#but when its auditory its really unnerving

[caffeinatedopossum]

Hhh I may be having hallucinations. But like I'm definitely in denial. I can't have another disorder, I already have way too many. I'm sure it's just my stress 👀

[lurochar]

Before It All (Pt. 3)

Warnings: Obsessive Alastor

Part 1 + Part 2

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

It really was you.

His nameless Doe.

You seemed tense, clearly uneasy by the static he emitted and his presence alone by the looks of your erect ears and puffed fur of your tail.

(How cute, you had your clothes altered for your tail. A shame he hadn’t noticed it back when he had summoned you).

Alastor was now used to fellow demons being unnerved and frightened in his presence and so they should be, but you – there was no reason for you to be so anxious in his company, though he supposed he could understand it somewhat.

The power dynamics were completely turned around.

You had no advantage over him, he wasn’t that weak human anymore.

But still, Alastor didn’t like the fact you were so wary of him, so he needed to lighten the mood, break the tense atmosphere, and there was no better way than reminding you of your encounter with him when he was the weaker one, when you had the power over him, was there?

“How I’ve missed your wonderful ears, my nameless Doe.”

Alastor always did find your ears fascinating.

He may have his own pair of deer ears now and they had their uses – his auditory senses were vastly superior when compared to his human self, so much so, it took a week or two for him to adjust to sensory overload. They also gave any would-be attackers a false sense of security, he was just a deer demon, so he had to be weak.

Ripping those sorts to shreds felt much more satisfying.

But his ears were so damn sensitive to touch that Alastor had no idea how you didn’t just melt into a trembling mess when you allowed him to stroke your ears all those years ago.

He needed to move on from these thoughts before–

You blinked at his odd greeting, your body relaxing slightly from its earlier tensed position that had been poised to flee at any given second.

You blinked again.

And then you let out a loud yelp of surprise, springing forward when you felt icy cold hands playfully tug on your ears from behind. 

–before his shadow acted upon them.

You reeled around to see what had touched you, not expecting to see a grin right up in your face and you stumbled back a bit, happy enough that you didn’t embarrass yourself in front of the Radio Demon/Alastor by letting out some sort of pitiful sound like a scream or shriek.

“I do hope you can excuse my shadow’s behaviour. The poor thing can hardly contain itself, seeing it is a reflection of me.” Alastor gestured the shadow away, which it did after giving you a last glance before it vanished. “Well then, should we do now what we should have done twenty-four years ago?”

You’re unsure what he is talking about.

“Introductions, my nameless Doe! Unless you prefer that name over your real one.” Alastor bows in a flashy way. “Alastor Hartfelt! But you already knew that, correct?” He stood up straight and eyed you expectantly.

“It’s nothing special, it’s just Y/N.” You shrug before eyeing Alastor intently and you hope you don’t get killed or worse for your question. “You just seemed like a miserable boy brought up in a miserable situation, so I gave you a pass. I thought if I got rid of your main problem, maybe you could live the rest of your life normally. You didn’t even make it to forty. What happened?”

Alastor hummed. “It would turn out that my father was only a drop in the bucket. After that wretch was gone from our lives, my Mama instilled in me the importance and value of women. Women are not second-class citizens nor are they property, but this way of thinking was uncommon and misogyny was everywhere.”

You think you can guess where this is heading to…

“I killed men, men like my father. Men who see no problem in beating their wife. Degenerates that stalked the alleyways for their next rape victim. For over a decade, I was the ‘Bayou Butcher’. It’s only due to the incompetence of a hunter that I am here now.” The expression on his face was that of delight. “I have no remorse. I thoroughly enjoyed every second of it.”

Oh.

It’s… it’s not what you wanted for Alastor, but you remembered that sheer hatred in his eyes. Something that deeply rooted wasn’t so easily erased, even if the main cause was taken out of the situation.

Unfortunately, you were not wrong in guessing Alastor would eventually condemn himself to Hell.

Fortunately, you had held onto Hartfelt for the past twenty some years.

You do have another question, but you know better than to ask.

Some demons don't care, but some demons can get quite offended if asked about their appearance and why they ended up looking the way they do. It’s personal, tied to their sins in life and their manner of death.

Asking Alastor why he ended up as a deer demon, a prey-based demon, could get you killed or maybe worse.

“I was mistaken for a deer by an inept hunter who took a shot before bothering to confirm what he was shooting at.” Alastor answers easily and casually, as if reading your mind and knowing what you want to ask. “Do not be afraid to ask me anything, my lovely Doe. I assume you heard my message on one of my broadcasts, yes? I meant every word of what I said.”

Lovely Doe?

‘I told him my name…’ You decided it didn’t matter too much as it wasn’t demeaning or degrading. You’ve been called much, much worse and on a regular basis by Hartfelt, so hearing an affectionate(?) nickname was a bit of refreshing change–

Should you be thinking that way?

Your ears dropped.

“Listen, Alastor,” you noticed his eyes seemed to glow brighter from you simply saying his name, “I messed up that day. I… I shouldn’t have touched you, let alone hug you. There are countless reasons why most demons don’t have free access to the human world. Contact with demons tends to screw humans up. Even just one night with a Succubus or an Incubus can fuck up humans for months and they’re low-class demons.”

Alastor simply tilted his head.

“I’m mid-class and… and I should have known better.” You sighed. “I think I messed you up in some way by touching you and letting you touch me.”

You were taken back when Alastor started to laugh and your ears flattened completely, slightly bothered by his reaction to your words.

Did you say something amusing?

“Oh dear me, you have twisted it all around in your worrisome mind, haven’t you?” Alastor chuckled. “So you have yet to realize you saved me and my Mama from that piece of scum I had to call ‘father’? My life even? Had you not killed that man for me, I would have made a clumsy attempt to murder that man, whether I succeeded or not. Such a thing would have cost me my life much earlier. I would not have been able to pursue my career and take good care of my Mama until her final days.”

You flustered, not sure what to say back.

