutting down the allies he once fought alongside

But now they are robots,

Zombies for a cause they don’t know about,

A government they do not trust.

Ares, no longer bloodthirsty, no longer triumphant,

Urges an end to the war.

But war is no longer his domain.

Poseidon, ruler of the seas, lover of the oceans

Now presides over a polluted kingdom

His subjects are dead or dying

His castles of coral and seaweed

Are being drowned alive by the filth that the world above churns out

Endless is his sadness, his rage, his helplessness

For he should have seen this coming

Industry was never meant to be a gift to the god of the sea

Just a discreet poison

No one thought would kill until it did.

Waves still bob and bicker,

But their life is not so cheery;

With it bobs islands of plastic and waste

Slick with rainbows of black

Strung with clear plastic nets

That entrap and ensnare and murder the innocent

There is so little he can do-

For he is but one against the uncaring of many

But each and every day is spent working

In the protection of the home that he is slowly losing.

Hera, the eternal mother, the constant wife, the queen of a time long gone

Her people,

Those who look up to her and those who she watches over,

Have seen the change of a century.

Earned, through blood and tears and fists and passion,

Their rights,

Their lives,

Their freedom.

She, worn and tired,

Smiles,

For her people have never been so much.

Never have they had what they do now.

But where there are victors,

There are losers, and there are the spiteful,

And no matter how little these losers have truly lost,

They feel cheated

Out of something that was never theirs.

They will never be satisfied with less,

The way her people once had to be.

But they have never had to fight the battles

That her people did,

And so although she has lost her prime, her beauty, her queendom,

She holds on to her place,

If not for herself,

For those who look to her,

For the true capacity of a woman.

Apollo, ever bright, ever center, ever joyous,

Still lives and dies each day for his spot in the sun

For a shadow of the admiration,

The adoration,

The praise

He was once showered with.

But his audiences now don’t care for his tricks,

His songs, his eyes, his hair, his hands.

They don’t care for intangible beauty,

For fleeting glimmers,

They hand in crumpled bills for soiled needles,

Exchange smoking pipes in back allies,

Hide away in stalls of bathrooms to fill their veins

With false ecstasy.

They paste smiles on their face, they let loose their mind,

They close their eyes and they pretend

At happiness.

But he knows that they are not truly happy,

They haven’t known how to do so in a long time.

He wants them to look at him again,

Want them to beam at him again with sunshine in their hair and mist in their eyes,

But more than anything, he wants them to feel the truth of joy.

To free their minds from chemicals of pretense,

To leave behind their smokes and their powders and their juices.

To join him in the sun,

Where it is warm and real.

Aphrodite, worshipped for beauty, for passion,

Knows what love is.

She was born with it curling through her blood like sea foam,

With the taste of it on her tongue,

With the knowledge of its truth secure in her palms.

She knows love better than she will ever know herself,

And she knows that love comes in so many forms.

The love between a little girl and a little boy,

Destined for greater things, but not yet.

The love between a woman and her wife of twenty-nine years,

A happy ending come to fruition.

The love between a man who doesn’t know it yet, and the man he is to meet later that day,

Unexpected, but beautiful; always beautiful.

The love between the uncertain teen and their breezy, blossoming best friend,

A love not without consequences,

Not without hate,

Not with the judgement of those who think they deserve such an opinion,

But love,

Nonetheless.

Love has been distorted into a commodity to be controlled by the same people who control markets,

Who control the government,

And she seeks to right their misunderstandings.

She no longer has the leisure to play her twisted games of love,

For there are far more twisted forces at work against her.

She has young lovers to reassure,

And obstinate critics to critique.

Love is love is love, she says.

No one would know better than she does.

Athena, the wise, the knowing,

sees the world for what it is.

In shades of gray and platinum and gunmetal and steel,

Everchanging and subtle,

A far cry from the bars of black and white that media advertises it as.

She knows that there is no good and no bad,

No true wrong and no true right.

There is only objectivity and subjectivity,

Each beholder for themselves.

Truth is different for each person,

And no one platform, no one channel, no one being, no one organization

Reserves the right to say otherwise.

She holds this simple message close to her heart,

Spreads it as far as she can reach.

But the media, the government,

Has technology that enables their spindly fingers to reach further.

And although her knowledge is more absolute than theirs can fathom,

Their webs of lies and false truths

Are too far integrated into the current world.

It is all she can do now,

To open the eyes of the few people still willing

To see beyond the film of mass society,

To bring change with one voice at a time.

Hephaestus; a craftsman once worshipped for creativity

Finds no hint of his old domain in the world of industry.

The artists, the writers, the dreamers,

Have fallen to the fringe of society,

Their crafts lost to the gears and machines

Of a modern age,

Where assembly lines reign true

And creations are spared no second glances and no loving care.

It is these careers of steel and paper and ball-point pens,

That shape the status quo,

That grinds edges out through a cookie cutter

Into the shape of a worker.

There is conformity,

Or there is poverty.

Within these solid black lines, there is no room

For the creativity that Hephaestus so treasured.

There is no room for flowing lines or vivid colors or segments of dreams

There is only the reality of the workplace,

And for some, the few that Hephaestus can get to,

The quiet peace of home and creation,

And the tidbits of inspiration that flare through the smog.

The world, he argues,

May now run on machinery and evenness and guidelines,

But no efficiency will ever replace the capacities of a human mind.

Hades, robed in darkness and throned on death,

Is sick, and he is tired.

Tired of the mass destruction that opens his gates,

Tired of the empty gazes and protruding ribs,

Tired of the constant stream of the dead that envelop his kingdom

In grief and hate and sorrow

On a scale he has never seen before.

But most of all,

He is tired,

Not of the dead,

But of the living.

Of the letters,

The prayers,

The pleas,

Of the living who wish they were not living at all.

Never has he seen his rivers so full of blood,

Never has he seen his dreams so full of begging youth and the disillusioned.

Never has he been asked,

So frequently,

To bestow the kiss of death,

To those who can no longer bear the gift-

The penance-

Of living.

It is a shame, a monstrosity, a tragedy-

That the world above has become a place far worse

Than the one below,

And that was never his intention.

His domain was meant to be the realm of after,

Not the final destination.

With shaken, white, crumpled hands,

He rejects as many of the pleas as he can

Begs, as he never has before,

For them to reconsider.

But sometimes,

They are too stubborn and the world of the living too cruel

And they find their way down

To him instead.

In all his years,

He has never seen so many smiles when they see his face

And every one

Breaks his heart.

Dionysus, still never seen without a wineglass in hands,

Now sits on the sidelines,

Swishes the liquid within his glass,

And does not take a sip.

Instead, he watches as young and old alike

Stumble into his bars,

Fill their livers with the red and silver bubbles

Of forget,

And lean away from their every day selves.

Away from their true selves.

He does not join in,

Even when they begin to dance

And laugh

And sing and shriek and rejoice,

Because he sees through their pretenses,

Sees through their attempt at happiness.

He was once one of them,

You see,

Before he realized that the greatest demons

Are the ones within.

He knows that no matter how much

They drink or laugh or try,

There is no escaping their reality

And no escaping the truths.

And so he tips his wineglass in their direction,

Toats their joy

And grieves for the tears they cannot shed.

Zeus, strong-willed and brave-hearted,

Has come to realize

Over the course of thousands up thousands of years,

His mistakes.

He knows what he has done wrong,

Has reflected on the personal ambitions

He once put above the greater good

The selfish desires

He once put above his otherworldly duties.

His days are long past gone,

And his mistakes,

Forever etched in the unforgiving hands of time,

Are past fixing.

But he looks around at the millions of heartbeats that surround him,

And wish that they too,

Could have the time he’d needed

To rectify their wrongs.

He has learned that nothing is permanent

Not his glory,

Not his crown,

Not even his faults.

But they do not have his time nor his immortality

To ponder this.

They only have their tomorrows,

And he can only hope that they will use

Those precious days.

And perhaps most forgotten of all,

Forgotten even when those who shared her blood

Had their spotlights.

Is Hestia.

She sits at home,

Content with her fire,

Her clotheslines,

Her picture frames.

She is alone again,

As she so often is,

Left behind to protect the home that so many have forgone

In search of gold and glory.

Everyone wants something,

Everyone wants to be more than what they are and who they were,

And she encourages these desires,

With tokens of luck and soft smiles.

But for all that they dream and hope and pursue,

She wants them to remember that there is always a place for them to return to,

A home where they belong.

There is cruelty in the world,

Unjustice,

Inequality,

And although ambition is a hearty, wonderful thing,

So too,

Is home.

The world is not what it once was,

Pockmarked as it has become.