“I lived my life the way I wished to because you freed me from that man. I am here in Hell purely of my own actions, though perhaps a little earlier than expected. You are very much downplaying what you are to me and I cannot say I care much for it.” Alastor couldn’t help the loudening crackle of his static.

“...okay…”

“Pardon?” Alastor’s ears twitched at the mumble of your voice, though he heard you just fine. He wanted you to clarify what ‘okay’ meant and look him in the eyes as you did so. He wouldn’t trap you in a contract like the fools whose souls he owned, but with his guaranteed protection for nothing more than just staying at his side and within his sight, how could you refuse?

(Though, if you wanted to give him your soul, he certainly wouldn’t turn it down).

“Okay! Maybe I didn’t fuck you up! Maybe you were… a little ‘different’ from the start!” You weren’t sure how to say ‘psychopathic’ in a nice way. “I still felt guilty about it this entire time. I hoped differently, but I knew you would probably end up in Hell.” You admitted, huffing when Alastor let out another chuckle. “So I did something to try to make up for it in case I did mess with your mind somehow.”

“Hmm, and what is that, my lovely Doe?” Alastor’s smile seemed to widen and it may be hidden from view, his tail wagged in excitement. “You thought of me, even before I landed myself in Hell? I must say, I’m quite flattered!”

“I looked for him as soon as I got back from the human world and found him before he understood how… things worked around here.” You didn’t feel bad in the least. “So I tricked him into making a deal with me. Shelter, food, simple basics for his soul. He didn’t seem used to living on the streets, so he took it right away. He didn’t understand what it actually meant to give your soul away.”

“Well done! What a delightful little tidbit! I had no idea if you would be interested in the art of deal-making. I would be more than happy to guide you. Why, I already own a great number of souls myself.” Alastor’s smile turned a little more sinister and he felt his blood heat at the thought of watching you trick some desperate fool into giving you their soul.

He would slaughter an entire district just to see that.

“I’ve… never really thought about it? I just do what I can to get by. Prey and livestock-based demons don’t have it easy in Hell.” You were sought out for your meat after all. “Anyway, I thought I’d make it up to you by – well, that demon whose soul I own is your father’s.”

The static around Alastor went completely silent.

You swallowed thickly, suddenly nervous. “I, uh, I always intended on giving you ownership of his soul whenever you ended up here, if you ended up in Hell. You can do anything you want to him, I have no intention of interfering if you… wanted to broadcast his torment or something.”

Shit, why was Alastor staring at you like that?

Was it the wrong choice? Did he want nothing to do with his father?

“W-WAH!” It was the most pitiful fucking noise you could probably make, worse than that earlier yelp when Alastor seemed to melt into the floor through a void of shadows and then reappear right in your personal space before you comprehended what happened. That was not the reason you let out a damn bleat before you could help it, though.

Alastor was stroking your ears just as he had done twenty-four years prior.

“A gift from you is always welcome, but this – I never imagined one that would bring me such… joy. Truly, you were always meant for me, my lovely Doe.”

“S-so, I take it you want ownership of his soul?” You struggled to get the words out, feeling your vision blur for a moment. You let out a breath of relief when Alastor reluctantly released your ears, but he didn’t step away from your personal space.

“Yes. I’m more than willing to give you a soul – ten even, in return. Mama may disapprove of it, but I will pay back a thousandfold and more for what that man put her through. He will suffer the worst torture I can possibly think of.” To your amazement, Alastor’s pupils spun into a shape that resembled radio dials before returning to normal.

“It’s a gift. You don’t need to give me anything back in return.” You blinked in surprise when Alastor poked your cheek, pinching it playfully before tutting at you. “What was that?!”

“You have been here longer than me, but it seems I must teach you a few good lessons.” Alastor held out his hand invitingly. “Before this transaction, would you like a tour of my radio tower?”

You placed your hand in his. “You’re going to have to explain it like you would to a child how this radio stuff actually works. I can turn my radio on and change the station, that’s about it.”

Alastor felt that chill that followed him all his life leave him and his smile felt genuine for very few times that it was as he felt your hand wrap around his.

He may be dead and in Hell, but his (after)life was looking rather bright – he still could enjoy his passion for radio and he no longer had to hide his true sadistic nature and homicidal thoughts. Better yet, he could combine the two and broadcast tortured screams for denizens of Hell to hear!

He was powerful and feared, toppling Overlords to become himself in an extremely short period of time and he owned multiple souls to do his bidding whenever and whatever he wanted – and soon, he could add his miserable wretch of a father to his collection to torment all he likes.

Best of all, he finally found you, the demon who made this all possible for him and now that he had you in his grasp, there was no conceivable way he would ever let you elude him. He could certainly give you the illusion of freedom and space if that’s what you wanted.

He was charming, he knew that, it’s all he needed to win you over.

Perhaps it would take a little time and patience, but he would get what he wanted in the end like he always did.

His lovely Doe. His new wife.

It was a dream that Alastor was going to turn into his reality.

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

I hope this ending was satisfying

Tags: @alishii @yourdoorisunlocked @godsent69 @eris-norwega @catticora @tayraedoll @michi-keinz @martinys-world @n0tmentallystable @xalygatorx @everwolf-20 @yui-onnero

[3d-wifey]

And They'd Find Us In A Week - Chapter 7

Pairing: Finnick Odair x Reader Word Count: 4.2k Synopsis: Here! Playlist: Listen up! A/N: Thank you for waiting so patiently, Finnick girls! I was able to post this one in its entirety. Extra trigger warning for this one. It's the saddest chapter yet. Don't be scared to click the embedded links, you might get an auditory surprise (Ai voice cloning works wonders)

Past (vii) - You & Finnick

[19 & 20] - THE CAPITOL

You adjust and try to get comfortable on the white chair, but it’s just as unbearable as the last time you were here. You cross and uncross your ankles, pinching the skin between your thumb and forefinger—anything and everything you can to calm down. 

You hate interviews. You’ve always hated interviews. The inane questions, the pandering, the audience hanging on to your every word with ‘oooh’s and ‘ahhh’s. It’s all so fake, so Capitol, but that doesn’t matter to any of them, does it? It’s degrading, alienating. 

A calloused hand grabs yours and squeezes it briefly.

Not too alienating. You have this, at least. You have Finnick.

In the beginning, when you first met, the way he could read you was unnerving. You’ve encountered many people in your life, and you’ve never connected with anyone as seamlessly as you did with Finnick. It’s an incredible feeling to be known so thoroughly, if not a little overwhelming. You like to think you know him just as well.

He leans in to bridge the gap between your two chairs, and you mirror him.

“Just breathe and endure, right? Only way out is through.” He soothes. Your lungs feel cool with the breath you take and your hand is warm under Finnick’s. That’s what you focus on, not the three cameras pointed at you or the sea of people soon to be watching you.

“Breathe and endure.” You nod. “Aren't you worried someone will get the wrong idea?” You ask in a hushed tone, a little worried that the mics on your shirts will pick up what you're saying, but not bothering to separate your hands.

"It's not really the wrong idea," he points out, and you roll your eyes. "Besides, he’s the only one it would matter to." He nods over your shoulder to Caesar, who’s looking especially orange today. He's too busy getting his face powdered to notice anything happening with his guests. And it’s not like the audience can see you yet.

This isn’t your first interview, but it is your first one with Finnick. You’ve done photoshoots together, movie premieres, after-parties, and more. But this is a first. 

They have him in the closest thing to a suit that he’ll tolerate, and his blond hair is artfully coiffed. You miss how it falls naturally, and you’re sure he feels the same. The makeup they put on you makes you feel like a mannequin. Stiff and shiny, just the way they like you.

The cameramen give the signal, and everyone who shouldn’t be on stage rushes off. You sit up straight, and Finnick lets go of your hand, leaning back in his seat.

“In five, four, three, two…”

You try not to squint when the stage lights come on. Caesar waves to the cheering crowd, a plastic smile on display.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, I thank you for joining us tonight. We have two very special guests.” Caesar claps along with them. “Mhm, mhm, very exciting. They need no introduction. We have two of Panem’s youngest and hottest victors!” You and Finnick smile and greet the masses like you were trained to. You wave your hand open and closed, and Finnick doesn’t wave at all, instead nodding to the crowd. 

“Now,” he starts, then waits for the yelling to simmer down, “I’ll go ahead and ask what’s on everyone’s mind. You two are highly sought after. Finnick, is there any romance on the horizon that’ll break these good people’s hearts?” Of course, he’d direct that question at Finnick. The people are incredibly possessive. Just as Finnick told you, you’re their pet. He can drop the ruse right now and admit that he and you have been dating for longer than you were even aware of, but the two of you have been doing this job for so long that you’re sure Snow would just market you together.

“I’ve—” cheering cuts Finnick off before he can even start, “Heh, I’ve had the opportunity to spend time with so many extraordinary people, so who knows? Maybe I’ve already met the love of my life.” He artfully dances around the question, yet the room explodes into whooping and clapping. Jesus, is there anything they won’t cheer for? You’d compare them to children, but that would be an insult to the kids.

“Wonderfully said. Well, ladies and gentlemen, I think it’s safe to say these two are still on the market. Hahaha!” The crowd titters and giggles along with him.

The conversation shifts from relationships and hobbies to parents, a sore subject for both you and Finnick.

Caesar turns to you, and you stiffen at the attention being redirected at you but force yourself to relax just as fast.

“We had the chance to interview your mother before and during your games, but not your father.” He doesn’t ask a question outright, but you understand what he wants you to answer. What a pitiful beast you are. What else about you can we feel sorry for?

”Sadly, my dad,” was executed, made into an example. Hung in the square while everyone was forced to watch, “passed. When I was young.” 

“Very sad, very sad indeed,” he pouts at you and then at the audience. The room fills with sympathetic murmurs that make your eye twitch. You don’t need their pity. Pity won’t bring him back. Pity won’t stop it from happening to someone else. If they used that same pity to stop injustices before they happened, then maybe these people would actually be worth a damn. “Alright, let’s get into some games, huh? Yeah!”

Soon, the interview is over, and Caesar ushers in the next segment of his show. You and Finnick are given the rest of the night to yourselves. It’s not even thirty minutes later when Snow calls you to his office, and it feels a lot like the first time. It usually isn’t like this. You would come in, get your assignment, and leave—sometimes with multiple client cards for different times of the day. Regardless, Snow didn’t typically schedule meetings after you’ve done an interview or a photo shoot.

But now, you sit before him, and he looks at you with the same smile he wore when he took you past the point of no return.

A clock ticks ominously behind you, probably a new fixture. It bluntly cuts the silence. You would have noticed that before. You think.

“My colleagues speak very highly of you.” He pulls a white handkerchief up to his mouth and coughs into it. It’s a wet, violent hacking that rocks him in his seat. It must hurt, and you know without a doubt that the white of the fabric is blood red now. Good. Hopefully, he’ll cough up a lung soon enough. He dabs at his mouth before pulling it back to his lap, almost like he’s hiding it. “You should be proud of yourself. I certainly am.”

“Thank you, sir.” Your reply is at a level just above a whisper. The tendon in your neck pulses, spasming irritability.

“You’ve come a long way,” he clears his throat, “from the girl you were four years ago.” He gestures for you to stand and you do on numb legs. You want to be relieved that you’re a step closer to getting out of here, but there’s a reason you aren’t an optimistic person. And that reason sits directly before you. 

“I can see you’re getting restless. I assure you, dear, you’ll be free to leave as soon as you finish your assignment.” Free to leave? Leave the Capitol? You haven’t even been given an assignment yet.

“My…my assignment?” 

“Come now.” His smile stretches across his face like a coyote’s, though it’s twice as sharp. You bite at the skin of your peeling bottom lip. “You’re a smart girl. You should be able to infer what’s happening without my telling you.” You do. You had just hoped you misunderstood, that you were being overly paranoid. After all, you have an intimate relationship with hunger, and not just your own. You’ve seen that look before more times than you can count. On the faces of particularly crooked Peacekeepers, handsy landowners, and ‘well-meaning’ teachers. And now you see it again on the face of your President.