And the old gods,

Though not what they were before,

Have adapted to fight new battles,

Losing as they may be.

Hope is frightened and small,

Nature is being cut down with ruthless efficiency,

War has spiraled out of everyone’s control,

Oceans fill with murky waste and the scent of death,

Womens’ rights are being wrestled with in an endless game of tug-of-war,

Chemicals create false happiness and temporary relief,

Love is fastened beneath lock and key,

Truth is distorted through layers of looking glass,

Creativity is stifled beneath stainless steel and cookie-cutters,

Life is harder to bear than the loss of it,

Self-expression hides itself away,

And mistakes go unrectified as the days drag on.

Even the old gods are trying to save the new world,

But they are twelve,

And that is not enough.

[yuesya]

In the story "and much madness must make" if Madeleine was born male, would things have been the same? vastly different? or a little different?

Hmm, I feel like this can go a few different ways. For all that Big Mom herself is female, to a certain extent it does seem that her daughters tend to be used as marriage pieces more than her sons, and generally are of lower rank than her sons in terms of her crew’s power structure, suggesting that she might favor sons over daughters… But all her children are disposable to her in the end, really. 

ANYWAYS, if Madeleine had been born male, there are a few possibilities: 

A) Similar to f!Madeleine, m!Madeleine is also deeply ensnared by a singularly overwhelming fear of Big Mom, but being male means a quicker rise through the ranks, since m!Madeleine is brought to Big Mom’s attentions much earlier than f!Madeleine’s attentions are. (Sons don’t run the possibility of being married off to another crew one day, after all.)   

Also, m!Madeleine experiences markedly more hostility from the vast majority of his siblings; it’s easier to feel concern and sympathy for a quiet, sullen sister than it is for a quiet, sullen brother. There is less compassion from Brulee, more harsh discipline from Katakuri, more ‘roughhousing’ from Cracker –obviously, there’s no way that this is going to end better than the canon storyline, even if m!Madeleine will probably end up stronger than f!Madeleine as a result in terms of combat abilities.

Not to mention the additional mental issues from the transition between different genders…

… Yeah, there’s no way that this is going to end well.

B)  Suppose that, m!Madeleine is allowed more freedom than f!Madeleine, and thus sets sail to complete various assignments for big mom at a younger age. His fear of Big Mom is something much more manageable than the utter MESS it would escalate into in later years, and this means that m!Madeleine plucks up the courage to get the hell out of dodge in his teens, faking his own death and going, ‘Fuck it, I’m out.’

A young, adolescent male is a target, but less of a target than a young, adolescent female. m!Madeleine still runs into his fair share of trouble over the years, but not as much harassment as f!Madeleine might have received, had she tried the same thing in his shoes. Also marginally less danger from the sex traffickers around, though the slave trade, well…

The New World is not a safe place to be wandering around in by yourself, let’s just leave it at that. 

Without Big Mom’s protection, m!Madeleine has two routes to go in the food chain: Become prey, or become predator. 

B.1) If m!Madeleine is lucky, he escapes danger by the skin of his teeth and changes, grows, flourishes, though it’s debatable whether or not his years after escaping Big Mom have changed him for the better.

B.2) If m!Madeleine is unlucky, then several years later down the line, the Straw Hats’ first Sabaody visit and subsequent encounter with Saint Charlos and Saint Shalria goes a little differently, due to the blank-eyed, pink-haired boy at their side. Everything still turns out fine, though, thanks to Rayleigh.

C) m!Madeleine strikes up a rapport with his brothers. Or, well, maybe not rapport, but the men in the Charlotte family tend to hold the more influential and/or powerful positions in the family hierarchy, and a new genius brother who makes it clear from the start that he’s utterly disinterested in making power grabs or forming his own little faction within the family is better-received by the majority of his brothers than a strange, awkward sister who no one aside from Brulee really understands. 

m!Madeleine ends up being railroaded into the heart of the bureaucracy in Totto Land, somehow, mostly because he’s the only one who literally threw open the windows and jumped out of the meeting room while everyone else started squabbling over the important position, and because Peros is an asshole. While m!Madeleine isn’t exactly happy with this job, he’s also much more mentally stable and overall healthier than he might otherwise have been as an active combatant. Big Mom grumbles from time to time that m!Madeleine would’ve been more useful as a frontliner like Katakuri, given the talent he’d shown in his younger years, but the integral role that m!Madeleine holds in Totto Land’s day-to-day workings means that he’s pretty much permanently housebound at this point to keep things running. Islandbound. Whatever.

m!Madeleine also inadvertently ends up being the unofficial counselor for, like, 80% of his siblings’ Issues, because he ends up being the most normal and well-adjusted of the lot this time around. 

By a strange quirk of fate, m!Madeleine still ends up eating the Dream Dream Fruit. He takes it in a completely different direction than f!Madeleine did, though, and instead primarily uses it as a therapy tool to help his siblings, or a ‘safe spot’ for them to destroy whatever the hell they want with no regard for their surroundings as stress relief, since he can create an illusory environment. Some of his older siblings take advantage of this to work on large-scale combat techniques which can get messy and destructive.

If Katakuri is the proud, immovable pillar of strength of the family, then m!Madeleine’s role here is something a little softer, the brother who cares and always makes time for you when you need it, no matter how busy his schedule is, the tireless weaver spinning the web tying everyone together. A far cry from the cold, icy little thing in his younger years.

Pudding is the only one –aside from some of her oldest siblings, maybe, but even that’s debatable– who knows that m!Madeleine hides under that warm, kindly veneer. The one time Totto Land’s defenses are breached and that Supernova Urouge invades their home, some of the invaders reach the Nursery, where the youngest little Charlottes live. Helpless children. Perfect hostages.

Pudding’s legs are shaking, and she’s barely able to suppress the hysterical scream rising in her throat by the time m!Madeleine is done. The man tilts his head as he catches sight of her, and holds a single finger to his lips at her in a playful gesture of silence, and winks at her. Warm, friendly, caring.

Blood pools steadily beneath his feet.

.

… Getting progressively longer here, haha. Whoops. These are just a few options off the top of my head; there’s a lot of directions that m!Madeleine could go in.

[masterserris]

FUNERAL FOR A MAGICIAN     Pt. 11 Who Will Know

Grave robbers!

There shall be hell to pay for robbing his grave; disturbing his rest and peace. The magician’s fury explodes forth now!  But how?! No one will like the answer.

Characters: Neo Mysterio (Quentin Beck), Doc Ock (Otto Octavius), Spider-Man (Peter Parker), Alexandria Beck (Alex), Maria Beck, Sandman (Flint Marko), Chameleon

THE WARNINGS APPLY TO THIS CHAPTER.

Warnings: Explicit gore and death, violence, mentions of past abuse, mental illness, physical illness, cancer

^These warnings are here for the story as a whole. If you get invested by reading a less graphic chapter, then be prepared for the warnings above in other parts!!

“If I die in this world, who will know something of me? 

I am lost, no-one knows, there’s no trace of my yearning.

But I must carry on, nothing worse can befall. 

All my fears, all my tears, tell my heart, there’s a hole. 

I wear a void, not even hope. A downward slope, is all I see.

As long as breath comes from my mouth, I may yet stand the slightest chance. 

A shaft of light is all I need to cease the darkness killing me.”

-“Who Will Know” Shin Godzilla, 2016

That dismal day of the funeral was relatively uneventful, even though the remaining members of the sinister six had attended alongside their hated enemy. The Avengers perhaps wished to apprehend them, however Otto was once more several steps ahead of them. A quick teleportation device was all that was needed to evade their would-be captors after the service was over. 

However gaudy it was, Beck had finally gotten that statue of himself he joked about having once he became famous. Was it in poor taste? Perhaps, perhaps not. Alexandria Beck paid no mind to it. All she could do at the service was stare at the ground where her brother laid six feet under, feeling only the hallow void that often lingered in their family like a curse. 

Maria Beck was quiet. She was a well mannered child; she did not really get what was going on. The last two Becks left immediately after the funeral. There was nothing in New York they could ever want or stay for. Not anymore. 

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

A week has passed since he was buried. Otto was always the mistrustful type. Something to do with consistent bullying and betrayals throughout his life. That being said, was it so unheard of to keep cameras around the grave site of your recently deceased friend? For Otto, it wasn’t. 

The alarm was raised and Octavius was roused from a rather unhappy slumber. Chameleon was already up. Someone had dared to disturb Beck’s rest? There would be hell to pay indeed. Wasting no time, the pair of them left immediately to confront the grave robbers.

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

It had recently rained, loosening up the soil. The group in question were known body thieves. They often targeted mutants for their DNA. 