They all have something in common: they thought they were above you and your savagery. They thought you were some animal, that you should feel lucky that they even looked your way.

So distinguished, so self-important, and yet, they lust after an animal like you? And you’re supposed to be the savage one? You wish you could enjoy the irony.

Wordlessly, you walk around the desk to stand before him. You’ve never been this close to him before, and now you know why.

There’s a smell emitting from him. A smell you’ve only smelt in rotting animals: decay. The rose in his pocket and the roses around the room can only cover so much. It’s the poison; it has to be. All the poison he drank while getting rid of his political rivals has finally come back to reap its judgment. He’s decomposing from the inside out. The consequence of having so much power, it seems. 

It doesn’t matter how much makeup or what kind of dress you put on a pig. At the end of the day, it’s still a dirty, stinking pig. You just hope that when the day comes, you’ll be around to see this pig get gutted.

-

Caesar’s interview ended over two hours ago, and Finnick has been waiting for you just as long. You were both heading back to the Marquis when you were intercepted by an Avox with a letter addressed to you from Snow. It was brief and vague and you promised to meet back up with him in his room within the hour.

He’s getting worried. 

You might’ve fallen asleep or got into the shower. It can’t hurt to check on you, though, right? Or, at least, he thinks so until he gets to your door. Your door, which is wide open.

“Star!” He calls, but it’s dead silent. He walks in and presses the button to close the door behind him. It’s pitch black. The only reason he hasn’t tripped is the moonlight spilling in from the opened balcony door.

The balcony was the first place you thought to go after leaving that office. You straddle the railing, your right foot dangling limply off the side. Nothing restraining it. Nothing to hold you back.

From this high up you can hardly hear yourself think, finally. But barely, just barely, you can make out Finnick’s voice. You’ll always be able to recognize that voice. The sound is almost as much of a part of you as it is of him.

“What’re you doing, Star?” He doesn’t yell; he doesn’t want to scare you off the ledge.

“I think it'll feel like flying. Before—” You look down to the street below you. It's so far down you can barely see it. It’s so strange how minuscule something big can look from this high up, all of your problems turned into the size of ants. “I’d like that. To fly, just for a second.”

“Fly, huh?” He edges towards you, “Why, uh, why would you wanna fly?

“Snow requested my company.” He sucks in a harsh breath. Did he hear you wrong? No, what you said is crystal clear. And what Snow’s done is even clearer.

It’s a warm night, but Finnick has gone cold. He doesn’t have the time to think about that, nor the emotional capacity to juggle his bubbling hatred for Snow with everything he’s feeling for you right now. He steps closer.

“You know, in Eleven, we return our dead to nature, to the forests. Is it the same in Four?”

He shakes his head, eyes fixed on your neatly placed high heels. “We, uh, we do ocean funerals. The friends and family boat out to sea and spread the ashes in the water.” It’s quiet between you. Finnick bites into the meat of his cheek with sharp teeth. He tastes blood.

“You ever wonder where you’ll go after you die, Finnick?” 

"No." 

”Some people think your soul leaves your body and you go somewhere else, or it all just cuts to black.” Not that it matters much to you. Just about anything would be better than this. “But do you know what I think?”

“No. No, Star, what do you think?” You’ve let him get close enough that he could pull you down if he’s fast enough. But you’re faster than him. All you have to do is let go and—and that’s it. He needs to talk you down. That’s the only option here. There will be no other outcome.

“I think when you die, you become a real star. That’s why there’s so many of them.” That’s what your dad used to tell you. That he’d watch over you in the sky. He must be so disappointed to see his daughter so beaten down. The same daughter he hammered ideals of honor and direct action in the name of justice into just for you to turn tail and run. “What about you, Finnick? Where do you think I’ll go?” 

You lift your left leg as if you’re going to turn. Finnick’s heart stops, and he doesn’t think it’ll ever beat the same.

“I don’t—I don’t know. Why don’t we talk about that inside, yeah?” His voice cracks as he tries to persuade you down.

“But we always talk on the balcony.” You look up to the sky, and Finnick watches you stare at the moon with so much yearning it hurts.

“Please, just…just come down, Star. Please?”

You look over to Finnick and pause. His normally tan skin is pale, hands shaking as they’re held out to you like he wants to grab you. His chest heaves with the strength of his heavy breaths, and his glossy eyes move over you rapidly. You’ve never seen him look like that before. You’ve never seen him look so scared. He’s petrified.  

You hadn’t meant to worry him. You just—you don’t know what you were trying to do. But you did that.

Finnick doesn’t know what he must look like to shake you out of this trance, but he thanks whoever the hell is watching over him that it did. He waits for both of your feet to touch the ground to touch you. The tips of his fingers faintly brush your arm, your chilled skin, before he grabs you. His legs give out from under him, and he brings you to the ground with him. 

You’re whole and solid in his grip. You’re safe. God, you’re safe.

“You’re shaking, Finn,” he tightens his grip on you until you’re practically sitting sideways in his lap. Your ear is pressed to his heaving chest as he rocks you both. You can hear how fast his heart is pounding with each shuddering breath. You were wrong before. How could anywhere be better than here when 'here' has Finnick? “I’m sorry. I didn’t—I’m so sorry.”

“S’okay. You don’t have to apologize, sweetheart. We’re okay .” His fervent reassurances are the only thing staunching your tears. 

“’M not letting you go,” he mumbles into your hair. Good, you think. You don’t want him to. You’re sure you’d fall apart if he wasn’t holding you together so tightly. “I won’t.” The wind howls past your ears, a sudden chill nipping at any exposed skin. You’re both shaking, but not just from the adrenaline.

You dig blunted nails into the bicep of his left arm crossed over your chest. His grip has to be hurting you, but he can’t loosen it. If he does, what if you slip away? He won’t be able to catch you again. He can feel his heartbeat in his teeth. He doesn’t know what he would have done if he hadn’t got to you in time if you hadn’t agreed to come down, he–he would’ve—

“Okay,” you say, wrapping a trembling arm around his waist, and his jaw aches from clenching it so hard. "Okay."

Neither of you speaks. Which is fine. There’s no space for words between your bodies anyway.

Present (VII) – Finnick

[23 & 24] - TRAINING CENTER

Snow pulled no punches when it came to keeping you two apart. He even went as far as to never put the two of you in the Capitol at the same time.

Excessive but smart. The Chariot Rides were a true test of restraint. You were beautiful and alluring and you were cold like he thought you would be—like you have every right to be. It still hurts to be treated like he was just another victor to you. It wasn’t that he thought you’d tell Katniss your entire history together, but…you couldn’t even look at him. Finnick could hardly hold himself back from going up to you, dropping to his knees, and begging for the forgiveness he knows he doesn’t deserve. He can’t imagine how he would have fared two years back. 

He’s barely managing now.

You and the trainer circle each other on the mat, dual sickles in your hands and a padded staff in his.

Finnick watches you from where he stands on his own mat. He’s never seen you fight before, not really. He’s seen your games, obviously, but they didn't involve much fighting and you mostly survived through stealth and sponsors.

Surprisingly, you make the first move. You slash downward toward his head. He blocks it with the staff, but it leaves his abdomen vulnerable. Something you’re smart enough to slice at. The trainer is lucky he’s padded. Otherwise, a hit like that would have eviscerated him.

You barely duck in time to avoid the staff from hitting your head and Finnick’s grip on the trident tightens. You duck to the ground and roll behind him, kicking at the back of his right leg. He falls to a knee, and you’re quick to put the blade to his neck from behind. The trainer taps out, and the pride that washes over Finnick is devastating.

“Catch any flies?”

“What?” He turns his head slowly, eyes still locked on you, before he tears them away to look at Johanna’s smirking face. He doesn’t like that smirk.

“Your mouth’s been open for a minute now.” She gestures vaguely at her own mouth, and his jaw clicks with how hard he closes it. How long has he been standing here? How long has she been watching him watch you? “She’s good.”

He could play dumb and act like he doesn’t know what she’s talking about, but why should he bother? For as long as Johanna has known him, she’s known him in conjunction with you. There’s no point in acting like that’s changed.

“She is.” Surprisingly so. You weren’t a fighter, at least, not like that. In the six years you were together, you never spoke about training or even having the desire to. He would have done it himself if you had asked him to, but he’s really glad you never did. “Who taught her?”

“Maybe you can ask her yourself. You know. Once you stop drooling.” His jaw ticks as he spins his trident in a circle over his arm. It’s times like this when it feels very likely she’s only his friend to get away with making fun of him. He isn’t drooling. He’s just—taken aback by your skill and agility and…

You sweep at the trainer’s ankle, and he tumbles to his back. You put your knee on his chest, blade to his neck, and he taps out again. Finnick swallows, but his mouth runs dry.

“Good luck.” She pats him on the back with far more force than necessary and walks off with an axe in hand. Probably on her way to traumatize a trainer.

Finnick keeps you in his field of vision while he trains by himself. Sweat drips down his back as he takes a cursory glance at the room. Johanna is doing just as he predicted she would, and the trainer is barely dodging her swings. Peeta, Brutus, and Chaff train together at the spear station while Katniss sticks with Beetee and Wiress. Nothing worth looking at twice.

What does get his attention is Mags. She’s heading straight to you, and he almost falls out of his stance. The two of you have only met in person once before, and Mags loves you. He can’t just walk up to you by himself. With Mags there, she’ll be his crutch. After all, it isn’t her that you hate.

He psychs himself up the entire thirty-one seconds it takes to stand before you. By the time he gets there, he catches the tail end of your conversation.

“—Chaff made us train as much as we could, so,” you shrug and gesture with your sickles, “I focused on these since I’m so familiar with them.” The splash of blue he’s expecting to spot above your right hand is missing. In fact, he doesn’t see the bracelet on either wrist. Does he even have the right to still wear his?

“Star.” The whisper is out of his mouth before he can stop it, and you freeze. You straighten your back the same way you used to before an interview and turn around. The smile you give him looks nothing short of performative like he’s Caesar Flickerman himself. It’s just a subtle upturn of your lips, and it hurts more than anything you could have said. 

“Finnick. I’m…glad—that we’re on the same side in this. We haven’t been allies in a long time.” Finnick wants to pretend you’re saying you’re happy to see him, happy that you’re doing this together. He knows better. Haymitch said it himself: Finnick is clever and a capable fighter. 

You nod to them both and turn on your heels before he can say anything. What is there to say? 

Mags hums comfortingly and rubs his arm as you walk away from the training mats. He bites the inside of his cheek.

“I’m alright, Mags.” He lies. He lifts the trident. “How about I teach you a few tricks, huh?”

Present (VII) – You

[23 & 24 ] - TRAINING CENTER

More people stay for lunch than you thought they would. Served in a spacious room attached to the gymnasium, lunch is the time people typically try to form alliances. You made none during your first games. Luckily, your allies have already been picked for you this time around. One drops down into the seat beside you, smelling just as sweaty as you probably do.

“You know the plan yet?” She asks, piling portions of ham and potatoes onto her plate.

“Johanna,” you scold. “Not so loud, please.”

“What? It’s not like I’m screaming anything from the rooftops.” She scoffs but thankfully lowers her voice. “Besides, if they’re listening in on anyone, it’s Princess and the Baker over there.” She nods to the end of the table where Peeta and Katniss sit with Beetee and Wiress, seemingly establishing an alliance already. How they’ve managed to win her over is a mystery to you.

You sigh, long and drawn out. You try to think of a way to phrase this. Last night, Haymitch told you that you and Johanna have the same task. You were planning on telling her later in a more secluded area, but you should have known Johanna isn’t one to wait patiently by. “We’ll be in charge of protecting Beetee and Wiress,” you say and then rush to cover. “Since we’ve already agreed to be allies and all.”