Graverobber 1: “Hhhff... they buried this guy... really well...! The soil is packed.”

Graverobber 2: “Should we haul off the statue, too? It has bronze and gold plating. Could be worth a good amount once it’s stripped down.”

Graverobber 3: “We could, but I’d rather get the body more than anything. Do you know how much we could sell the Slayer of a Herald of Galactus for? I also heard they guy had undergone a super soldier serum prototype procedure. We could sell part of him to Hydra for sure. Maybe just his arm.”

Grave robber 2: “The armor is one of a kind. AIM wants the teleporter and quantum matter displacer for 500 million dollars.”

Graverobber 1: “Holy shit, I know you said millions but daaamn... hffff almost there.... I can see part of the coffin... I hope it won’t smell too bad...”

Graverobber 3: “Well, it’s been about a week, so I wouldn’t expect anything exactly good...”

Otto: “...You imbeciles...”

The grave robbers whirled around at the sudden voice, but before they could react, a pair of Octavius’s metal arms had constricted one of them, threatening to snap his neck. The other two pulled out their guns, ready to shoot, when Chameleon lunged out of hiding, tackling and pinning one of them to the ground, his knife against his neck.

The last robber was afraid, and in his panic, called through a radio for reinforcements as Otto swung an arm at him, knocking the fool to the ground. 

Otto was about to land a killing blow when Spider-Man leaped into action, landing a web on the robber and pulling him out of the way as the metal tentacle slammed into the ground where the body snatcher had been half a second before. The robber was far from free, however for he soon found himself wrapped up and immobilized by Spider-Man’s webs. 

Otto: “Spider-Man... We have trash that needs to be cleaned up.”

Spider-Man: “Yeah, but I’m not lettin’ you kill them either Doctopus. I’m taking them to the police.”

Chameleon: “They deserve far worse, Spider. These... this SCUM has robbed probably hundreds of graves... Imagine all the stolen bodies they have desecrated! If you turn them in, I have no doubt in my mind that their friends and clients would break them out once more to tear up more of the dead.”

Spider-Man: “Okay, Chammy, I’m gonna need you to calm down. I’m just as much against grave robbing as any other wall crawler, but creating more dead people isn’t the answer! Let him go and I’ll handle this!”

Otto: “Your track record of ‘handling things’ is mediocre at best. Turning them in will solve nothing. Only direct action will!”

With that, Otto began to crush his ensnared victim. Peter lunged at the pair, attempting to save the idiot who had incurred the wrath of the sinister six. In doing so, some of the excavation equipment fell into the grave, busting open the coffin. The smell wafting out was.... far from pleasant. This made Otto fly more into a rage, whipping his arm to slam Peter right in the chest, knocking the wind completely out of him.

The robber pinned by Chameleon took the opportunity to try and tase the super villain. Chameleon was agile enough to dodge the nearly point-blank attack, but lost his grip on his victim. The thief quickly got to his feet as three more of his friends hurried onto the scene, guns pointed at the two sinister six members and Spider-Man.

Being surrounded and having no real options, the trio stood down as the grave robbers unwebbed their friend. 

Grave robber 4: “Well. It’s not everyday that we get to cart away an extra three bodies, boys!”

Otto: “Do not assume that you can kill us so easily. You will leave here with nothing. Not even your own lives, you vermin.”

As if almost on cue, bright green mist began to slowly fog around the graveyard.

Spider-Man: “...you doin’ this, Ock?”

Otto: “..No... I’m not...”

The robbers seemed perturbed by the sudden fog, however they kept their aim straight, ready to shoot.

That was until a plume of thick green smoke roiled out of the open grave. Everyone recoiled as the sound of cracking mahogany and scrape of metal could be heard below. 

Beck lurched and pulled himself out of his own tomb, raggedly wheezing. He was covered in dirt, mud, and his own blood. His armor was still as torn open as it was on the day he died, his helmet busted open.

The sight of him made everyone’s heart stop. His face was withered and had an expression of enraged confusion. His chest gaped open, his ribs exposed to the night air as his rotting innards hung dangling from what little flesh still held them together. 

Beck staggered to his feet, barely keeping his balance as air hissed in and out of his dilapidated mouth and his torn lungs. He stared at the crowd for a moment, trying to take in his surroundings, he blinked at the sight of Otto and Chameleon, lurching slowly toward them.

Beck: “Otto...? Chameleon...? where.. szztt.. am I...?”

His mouth did not move, but his voice came out all the same. It was distorted and sounded... like it was coming from the speaker within his helmet.

Spider-Man: “Quentin..? What’s...how...? You need to stop moving, you’re coming apart!”

At Parker’s indication, Beck took a better look at himself. Stammering and stuttering at the sight of his own torn carcass. The horror on his face made it all so much worse.

Beck: “HHzztt... h-how... Otto, h-help me.. wh-what..s.. happening?”

Realization at the situation sent an abysmally cold chill down Octavius’s metal spine.

Otto: “...The neutral net,” He breathed. “The neutral net I made for you to control your robots.... It must have... copied your mind into it’s processor... Your body is being animated... by the nano machines in your blood that helped link your suit to your body and repair damaged tissues... Quentin... You... died.”

Mysterio was quiet for a minute, clearly trying to process everything.

Beck: “.....r-right.... Terrax.... I.. was stabbed... I... I’m dead... I was alright with it too... It wasn’t so bad.... I was... shzzt... peace...”

He looked back at his grave, dirt, mud, and tools spread everywhere. His statue stood resolute, with all the authority of fate itself, standing by to judge the wicked on this night.

Beck turned back towards them.

Neo Mysterio: “I was... Alright with it. I was. At. Peace.” 

He gritted his teeth, rage in his mechanical voice. With his dead eyes he glared at the tormentors who would rob him of his rest. His claws came out with an audible “shink!”

Grave robber 2: “H-hey..! S-sorry man! We.. uh. We are just t-tryin’ to make a livin’ in this world, ya know?? We didn’t mean it!! We’ll go! ‘c-cmon guys..! Let’s scram!”

Grave robber 5: “Hell no, he died once, he’ll die again, just shoot the bugger and let’s go!”

A few of them shot at Quentin, the bullets either bouncing harmlessly off of his carbonadium shell or tearing into an already festering corpse.

Beck: “YOU ROBBED ME OF THE LAST THING I HAD IN THIS WORLD! YOU ROBBED ME OF MY PEACE!!”

He marched forward, bullets pounding against him relentlessly as he continued unperturbed by the deadly barrage. Spider-Man, Chameleon, and Octavius dared not get caught in the line of fire, rather they took cover from the spray of bullets scattering across the graveyard.

Relentless, now that was a fun word. He was going to take absolute revenge here and now. Relentless was how he was going to tear them limb from limb and make them feel every bit of agony his soul felt right now.

Beck: “I WAS FINALLY HAPPY. I WAS FINALLY CONTENT WITH MYSELF. I WAS FINALLY OKAY WITH LETTING IT ALL GO. FOR SO MANY DAMN YEARS I HATED EVERYTHING I DID AND EVERYTHING I HAD BECOME. I HAD FINALLY DONE SOMETHING I AND OTHERS WERE TRULY PROUD OF. 

I PAID FOR MY SINS WITH MY DAMN LIFE AND YOU COME HERE OUT OF GREED TO TAKE THAT AWAY FROM ME?! HOW ABOUT I TAKE EVERYTHING AWAY FROM YOU!!!”

Spider-Man: “Beck! STOP!!”

He was a second from tearing his claws into one of their faces when he was dragged out of his atomic rage. Spider-Man yanked the robber out of Quentin’s hands and flung two web bombs at the rest of them, securely immobilizing them to the ground.

Otto: “Quentin! Enough! Enough. You don’t have to keep fighting, it’s.. it’s over.”

Beck paused for a second. The anger still boiled within him. He was a victim, it wasn’t right that he could not take matters into his own hands. It wasn’t fair! 

....Maybe Doc was right, of course. Killing these bastards was their goal, but would it solve anything? Would it make anything better? No. It really wouldn’t. It would only drive them deeper into the hate that had already consumed them.

Beck let his hands fall to his sides. Spider-Man took that has his queue to get out of there and alert the police.

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

With the arrival of the cops, the three reunited members of the sinister six had to leave. At the base, they were met with Sandman staring at them in disbelief. His friend was back from the dead! However zombie-like he appeared, Flint was a kind soul and could not stop himself from welcoming back Mysterio with a hug.

Quentin remained rather silent. He didn’t know how to take anything anymore. He felt as hollow as he physically was. He.. was dead. He was gone. He had been unwillingly dragged back into suffering. A cloud of depression clung to Beck as Otto worked on a way to reverse the bodily decay and fix Quentin. 