“Ugh, Nuts and Volts? Why?” She stabs the meat with her fork.

“Because they’re important.” You scowl, making sure she knows there isn’t any room for argument. You’re already taking a risk talking about this here. “That’s the main thing we have to focus on.”

“Hmm,” she grumbles. “What about loverboy? What’s he focusing on?” She asks, and you don’t need her to tell you who loverboy is. You peek across the table where Finnick sits next to Mags. 

“No clue.” You pick at the bread on your plate, grinding it into crumbs. The plan is on a need-to-know basis. If Haymitch didn’t tell you, then it’s not important to your part of the plan. “I just know we’ll need to find him and Mags at some point.”

“I saw you two looking pretty cozy earlier.” Her words are muffled around the food in her mouth, but not muffled enough that you can pretend you didn’t hear her. “Did you two kiss and make up, or what?”

You try not to let your eyes fall on Finnick, who has been glancing up at you and Johanna before looking away, but it’s where they naturally seem to go. You’ve been trying your best to avoid him. You didn’t need him to talk to you, and you honestly didn’t think he wanted to. If it’s because of some kind of fucked up sense of pity or guilt, you would have preferred him just ignoring you.

“No, it’s nothing as simple as that.” Your chair scrapes the floor as Finnick watches you stand. Your appetite is suddenly gone. “You can have the rest of my food.” You offer, and she’s quick to scrape your leftovers onto her plate. You’re used to not eating much anyway.

“When is it ever with you two?” She grumbles under her breath. Your hand clenches open and close beside you as you walk out. She’s right. You can’t remember a time it’s ever been simple with Finnick. 

Past (viii)

Dear Finn, 

If you ever fear the weight of my absence—close your eyes, take a breath, and feel me beside you. I’m still here.

-Faithfully,

Your Star.

[transienturl]

actually now that I'm paying attention, I'm noticing that when it's quiet and I'm trying to sleep, there's almost like low voices in my head, kind of like being seated in a restaurant? they're all just fragments of words, nothing I could interpret as meaning. and I definitely don't "hear" them as if they're actual sounds; it's just like my inner voice where I do process thoughts as audio.

but I guess this qualifies for auditory hallucination? I could easily imagine someone having something like this but with more coherent sentence sounding snippets and less separation between the imagined sound and the actual sound and it being quite unnerving, but in its current form this one really isn't. that might partially be because... I mean, right now as I'm writing this, I'm saying the words in my head in my own choice; I'm used to thinking of sounds I imagine and sounds I hear as separate things.

-

unrelatedly, now that I think about it, the actual way I write fiction is that I imagine the sound of someone reading the text that I want aloud, and then I write down a sentence with punctuation that ought to sound like the properly pronounced text, and then I read out the sentence in my head only based on the text and punctuation, compare the two pronunciations, and make tweaks to the punctuation that correct any discrepancies between the two. (I do even more readbacks when I'm writing on a phone, because my conscious brain doesn't have anything to do while it's waiting for the clumsy text inputs to finish inputting.

I guess the fact that (as I understand it) not everyone reads text as audio kind of explains some of the discrepancies between types of fan fiction people like. For someone like me, a highly incorrectly punctuated fic is essentially unreadable, since I can't parse it. But I'm sure people who parse text differently barely even register the punctuation at all.

I'm not sure if that applies to things like, I dunno. Carrots. Potatoes. Separating the entries in a list with periods to emphasize them. Ignoring the first two items in a list.

(nope, that was a terrible demo. sorry.)

But, I dunno. I guess I just feel like it explains a lot. When I was a kid—elementary school, middle school—I loved poetry. But I didn't love it for the metaphors, or whatever: I loved how it sounded. I have a whole series of poems I wrote that are mostly or entirely nonsensical, just having started from the sound of a line. "Go serenade your blood, he said," is as far as I can think of completely logically meaningless, and the meanings I can come up with have absolutely nothing to do with the rest of the words I put afterwards. But it sets the 8-per-line syllable count and the vibe, and that's where the rest of it comes from. It's basically the autocomplete meme, but using my brain. And, to blow smoke up my own ass, it sounds awesome. The line breaks are discrete pauses even when the sentences purposefully don't wrap cleanly, there's a natural parenthetical aside, ink and think form an extra rhyme between grey and say, "turned on the light" forms a deceptive sentence end and varies the cadence in an unexpected way when you skip the end-of-line pause... and oh, hm. "sing the praise" does sort of mirror the "serenade" from the beginning, I guess; I wonder if I did that on purpose.

anyway I'll go dig up the post with the poem tomorrow, but I think this post is kind of fun without it too, as I imagine you reading it and trying to metally reconstruct (or really just construct) the poem in question. I'm kind of fascinated by the idea of someone writing a poem based on that.

well. anyway. I guess what I'm saying is that I imagine sounds a ton, so this really doesn't seem strange. and my dreams are all just combinations of fragments of thought that got broken off of their owners anyway; having that in audio form is really only weird insofar as I'm still awake. if it were just that, I'd be quite fine with it, I think. even open to it in a way: I think these might increase my alertness or whatever, and I've always been frustrated about how hard it is to exfiltrate interesting ideas out of dreams. I value these sorts of random thought scraps, is what I'm saying, and being able to steal therm while still awake is kind of neat potentially.

but the ringing is quite a pain. not sure off it's worth it, leaning towards no for me personally

oh, wellbutrin can cause (is causing) tinnitus

...shoot. I don't think I can take it. sucks because it kind of seemed like it was doing something?

[redrobin-detective]

It was a pretty serious one shot (and really well written) but the did the watch gain ADHD from Ben thing just makes me think that the omnitrix does have ADHD now and being different aliens than the ones Ben wanted is either a form of stimming or the omnitrix has auditory processing problems and is just guessing and hoping that it's the Alien Ben asked for because it can't ask Ben to repeat himself

God I'm sorry I'm so backlogged on asks so just for reference this is referring to this quick ficlet I wrote like a week ago.

It's hard to describe because you're right and you're not. It's less that the watch took Ben's habits into it's own programming and more like Ben and the Omnitrix have just become so blended and intertwined that its hard to find where one begins and the other ends.

It's what made the possession AU so unnerving to me is because, in a way, it wasn't really a possession, it was one faction of Ben's overarching personality taking over and everyone coming to the realization that Ben is a fundamentally different person than he would've been without the Omnitrix not just because of circumstances but because it merged so thoroughly with him that he's practically a different person altogether. It's not just Ben, t's BenOmnitrix in one mind, one personality.

So getting back to your original statement, yeah, because the watch and Ben are one the watch does have those same habits and quirks. The Omnitrix controlled Ben falling into his ADHD habits and stims is so strange for Gwen to see because she wants to believe it's just the watch 'copying' Ben when in reality it's far more complex than that. So yeah when Ben dies if the Omnitrix allows him to and Azmuth tries to slap the Omnitrix on someone else, it's gonna come with a whole host of unremovable quirks and memories and imprinted data from Ben.

[small-carbon-lifeform]

At Its Core

My offering for @flashfictionfridayofficial​ latest prompt! Apologies for any typos and also for running alightly over 1000 words... I honestly thought I woudn’t get round to this today but about 10pm an ideal formulated and then fell out of me so here you go!

This forms another part of what I’ve come to call the Ironlands Series - an urban fantasy centred around my charatcters from last weeks Flash Fiction Friday; Deira and Alia. WIP page coming soon!

At Its Core

Alia came to, her head throbbing and her vision swimming. There was something warm and wet on her forehead. She tried to reach up to it but her wrists were bound together behind her back. A tremor of fear shook her lucid. She took stock of her situation.

Her hands and ankles were tied with that horrible blue nylon rope that scratches your skin raw. She was sat on a freezing concrete floor and, judging by her numbness, had been sat for a long time. The room was lit by a single bulb near the end of its life and by its dying light she could make out shelving units filled with rusted old tool boxes and a pile of plastic sacks filled with coarse sand. She had no idea where she was.

Ignoring the aches and the unnerving sensation of whatever was oozing out of her forehead getting dangerously close to her eye, Alia desperately tried to recall what she was doing before she blacked out.

There were investigating the Sect of Alb…they were…THEY! Oh no…

“Deira! Deira!”

Something groaned behind her.

“Deira? Is that you?”

“Ugh, I think so,” came the gruff response, “my head is killing me.”

“How’s your vision? Do you feel nauseous? Any auditory symptoms?”

Deira recoiled from the quick fire questions, “Gah, shut it for a mo will you?” She gave herself a quick once over,  “I’m fine, wrists are stinging though.”

“Yeah, me too. It’s the rope.”

“Crappy blue stuff?”

“Yeah.”

Deira huffed, “Cheap berks can’t even afford the nice stuff.”

“Can’t believe we got jumped by them.”

“There were a lot of them. But I take your point. Maybe I shouldn’t have skipped out on training.”

There was a wallowing silence.

“I’m sorry,” murmured Deira.

“Excuse me?” asked Alia.

“I said, I’m sorry. I should have told you where I was going. I’m sorry I flaked on training. I’m sorry I’m the reason we’ve been caught by people we should have run rings around. I’m sorry I’ve been a crap friend and I’m sorry I’m the reason you’re hurt.”

The silence redoubled. Alia was stunned. She had known something was going on with Deira but she wasn’t expecting her to reveal so much so soon. This wasn’t time to deal with all of this. Alia very nearly just brushed it away to focus on getting themselves free and back on track but something stopped her. It would have to be the time, this had been a long time coming and she deserved to heard too.

“You made me feel unimportant.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you? I thought we were friends. You don’t have to tell me everything but you could have told me something. I knew something was going on but instead of asking for some privacy, which I would have given you by the way, you pretended everything was fine and now everything is definitely NOT fine.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah you said,” Alia sighed, “Just talk to me next time.”

“I will. I’m-“

“Don’t say it again, just do it. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good. Now, do you have a spell or something that can get us out of these ropes? They must have taken my vials while we were unconscious.”

“I could try and conjure fire but the rope wouldn’t burn. It’s nylon so it’d melt and wreck our hands.”

“What about ice?” asked Alia.

“Eh?” the question seemed totally incongruous to Deira.

“You create fire by pumping more energy into the molecular movement of the material until it combusts, isn’t that right?”

“You listened!” Deira was momentarily stunned, she realised how she sounded when she gushed about magic but she couldn’t help herself. She had no idea Alia was taking it in.

“I always listen,” Alia said pointedly.

“Sorry.”

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Ice?” Alia was getting very close to being done with this whole day, “Could you take all the energy out of a material and freeze it? Then it’d be brittle enough to pull apart.”

Deira thought about this. The theory made sense, magic at its core was all about the manipulation and transformation of energy. Heat was an energy, and cold was an absence of that energy. She’d played around with cryomagic when she was a kid but she’d become too reliant in pyromancy when she discovered she could control it. The only problem was the BDT ratio. If she didn’t pull enough energy out of the rope they’d still be stuck, but pull too much and she’d destroy her own flesh. Hopefully she’d remember enough of her childhood experiments to give her enough control. She really shouldn’t have missed training.

“Right, sit tight. I’ll give it a go.”

Deira closed her eyes and concentrated of where she could feel the rope digging into her wrists. She could feel the frayed slivers of plastic scratching her skin and the irritated patches rising underneath. She focused on the artificial material, all other things fell away, there was just the blue twine. She pushed further in. She felt it hum. It was slight but the vibration was there. The molecules moved with the rhythm of all things. Deira reached out and touched it. She felt the minuscule warmth generated from this movement and pulled. The rope lurched in response, seemingly contracting as its heat started to dissipate. By degrees she drew more and more of the molecular movement into herself. On the macro level she could feel the rope starting to cool against her writs. She tried the snap the rope but it was nowhere near brittle enough to break. She had further to go, much further. She did not know how cold she would have to make it. She would be risking frostbite for sure but if she didn’t they would be at the mercy of the Sect and it would be all her fault. Pushing her focus as far as she could she pulled the energy out of the rope. She felt the particles slow their vibration. She felt the heat pooling in her hands and the rope beginning to freeze. She sucked in through her teeth sharply, the rope was burning her flesh now. Just a bit more, she told herself, just a bit more…

Alia had been sat impeccably still trying not to disturb Deira in her work. When Deira stretched out her now free arms, she jumped, “That was quick.”