Fix Quentin. How can you “fix” a dead man? How can you undo such a traumatic thing as dying? It was certainly interesting once his brain was reanimated. The human brain dies in about five minutes after circulation has been cut off. Beck had been dead for over a week. 

His brain had to be completely regrown, along with most of his innards, slowly through the use of nano machines and intense stem cell cloning therapy that Otto had just delved into. The absolute cutting edge of health care. It could not actually bring back the dead, however. The copy of Beck’s brain patterns were pivotal in restoring his best friend. 

Having his mind transferred back into his body was a melting mix of sensations. All of his nerves felt on fire. He was back. His armor and body fixed, the sinister six were whole once more. 

They tried to get things back to a sense of normalcy. It had been a rough month. Overall, things were back to how they were, but Beck felt differently.

He felt... different. He did not know how to put it, and Otto could tell it was bugging him. Was he alive? He had truly died. Was he just a copy and the real Mysterio was long gone? At this point, it was schrodinger’s magician. 

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

The news had caught wind of the incident, and the Daily Bugle published a story from an anonymous tip that proved Beck was back from the grave. Photographs and video to boot, thanks to Parker.  Quentin was enraged at Spider-Man for filming and photographing his dead body in such a back handed manner. There would be consequences for this disgrace. The news of his ressurrection also sent a chill through the super villain community, and gave the sinister six a new found respect. 

Not even death could stop them. 

Not that it meant anything to Beck. He was listless. They were going to continue with Octavius’s plan like before, but his heart was not nearly as into it as before, at least at first. He owed his friend his life twice over now. He was not about to let Otto down, no matter what happened.

Beck was heartened to hear his sister’s cancer had regressed. The operation date to remove the tumor was already set.

[crookedmoonlight123]

The Rain Woman - Chapter 14 - Melted Ice Makes Water

Yay! The next chapter is up! Please read it below, then follow the link to read and review!

The Rain Woman- Chapter 14 – Melted Ice Makes Water

 A/N: So sorry that I haven’t updated this in such a long, long time. I was going through a really bad time! Please enjoy nonetheless.

 Juvia awoke with a start; someone was having an argument in the corridor. Bleary eyed, Juvia glanced at the clock on the nightstand, it read 3:30pm.  She hadn’t really fallen asleep until near 5am tossing and turning about what Mitch had said to her, what did her father have planned exactly?  Juvia felt a tingle in her veins as her magic burned at her fingertips, the shouting grew louder annoying the watermage. Puffing her cheeks and throwing the duvet off furiously, Juvia made way to the little wooden door, grabbing the knob and twisting it violently, before storming into the corridor to see a man and a woman staring offensively at each other but they were facing Juvia who had come storming loudly from her room.

 “You alright lady?”  The brown-haired man asked aggressively, Juvia glared at him.  “You might wanna try putting some clothes on.”  He spat the words his fists still raised.

 “Oh, as if you don’t look at women all the time Hugh!”  The blonde girl spoke now spitting her words at Hugh.

 “Juvia wouldn’t need to get dressed if your shouting hadn’t woken her up.”  The watermage spoke with a bitterness that rivalled a lemon.  

 “It’s 3:30pm, what are you, a lady of the night.”  Hugh scoffed fuelling Juvias fury, her navy-blue orbs narrowing, her mouth turning into a thin line.

 “Water lo-“The watermage was cut off as someone shoved her into the wall.  It was Mitch, his forearm pushing her back against it, his body turned to Hugh and who appeared to be his girlfriend.

 “What’s all the commotion about?”  Another broader figure appeared from behind Hugh, it was Juvias father, he strolled casually into the scene.

 “Well I was having a conversation with my girl and that crazy woman came storming out her room accusing us of waking her up, it’s 3:30 in the afternoon it’s no crime.” Hugh looked Jimquin in the eyes.

 Jimquin spoke with such mad calmness.  “Well that would be my daughter, if you would excuse her behaviour, we got in late last night from our travels.”

 Juvia pushed Mitch away still glaring at Hugh.  “Juvia is going to get dressed.”  The watermage stalked back into her room making sure to slam the door shut.

  About half an hour later Juvia heard a light rapping on her door, pulling her thigh high boots on she walked over, opening the door more calmly than she had earlier.

 “Hey, Jimquin wants us to meet down the lobby now.”  The familiar green haired wizard gave Juvia a weak smile as she closed the door behind them to make their way down to the reception area.  “I uh, wanted to apologise for how cold I was to you last night, I was just tired.” Mitch chuckled but it sounded strained.

 “Juvia doesn’t need an apology, it’s fine.”  The watermage kept her gaze ahead as her father came into view.

 “Ah, perfect timing.  We need to get going.” Jimquin rubbed his hands together as the two wizards descended the last few steps and followed silently out the inn.

 “Where are we going?”  Juvia asked walking side by side with her father, giving him a sidelong glance.

 “I have some information on a man who I need to pay a visit to, he is a slippery guy he keeps getting away everytime I get some information on him.”  Juvia nodded as they strode fiercely through the village like a storm.

 “We think someone is tipping the guy off when they see us coming, or overhear our guy telling Jimquin.” Mitch filled in some details.

 Juvia nodded slightly, as they proceeded forwards through the town, the uneven cobbles making it slightly trickier than normal to walk in high heeled boots.  All the houses had a similar likeness to the inn, being white washed stone, the newer ones made of yellow bricks, they had almost the same size gardens to Rhodonia, the noticeable difference was in the grass; in Rhodonia is was soft, lush, springy grass, here it was darker, spiky, dry grass, it appeared like it needed the rain she had brought with her.

 The man her father had a quandary with, was allegedly in a small bar in town, as they neared the wooden run-down bar, the smell of cigars and alcohol filled the watermages nostrils, making them burn in protest.  Jimquin led the way in, the door creaking as it opened into a dark hazy room, full of raucous voices.  Male testosterone filled the air here, most of the faces weather beaten, unfriendly, with cruel, twisted smiles, beers in one hand and a thick cigar in the other.

 Scrunching her nose up, Juvia walked inside, Mitch walking closely behind her, their footsteps on the dusty wooden floorboards now echoed loudly in their ears as silence fell over the bar, each and every one of those alcohol dazed faces staring as they went by.

 Upon reaching the bar Jimquin immediately had the barmans attention, the whole room had his attention.  Juvia and Mitch flanked either side of him like bodyguards as the elder water wizard proceeded to ask the whereabouts of a name Juvia didn’t quite hear.

 “What do you mean he is not here?!” Jimquins voice enraged his tone a low growl.

 The barman responded, quivering “H-he left just minutes ago.”  The blonde-haired male put the glass down he was drying, clearing his throat as if to settle his nerves.

 Jimquin straightened up a bit, tugging the edges of his suit-which seemed very out of place in this sort of bar.  “Did he say where he was going?”  Jimquins strained to maintain his temper as the barman shook his head.  This guy must have really annoyed father, Juvia thought blinking her navy-blue eyes, fingers interlaced in front of her. Jimquin turned to face the harrowed onlookers, some fidgeted uncomfortably in their seats as they met his all powerful gaze.  Arms held out high to the side of him he spoke to the crowd.  “Does any know where that bloody bastard Greg Greendale has gone?” Jimquin roared, “I know he is a regular here, so do not lie to me.”  His gaze would have been terrifying if Juvia could feel terror.

 No one spoke, either through fear or loyalty.  “Mitch.” Jimquin nodded at the green haired wizard on his right.

 Mitch merely shut his eyes, but a heavy weight could be felt all around the building. “If you don’t cooperate then I really will give you something to be scared of.”  Some people started running for the door only to be met with an invisible barrier.  “You have 30 seconds to give me an answer.” Jimquin almost spat as he eyed each and every human being in the room.  Juvia glanced at Mitch, his brows were furrowed, his eyes still tightly closed. “Fine then.”  Jimquin paused, now smirking.  “Let’s have some fun.”  His eyes shot to Juvias.  “Juvia. Would you please suffocate….” He paused again his eyes scanning the room for a victim.  “That one.”  It was a scrawny old man, who seemed like a farmer, a poor farmer who had only come in for a quiet drink, he was the only man who didn’t look greedy or cruel.  His old grey eyes were kind, his heart honest.

 Juvia looked to her father questioningly.  “Go ahead Juvia.”  The watermage looked back at the old man something irking in her brain.

“NOW JUVIA!”  Jimquin shouted that little inkling out of her brain as the magic surged through her veins, taking over her thoughts, her feelings, she had to release the pent-up power.

 Juvia twisted her hand as if she were opening a door, “water lock.”  The words calm and collected, a trait she got from either Jose or her father.  Wind billowed her navy-blue hair around her, wind she had created herself from the release of her power, her victim ensnared in a suffocating sphere of water, hovering off the floor for everyone to see, a spectacle.  

 The man tried desperately not to drown, but in doing that he would only suffocate, a voice spoke up.  “OK enough!” A horrified male voice rang out, many others had their hands over their mouths in shock.  “Michael goes to another bar up town after this one.”  He pleaded with Jimquin, his hair also blue.  “It’s the only other one in the town, he had friends there.”  The water wizard still stared at him, as the man in the water lock was fighting his last moments, Juvia still held on mercilessly. “Ok, it’s out of here, turn right, walk past 6 streets on your right, it’s the 7th one down half way down that road. Dear god just let that poor man go!”  He shouted for mercy on his knees.

 Jimquin nodded, “Thankyou for your cooperation.  Mitch drop your shield.  Juvia release him.” Jimquin looked to Juvia, her eyes, they were fixated on the fly caught in her web, the power didn’t want to let go, it wanted more, more and more, she was more than he could have asked for.  “Juvia you have to let him go.” Jimquin spoke more assertively but the watermage didn’t seem to hear him.

 “Juvia!” Mitch grabbed her shoulders, shaking her violently, breaking her power-hungry daze.  The watermage snapped to attention, releasing the water locks hold on the man as he fell, limply to the floor in a wet heap.  “You almost killed him.  That wasn’t the point.”  Mitch stared down into those empty navy pits knowing that his words still meant nothing. Jimquin had created a monster.  No one moved or dared speak as the three mages walked out the bar to their next destination, leaving a bar of dread and misery behind them.

 Gray had been up early the following morning, he had rested that extra day as promised to Mary.  The icemages tote bag was now full of food and potions, courtesy of his host, as he walked the familiar forest path back from the mansion in the afternoon sun, the wet mud still squelching with every step.  Juvia wasn’t at the mansion anymore, that was made clear by the wizards who were still recovering from their fight with him, Sparky hadn’t recovered. Gray had overheard that they had moved on to Allium town to settle some sort of business on their way to Midi, the smallest part of Fiore.

 Gray sighed as his coal eyes glanced up at the iron sky.  Just a month ago Juvia had been a bubbly, smiley friendly face around the guild, always trying to get him to go out alone with her.  Some of the times Gray had accepted, he couldn’t always say yes, he didn’t know exactly how he felt about the watermage and decided it was in her best interest if he rejected the offer a few times.  The outings they did have consisted of them going on evening walks around Magnolia or sat in a Café talking. One particular occasion, the most recent, the pair had gone on a walk one sunny afternoon, the sun beating down on the hot stone streets on Magnolia, Juvia had worn a light pink summer dress with red roses patterns, coupled with a straw hat which she had fiddled with when she had become nervous at times.  Somehow, they had found them right on the outskirts of town, stood on a bridge looking down at the little stream that wound its way over the rock’s underneath, the water so clear and cool despite the blistering heat.  They had chattered idly about missions on the request board and Gray could feel Juvia pining to ask him on one of them as she fiddled with the hem of her dress, her long lashes dipped, he hadn’t noticed how close their faces were to each-other as the cool air became thicker, his fingers lightly brushed against hers, a blush framed her cheeks the same colour as the roses, Gray had felt his heart beat so fast he was sure that it was going to fly off with him, just as he leaned in Juvia had stuck her finger against his lips and had said;

 “Gray-sama!” She had giggled closing her navy-blue eyes, “Not until Juvia has her answer.” She scolded him playfully, he knew very well which answer she wanted. She wanted to know how he truly felt about her, he could’ve given it to her right then, but his throat had closed up, partly from the rejection and partly because his head was swimming with the answer he knew he now held.

 But now Juvia was a completely different person, and it hurt to see her that way knowing that he might have been able to save her from herself and whoever was pulling her strings.

   The bar was the completely opposite of the wooden shack the three wizards had not long been to, some wrong directions later they have found this place, a suave upmarket building, instead of wooden walls there were big glass windows making the place seems bright, airy and spacious, blue lights shone down from the ceilings around the bar which was paired with tall red bar stalls, screaming elegance and class.  Cosy dark wooden tables hugged the outskirts of the room with two small armchairs per table.

 The watermage glanced up at Jimquin whose face was beet red, fists shaking at his sides. The place was deserted.  Except from the bar staff, a large round man with hair a similar shade to Mitchs’, he was drying a martini glass looking at the trio uninterested.

 Mitch walked forwards first as he seemed to sense his boss’ ever-growing temper.  He glanced sidelong at Juvia as he passed, partly for her sake.  She had lost control back there and he worried if she used her powers so soon after would anyone be able to stop her?  “Excuse me.” Mitch cleared his throat as the man looked up at him crinkling his podgy nose.  “We’re looking for Greg Greendale, our acquaintance said he would be here at this time, you see, we’re old friends of his.”  Mitch spoke smoothly trying to sound friendly even as Jimquin steamed behind him.

 “Yeah you not long missed Ol’ Greg.”  The barman slurred, he obviously didn’t find any of the wizards imposing.  Jimquin ground his teeth.  “He has gone out of town, but he’ll be back by tomorrow assured.” Juvias father remained silent as Juvia just observed the scene, a random image of her mother popped into her head, her navy-blue eyes full of happiness smiling.

 “Thankyou sir.” Mitch finished as he turned back to the two water users.  Juvia was for some reason smiling, a genuine smile. His eyes travelled to Jimquin who was already turning to leave, he and Juvia followed suit as they walked in completely silence although the air was thick with tension.  “So, what now boss?  It’s around 6/6:30pm.”  Mitch broke the silence.

 “We find out where he lives.  We wait for him to come back.  That barman said by tomorrow, so he could be back tonight.”  Jimquin looked at his two pawns his brown eyes hard, their faces almost expressionless.  “Although an early dinner might be in order.  You will need your energy after all.”

 After heading back to the inn to ask the timid receptionist the best place to eat and if she knew of Greg Greendale which she had replied that she was new and had no idea who he was, the wizards had found the restaurant, the speciality was seafood caught from the ocean fresh every day.  Jimquin ordered a huge seafood platter with bowls of vegetables to for the three of them consisting of; mussles in a white wine sauce, chilli, tomato or garlic butter, king prawns, sea bass, swordfish, fried squid, chargrilled octopus and some creatures that Juvia didn’t recognise. The two males dug right into the food, the watermage just sat staring at the platter trying to figure out why she wasn’t joining in, she knew she liked seafood, but it was something about being here in this restaurant, she felt edgy, like a big pressure building up inside her.

 “Juvia are you not eating?”  Jimquin studied her, noticing the trance like state she adopted.  Juvia looked up as a cracking sounded making them all jump. Juvia unfurled her hands to find a chunk of the table in it, dropping it on the floor Juvia met her fathers judging eyes.

 “Yes, Juvia is eating.”  The blunette put some squid, swordfish and octopus on her plate, overfilling a plate was seen as bad manners, so she was accustomed to eating a small plate full at a time.  The food was exquisite, definitely fresh.

 “Ahh yes Greg is back later this evening.”  As if their ears were tuned into hearing the word ‘Greg’ Mitch turned around to the people sat behind them.

 “Excuse me. Are you talking about Greg Greendale?” Mitch flew the blonde a swooning smile, well as swooning as Mitch could make it with his scarred cheek and missing tooth.

 She replied, “Yes we are.”  Batting her eyelids, she had fallen for his ‘charm’.

 “May I ask where he lives?  His Granddaughter is here as a surprise.  She hasn’t been here for years so she can’t remember where he lives you see.”  Juvia nearly choked on a piece of octopus at the word ‘granddaughter’, she looked over at her father who winked at her. Juvia sighed in relief, it was a ruse.

 “Next street over house number five.”  Her red fingernails gripped the back of the chair as she leaned closer to Mitch enticingly as her female friend watched from the other end of their table.

 “Thankyou so much, please do enjoy your meal.”  Mitch smiled at her again as he turned back to his own meal, Jimquin smiled at him approvingly.

 As the meal came to an end Jimquin paid the bill before prompting them to leave the dining area.  As they exited the building the cool air hit the watermage as an image of a bridge on a hot summers day floated into her mind making her stop as she walked, her heart fluttering, a feeling she hadn’t felt in a long time.  Almost as quickly as it had happened it had gone and Juvia found herself catching up with her father.

 “So, the house should be down here, number five.”  They stopped at a small narrow house, no fence surrounded the small lawn and a straggly leafless tree jutted up into the sky.  As they neared the house Juvia noticed that the house lacked serious care, the white net curtains appeared yellowing in the light from the room behind them, the paint on the wooden front door was all chipped and eroded away – probably partly from the salty sea air.  “He must be home; the light is on.”  Jimquin sounded almost excited as he stepped up onto the cramped porch which had empty plant pots on it.  The water wizard knocked three times on the door.  What felt like forever later, the door opened wide to reveal a short middle-aged man holding a walking stick, whose brown hair was streaked with grey, his face weathered, upon seeing Jimquin his grey eyes went wide, his body rigid in recognition.

 “J-J-Jimquin…”  He sounded breathless and almost seemed to age before Juvias eyes. Suddenly, Jimquin had staggered backwards falling back off the porch onto his arse with a thump, the little man running.  He had slammed his walking stick into her father stomach before dropping it and sprinting off.

 “GO AFTER HIM NOW!”  Jimquin roared, spurring them on in the direction of Greg.  Juvia was faster than Mitch and managed to make out his figure darting left into a wide open green.

 Juvia fingers tingled, the pressure building back up inside of her.  “Water whip!”  Her arm turned into a flexible stream of water which grabbed at Gregs leg sending him face first into the ground, he turned to face Juvia angrily, his face contorted into fury and pain as red blood poured out of his now broken nose.

 “You bitch!”  He snarled at her.

 “Water lock.” Juvia twisted her hand as an orb of dark water magic enveloped the old man just as Jimquin and Mitch rounded the corner behind her.

 “Good job Juvia!”  Jimquin praised,  “Release your water lock but keep him bound so he cant run.”  He joined his hands behind his back.

 “As you wish father.  Water rope.” The water lock disappeared soaking the grass as rope bound Gregs legs and hands, he was trapped like a mouse.

 “Now Greg, who have you spouted your crap to!”  Jimquin roared at his old collegue.

 “No-one! I swear!”  Greg was trembling.

 “My informants tell me otherwise.  You are lieing, and you know how I feel about liars.  Juvia tighten those ropes.” Greg cried out at the ropes of water bit into his skin like water slicers.

 “I haven’t told anyone I swear.” Greg stuck to his guns, Juvia didn’t believe him, her father wouldn’t have gone to all this trouble for someone who hadn’t done anything.

 “Stop lying.”  It was Juvia who spoke as she used a water whip to knock him awkwardly to the ground with a sickening crunch as he landed on his elbow at an odd angle breaking his arm.

 “Add a noose to the accessories Juvia dear.”  A noose of water appeared around Gregs throat as Juvia lifted him up by it, so his feet just touched the ground, he spluttered and gagged as it squeezed his oesophagus.

 “Okay!” Greg squeaked as his face started to turn a dark red.  “I told a few of the wizards in Pregrande, Ministrel and Stella, but they didn’t believe me, told me your research your ideas were all impossible feats.”

 “Hm.” Jimquin seemed to ponder as Greg hung struggling for breath in his noose. “Kill him.”

 Juvia tensed at the instruction as her magic raged inside her, she had never killed anyone.

 “DO IT JUVIA!” Jimquin screamed at her impatiently.  “NOW!!”

 Juvia felt overwhelmed as her magic burned through her as the noose tightened around Gregs neck drawing blood.

 “NO!” A voice roared from the side, “JUVIA!!”  Juvia recognised the voice, so did her heart.  “STOP, JUVIA!”  Gray appeared, running at Juvia, ice magic forming in his hands, his devil slayer mark emerging on his skin, eyes cold and hard.  There was only one way to stop her.  “Ice make arrows!”  Gray fired arrows of ice at the watermage who seemed startled by his sudden entrance.

 Juvia made no move to stop or resist the attack as she kept a hold of Greg in the noose, the arrows piercing her skin and tearing at her clothes.  She winced but still did not let go of her magic hold.

 “You can’t do this Juvia!”  Gray tried to plead.  “You’ll never forgive yourself!”

 Juvia twisted internally at the emotion in his voice, the way his head hung low as the rain began to pour, something gnawed away at her.

 “Would you just kill him already!”  Her father roared, “you know the magic wants you to!”  His eyes were fearful, why does this stupid Fairy Tail mage keep showing up!  He is going to ruin everything.  

 Juvia gritted her teeth as the magic surged through her blood, almost taking complete hold, “Water slicer!” Juvia shouted as the slicers caught the edges of Grays arms, waist and leg as he tried to dodge it quickly.  Without having enough time to recover Juvia was already on her next attack, “water cane!”  She whipped his legs from under him before hitting him skywards, sending him up into the sky before she struck him down again.  Gray let out a cry of pain as he felt some ribs pop and his chin graze. “Water noose!”  Juvia encircled Grays neck with a noose lifting him off the floor like Greg, he hung limply in front of her, her smile venomous.

 “I… wont… be… finished off… that easily.”  He choked weakly, “ice make lance!”  Gray shot lancers flying towards Juvia now as he moved in closer behind them using them as a shield, “ice make knuckles!”  Juvia was now hurtled up into the air, being struckles by both knuckles and lancers, forced to release the noose on Greg, she grimaced as she hit the wet grass feeling blood beginning to run from where the lancers and arrows had struck her, her head dizzy.  

 “Water cyclone!”  She retaliated as purple water magic gushed towards Gray in the form of a powerful cyclone, purple water magic just isn’t right.

 “Freeze!” Gray shouted freezing the cyclone in its tracks, luckily, she hadn’t made it boiling.

 “I won’t make that mistake again.”  Juvia spoke coldly now standing upright although shaking from her injuries.  “Hot water –“

 “Ice-make Gungir!”  A huge chunk of ice rose up encasing Juvia, freezing her solid in the ice.

 “Should we cut in?”  Mitch asked Jimquin, looking worried.

 “No, this is Juvias fight.  Once she dispatches him, she will be mine.”

 “But Sir, she is frozen solid.”  He ran a hand through his wet green hair, Had he missed something?

 “Just watch.”  Jimquin smirked as the ice began to melt.

 “Impossible.”  Gray stared wide eyed as his Gungir attack melted infront of him.

 “No way.” Mitch exclaimed.

 “She has raised the temperature of her waterbody, the molecules, thus allowing her to be immune to his ice attacks.”  Jimquin let out a villainous laugh.  “There is nothing you can do to stop or save her Gray! Mwahahahahaha”  

 Juvia fell from the melted ice landing on her feet in a crouched position. “Gray…..sama?”  Her eyes became wide and soft, the ice freezing her had also froze the dark water magic momentarily allowing her to think clearer.

 “Juvia?!” Grays heart clenched and unclenched as he began to run towards her, his feet squelching in the mud.

 “Wait!” She shouted, now sounding half torn. “Don’t come any closer to Juvia.” She held her head in her hands, fighting herself.  Gray ignored her warning and kept running, if he could just reach her in time. “Boiling water nebula!”  Juvia shouted, Gray had no time to react, he felt the searing burning pain before he felt the attack hit, sending him flying back across the park, his skin searing hot as the devil slayer mark disappeared off his skin, his face and body sunk into the sodden mud, the only saving grace being Juvias cold rain on his burning hot back.

 Gray glanced to left to see most of his bag had been destroyed, the plushie thankfully unharmed, the blue hair visible against the dark evening light.

 “Well done Juvia.”  Jimquins greedy voice rang out clear and proud, although it could have been better, you beat him in the end, again. Let’s hope he stays gone this time.

 Jimquin walked away as Juvia stared at the crumpled, steaming mess on the floor which was Gray, his skin was badly burned, blood running out of cuts all over, his face turned to face left, his eyes lifeless yet fixated on something.  Juvia followed his gaze to a tote bag which had been scalded by her water nebula, something blue caught her eye and she decided to walk over to it.

 Without thinking Juvia picked up the soft object, her eyes widening, it was her, a happy her, she had knitted this for him, he had brought it with him.  A spark grew in her heart, joy, a spark of joy, she held the plushie close to her chest.

 “Come on Juvia!”  Jimquin shouted angrily.

 Juvia placed the plushie down, it would only be destroyed with her.  But little did she know those few moments with that plushie, the feelings she felt from the memory and the fact Gray-sama had brought it with him, had released a part of her from the dark magics hold.

 A/N: Only 3 more chapters to go! Please review, it really keeps us going!

R & R ---> https://www.fanfiction.net/story/story_preview.php?storyid=12261807&chapter=14/

 CrookedMoonlight

[thesunlounge]

Reviews 207: Pablo’s Eye

My first encounter with the music of Axel Libeert and his frequent collaborators Marie Mandi and Thierry Royo came through Music From Memory’s stunning Uneven Paths compilation, which opened with the atmospheric seaside ambiance and flowing lyricisms of Nightfall in Camp’s “Cada Dia.” And though this track was an easy stand-out from a compilation overflowing with incredible music, I had little idea to what degree its creators would come to dominate my life over the course of the next year. As it turns out, Nightfall in Camp was but a prelude to Pablo’s Eye, Axel’s longstanding esoteric sound collective that I was first introduced to through STROOM’s Spring Break compilation, specifically the track “Amb 7.” I was instantly ensnared by the sonic dreamworlds of hallucinogenic beauty and in the short time it took for STROOM to release their second Pablo’s Eye set entitled Bardo for Pablo, I had taken as deep dive into the collective’s extensive and eclectic back catalog, soaking up every piece of enigmatic and mystical sound art that I could find. It was a wonderful journey through realms of enveloping minimalist drone collages, spiritual ambient experimentations, heart-wrenching post-classical string meditations, drugged up dub rituals, 90s chill-out psychedelia, jazz fusion adventures, spoken word esoterica, and so much else besides…basically some of my favorite styles and shades of music ever all coming together in way that is spiritually kin to the early outputs of Kranky and Constellation Records. And at the start of 2019, STROOM and Pablo’s Eye finally completed their immense reissue series with the spellbinding and mysterious Dark Matter.

For these collections, label head Ziggy Devriendt relies on his sorcerous ability to sift through an artist’s history, pick idiosyncratic and often unheard gems, and weave them together into a definitive yet wholly unique tapestry and the curative work across these three compilations is among his best, with the individual releases allowing him to shine a light on distinct subspaces within the Pablo’s Eye universe. Spring Break pulls most heavily from 1991’s Barcelona (Architects Of)” and 1995’s You Love Chinese Food and thus finds the band exploring pop-leaning balearica, seaside fusion, and hypnotic trance states. Bardo for Pablo, on the other hand, features some never before released studio explorations of abstract jungle rhythms, tribal drum exotica, and dub delay madness while also bringing together two of the groups most epic club cuts, as the breakbeat majesty of “Amb 8” flows into the cosmic ecstasy of “Prepare for the Others to Follow (N.Y. Cypher Mix).” Then for Dark Matter, Ziggy mines Devotions (1992), All She Wants Grows Blue (1998), Realismo (1999), and once again, You Love Chinese Food. Given that these albums in part source Spring Break, it’s remarkable how different Dark Matter is in sound and vibe, as it sees the band journeying through shadowy cloudrealms of spectral drone and unsettling kosmische. And tying the whole collection together is Richard Skinner, the visionary writer and frequent Pablo’s Eye collaborator whose words and poetry adorn each release and provide powerful textual accompaniments to the far-out sonic dreamscapes. 

Pablo’s Eye - Spring Break (STROOM, 2018) “Blind and Quiet” is introduced by ritualistic kicks and hypnotizing loops built from cosmic sub-bass currents. Cut-up drones of liquid silver fly all around and eventually, the fried electro-fractals give way to angelic atmospheres. Heavily effected string instruments morph through delirious delays in “Double Language” and lead to blissed out passages of new age beauty. Hushed cloud movements of blurred light background otherworldly prayer calls and Marie Mandi’s narcotic voice…her spiritual intonations and enchanting incantations flowing above smeared out waveforms and rattling percussive tones bouncing thought rapid-fire echoes. The ethereal beauty of an outerspace mermaid choir is contrasted by disturbing religious samples and we eventually climax with a passage of breathtaking transcendence, as Patrick Hanappier let’s loose a funeral violin folk song over dark piano bass textures and feverish siren songs and to these ears, his playing has a deep kinship with Sophie Trudeau’s on the first GY!BE album. And after all of this, we end with a carnivalesque passage of bleary pan-pipes and backwards sliding orchestrations. “La Pedrera” follows with glassy guitar chords and dreamy harmonic arpeggiations. Spacious bass pulses join Dirk Wachtelear’s ride cymbal for a swaying jazz groove with airs of Badalamenti and Twin Peaks. Marie’s hypnotizing spoken word patterns join in as the downbeat heroin jazz vibes are accentuated by scatting trumpets and hazy synth leads and towards the end, the track evolves into a beautiful trumpet showcase wherein Gino Lattuca’s gorgeous brass webs are joined by crystalline guitar chords.

“That Night Together with Her” begins with a heartfelt violin meditation wherein bowed melodies cut the difference between hypnotic minimalism and folk Americana in a way that evokes Henry Flynt. Amorphous echo-guitars generate futuristic drone tapestries before giving way to a cut-up panorama of reversing cymbals that sound like the fluttering wings of a metallic bird. Sparse kicks and meditative bass pulses induce a spiritual jazz drift and eventually harmonious clouds of swelling guitar join in while Patrick tugs at the heartstrings with his breathtaking violin runs. And as the track ends, pastoral guitar wanderings and vaporous synths background the violin before it all gives way to beachside field recordings. Then in “Otis (Rumours of Rain),” we smash cut into a dreamworld of ambient fusion, with jamming e-piano chords riding alongside scatting synth riffs. Dirk’s rimshots and cymbals hold down a flowing pulse that’s always on the verge of exploding while Thierry’s smokey guitars vibe out with sliding licks and liquid riffs. Aquatic synths leads and bass textures float as Gino’s trumpet journeys through the sky and during a swooning coda, ghostly hazes and guitar harmonics background mournful horn flights. “El Barrio Gótico” sees noir shrouded guitar arpeggiations overlying moaning voices of desperation. Majestic and shadowy string orchestrating give way to terrifying streaks of bowed noise while the electronic hi-hats, sparse tom fills, industrial snare smashes, and stuttering kicks lock into a hypno-pulse. All the while, wild distorted leads blasts in and fry the mind…like anthemic stadium-sized 80s synths twisted into sonic fire.

“Amb 7,” starts with looping voices and spectral clouds swirling around heart-wrenching violin runs. Things change drastically as a fractured tribal rhythms flash side to side, creating a heady glide through dark dream realms where the voices of shadow spirit entrance the mind. Subaqueous bass swells sit deep in the mix while shakers give further propulsion to the mysterious sound flows and warm guitar solos encircle the mind with jazzy runs of cosmic melancholia. There’s a moment where most of the atmospheric elements vaporize into air, leaving the toms to pound away until fluttering and ecstatic violin solos enter…sounding as if beamed in from another dimension…while all around the organic grooves resume their march through a futuristic jungle. The Henry Flynt connections return once again, though it sounds as if he has been transported to a faraway realm of electro-cosmic energy as crazed violin explosions soar over the zoned out drum ceremonials before it all ends with a soft outro of pitter-patter tom play and guitars dropping from a golden sky. “A Long Standing Dream” exists in a world of harsh phasing cymbals and euphoria drone waves emanating from an ocean of light. It’s dissonant yet purifying, as strands of feedback wrap around Dirk’s percolating tom patterns and breathy cymbal pulses. Everything slowly phases and mutates while all around, psychedelic synth bubbles and sci-fi pads bounce on heatwave currents,  cascading echoes wrap around everything, gentle oscillations ride on etherwaves, and layered metal taps and hissing tambourines give the mystical rhythms further shape.

Pablo’s Eye - Bardo for Pablo (STROOM, 2018) “Amb 8” is the epic sequel to “Amb 7” and starts with choppy waves of gorgeous sonic bliss moving back and forth across four-four kicks and rattling shakers. Dial-tone sequences bathed in cosmic mist snake through the air and as dubwise snares crack in one ear, their reverb shrouded delay trails diffuse in the other. Liquid mid-bass sequences join the sci-fi dance, simultaneously tracking the dial-tone synths and playing off the echosnares while factory industrialisms intertwine with interstellar jungle mysticisms. The same hypnotizing voice loops that appear in “Amb 7” are also here floating through the air and at some point, swelling self-oscillatory chaoswaves overtake the mix as the kick recedes, leaving the militant shakers to fly above swinging exotica basslines, mesmeric toms flows, and synth sequences mimicking intergalactic cyborg breaths. Then in a moment of pure inspired magic, a mammoth breakbeat fades in, all baggy 90s glory moving through swirling metallic fogs and mind-wrapping sequences for an extended and drugged out groove. As the entrancing voices return, they bring with them overwhelming clouds of rotating sonic light that eventually wash out the breaks and reveal a haunted passage of drone built from ascendent yet ominous color pulses, streaking synth smears, and obscured voices. The rest of the track is like a dream recollection of what came before, as funky basslines, circling toms, euphoria breaks, and splattering kicks all intermingle within an alien rainforest suffused with darkness, one where neon plants glow with strange energies and distant drum rituals vibrating from unseen origins.

In 1996, Pablo’s Eye released the Prepare for the Others to Follow single containing various far-out remixes and reworks of the exotically dubbed out drum’n’bass title track, an easy stand out of which was the “Cypher NY Mix.” A sub-bass hum rings out from the center of the universe, its inky black waves of immersive sonic warmth suffused through by sparkling feedback textures…as if luminescent insects have been transmuted into sound. Heady tom-tom melodies bounce through echo caverns while harsh filter fx, ultra-crushed drum smashes, and cosmic winds move all around. Crystalline reverb fluids drop into glowing pools and the sense of floating euphoria is carried further by a drugged out beat that fades in from oceanic depths…a loved up and emotional break soaring on paradise waves. It’s easy to get lost in the swooning chill-out room hypnotics, as snares decay through infinite sheets of reverb, universal bass hums float the spirit towards realms of ecstasy, and ghosts of memory howl at the edges of the mix. The following track “Today” sees shadowy drum’n’bass rhythms charging through a panoramic world of delay madness while throbbing bass pulsations chug into the darkness. Clattering drum cascades roll endlessly as  longform panning fx hypnotize the mind and there are almost no transitions…just murky beat and bass loops repeating until the entrance snake rattles and palm-muted guitar percolations. And eventually the rhythms pull away, leaving wavering strings to blast through the sky as rattlesnake motions and metallic pings grow into walls of oscillatory chaos.

“My Only Guide Is” features hallucinatory and rattle-heavy drum storms that obscure sliding liquid melodics. Delays morph and modulate everything with occasional forays in to self-oscillating psychedelia and as the overwhelming bass clouds recede, tom-toms and hand drums merge for mystical rhythm ceremonies where bells and tambourines shake and sparkle. The rest of the track spends its time cutting back and forth between various extra-terrestrial drum rituals, with snake charmer bass fluids, charging tribal cascades, and rainforest energies overflowing with wild and rapturous magic as chimes and shakers wrap the soul in colorful sound spirals. Wild beat layers falling over themselves, anxious double-time hats, bouncing dub echoes, and marching ceremonies scrambled into alien chaosclouds…this is “Self-Abandonment.” Elsewhere, unidentifiable rattling noises flow aside cosmic chirps and satellite transmissions…the vibe militant and mind-melting, powerful and propulsive…especially as clacking snare rolls fire side to side. Motorik textures give further shape to the crazed drum adventures while also allowing them to spread even further out into realms of hysteria and as the track progresses, everything seems to filter and pan while growing increasingly fractured and kaleidoscopic. “I Have No Other Compass” closes Bardo for Pablo with sickly pads wavering in the moonlight. It’s the world as reflected through the surface of a disturbed body of liquid, with overlapping layers creating feedback resonances, bodies of ether spinning uncontrollably, and heart-throb melodies transmuting across universes.

Pablo’s Eye - Dark Matter (STROOM, 2019) In “Worship & Passion,” sinister high-frequency drones evoking classical horror film music are swarmed around by echoing voices, disorienting bass textures, mournful violin fantasias, and jeweled webs of plucked guitar harmonics. Marie intones “floating down the river…to paradise” among other softly spoken lines of poetry while synthetic choirs rush in from the depths alongside atonal acoustic string slides, sampled speech, and Patrick’s aching viol streaks. Then in “More Hesitant Than Before,” looping dronewaves of string cacophony spin through the sky alongside oscillating echoes. Long deliberate bow strokes repeat endlessly while ominous atmospheres boil underneath and the vibe is like awakening impossibly far beneath the surface of the sea…no light, no sound…just unsettling, almost malevolent currents surrounding the body and hinting at unseen intelligences and unknowable animal forms. Phasing fx and psychedelic pans lull the mind into a trance as viscous bodies of black light wash over the soul and towards the end, rumbling percussive drones enter…like the fading shadow of some ritualistic tribal ceremony. 

“Different Observers” has shades of “Prepare for the Others to Follow” as toms ping-png through a deep space corridor. Twitching reverb fx are locked into pulsating rhythms alongside sub-bass kicks and murky voices are smeared into a drug haze as they flash into and out of existence. An alien muezzin calls out from a minaret in the center of an eternal desert expanse while up above, clouds of green and blue swarm amongst the stars. The massive kicks, mutating cymbals, and percolating toms grow ever louder while the voices become increasingly shrouded in dense of fogs of reverb and towards the end, fast motion melodic drum tones rolling through outerspace echoboxes overlay gigantic reverb blasts…like a bass drum heard from miles below the surface of the earth. “She Would Stand Alone” sees deep and discordant bass notes wrapping around vibrating strings of metal…as if a piano has been gutted and transformed into some sort of ritualistic mallet instrument. And all around, droning cymbal taps like falling pebbles on infinite sheets of brass flow forwards and backwards in time.

A spiritual bath of radiant drone begins “He Closed His Eyes” before leading to a clattering and shambolic rhythm. Tin can percussion and wavering music box melodies are surrounded by glimmering streaks of audial silver and deep space atmospherics while spectacular reverb tails hover in place and vibrate with a sense of alien electricity. The barely there drum flow is accented by chain-off snare smashes and at some point, the very same looped and reversed voices from both “Amb 7” and “Amb 8” appear here as well, forming a subtle sonic thread weaving together all three parts of the Pablo’s Eye retrospective. The A-side the ends with “When You Were Asleep,” which offers a mental cleansing by way of spectral waves of new age shimmer and forms a direct contract to the preceding explorations of mystical darkness. Heavenly ambient washes are colored around the edges by narcotizing distortion smears and beneath it all, throbbing bass currents drift the spirit on a universal river of light.

“L.A. Desert” opens the B-side with Dark Matter’s first real semblance of rhythm, seeing cymbal taps, sparse kicks, and bubbling bass notes bringing more of that Badalamenti-style noir jazz. Marie glides over top with enigmatic dreamspell lyricisms while island bongos, synth blasts, and smokey fusion leads dance together. Exotic and unidentifiable voice samples drift above crystalline Rhodes chords and everything works together towards a downtempo drug sway. But as things progress, the vibe turns shadowy…almost funereal, and keeps Marie repeating “I’ve lost sense of hearing / dying couldn’t be worse”…a sentiment that is terrifying and all too relatable. Gaseous synths swell alongside diamond sound bursts as cosmic organs weave heavenly hymns and all the while, the vocals grow increasingly pleading…desperate…afraid. Thunder crashes and spring reverb flashes then begin “She Told Him The News,” while distorted voices cycle over ominous orchestrations and psychoactive drum ceremonies swirl in a vortex and sometimes recede completely into the maelstrom of droning noise.

“Tamil Nadu” features emotive contrabass soloing and fiery saxophones from Geoff Leigh…like the score of a detective movie abstracted into pure mood. Body-subsuming bass textures and spaced out electronics wash all around as massive rumbling sub-bass noises approximate thunderstorms. Elsewhere, the brass and bass scat through a nightmare land of jazz hysteria and it all ends with bowed double bass vapors drifting into pale starlight. After this, “A Pagan Use” builds on mysterious voices emanating from unknown dimensions that intertwine, merge, and create ghostly resonances. Electro-kicks bounce and mutate through cosmic echo-chains, static transmissions hover just beyond comprehension and at some point, tom-toms enter and skip across reverb coated bass pulses. Once the shadowclouds recede, they leave the drums to vibe out within heavily distorted voice broadcasts and as the ominous atmospherics swell back in, they gyrate and combust over sensual rhythmic throbs.

The dub side of Pablo’s Eye is showcased most overly on Dark Matter’s final two tracks, starting with “Out of the Corner of Her Eye.” Here, pounding and swamped out machine riddims crash through ethereal drone vapors. Globules of liquid bass rise up through viscous neon pools…their delirious patterns locking into a strange yet entrancing groove aside the swaggering rhythm boxes. Cymbals and snares fire off in a hypnotic dance while further horror film string drones wrap around the mix and voices seem to emanate from unseen corners of the mind…childlike and all the more disturbing because of it. Shuffling shaker and cymbal patterns enters, all anxious and futuristic, and the track evolves in a heady IDM ritual while terrify ambient clouds move in slow circles. Then in “Loisaida Dub,” celestial brass melodies are smeared into bodies of white light and repeated waves of mystical magic ebb and flow. Chaotic weavings of percussive psychedelia intersperse the rapturous walls of sound…these blipping laser clouds of sci-fi noise, intergalactic fx, and chittering insect laughter that contract the meditative pulses that work the mind towards transcendence. It’s a push/pull between blissful euphoria and psychoactive drone chaos…one that perfectly embodies the entire spirit of this mercurial group of artists.

(images from my personal copies)