“Child’s play mate,” smirked Deira, rubbing her wrists, “Let’s get you sorted.”

[blookmallow]

im starting to realize there’s a bunch of connections going on between tma episodes.. i dont know what it Means yet and dont tell me!!!!! ill get there!! but. hmmm. im going through the transcripts after i listen to them to make sure i didnt miss things/checking the details and i just. Keep Finding More Shit, it’s all connected, i feel like there’s something huge going on behind all these and i Do Not Know what it is yet 

this is. very long and disjointed i went through all the transcripts for every episode ive listened to so far and kept noticing more things 

like Don’t Tell Me if im right or wrong ill find out im just gathering thoughts. setting up my little conspiracy board. red strings everywhere

- firstly theres an obvious running thread going about the cursed jurgen leitner books, gerard keay, the. worms. and jane prentiss 

- carlos vittery in Arachnophobia mentions offhand that his complex had an infestation of “small, silvery worms” which passed right over my head the first time but looking at it again thATS THE FUCKIGN WORMS!!!! and martin found. Probably Jane in the basement of that same complex. so. well, (that also means like Who Knows how many people in that building might have gotten infected) (i also wonder whether the spiders might actually be Good, if the worms are hideous parasites maybe the spiders are showing up to eat them/get rid of them, martin says he likes spiders, the spiders almost definitely killed vittery but he was violently trying to wipe them out so maybe it was a greater good kind of thing) (or they’re just spiders and dont have that level of comprehension and like the nasty silver worms. either way) 

- there’s also a lot of Foretelling Of Death but i dont want to go through and list all of those rn

- in Anglerfish, there was some kind of. shadowy hand thing beckoning people into the darkness. Amy Patel in Across The Street describes seeing a similar shadowy hand thing reaching into Graham’s apartment before his. replacement. both of these are described as “folding” in on themselves/moving in a really unnatural way. smoking was also mentioned in both but i havent really been following that as a symbol very closely. possible link with Fire? i dont know

- Repetition. Graham was obsessively filling hundreds of notebooks with the words “Keep Watching,” mary keay’s skin was completely covered in unreadable script tattoos, the paper found by the garbage men was the Lord’s prayer written in latin over and over again, ivo lensik’s father became completely obsessed with fractals and couldn’t stop drawing them. the unnamed burned man in First Aid repeats an unclear phrase over and over again. gerard keay is also covered in tattoos of eyes in First Aid, which was not mentioned before (though probably wouldn’t have been visible before) 

- Graham was convinced he was being watched/followed by Something, harriet was concerned about being followed after she was attacked by prentiss (which. matches with martin’s experience too, though he was much more fortunate), vittery was followed by The Spider, lensik’s father also believed Something was coming for him (and “all the bones are in his hands” sounds very. leitner), and there was. whatever approaching darkness was coming after robert montauk, as well 

- Graham has a weirdly hypnotic table, the first Leitner book found by dominic swain had oddly vertigo-inducing woodcuttings, gerard keay’s eye painting is similarly hypnotic, lensik finds a box in the old tree with the same hypnotic carvings on it 

- not sure if the Spider Apple has any relation to the Arachnophobia episode, but, there’s that, also 

- swain’s book had an image of the sky, which he described felt like you would “fall into it” if you looked at it for too long, and robert kelly sort of “fell into the sky” in Freefall. laura popham describes a sense of being swallowed up by the earth in Lost Johns’ Cave, as well 

- same theme of becoming “lost” in Lost Johns’ Cave and in Alone, similar concepts of being consumed by the earth 

- i dont think its necessarily related to anything else as far as i know but just wanted to mention also i didn’t process the... extra audio recording in Lost Johns’ Cave correctly, i thought she was saying “help me, help me, please help me” which was unnerving, but didn’t really seem all that critical to add, until looking at the transcripts i realized it was “take her, not me” which was a HUGE punch to the gut when i discovered it lmao. dont ask how i managed to mishear that badly but i am very very bad at auditory processing which is why im reading all these scripts to make sure i didnt process them wrong

- Graham mentions he’s gay, and the man who had the dream about gertrude mentions having broken up with his boyfriend, Graham. jon doesn’t comment on this and it’s not necessarily the same graham, and im not sure what the significance is if it is, but it seems like an odd coincidence if it isn’t. “antonio” doesn’t go into detail about why they broke up, but mentions they had been living together 

- the name Joshua Gillespie stands out to me for some reason, like I’ve heard “gillespie” somewhere before, but I haven’t noticed it coming up again in any of the transcripts unless I just missed it. could just be that my brain decided to Remember that name for no reason though. he’s the guy with the coffin 

- jon mentions this, but Breekon and Hope deliveries were responsible both for the weird coffin and the yellow stole from the incident with father burroughs 

- there’s a major ongoing theme of Fire and Burning, both just in general, and a more specific Fire With No Apparent Source thing continuously happening. the prayer paper in the trash had been burned, timothy hodge burned his apartment after the Worms Incident (and martin mentions noticing one of the worms looked slightly burnt - maybe it survived the fire and returned to jane?), sgt. berry was “distinctively marked” by an incident with a flamethrower, the vampires are supposedly very very vulnerable to fire, raymond fielding’s house burned down and his. ghost? disappears with a burning smell and a burnt spot on the floor, lensik experiences an intense, unbearable heat with no clear cause soon after the encounter with raymond, which father burroughs also experiences in his account. the mysterious coffin in Do Not Open had an unnatural heat to it. gerard keay burns the leitner book and picks up the still-smoldering ashes but isn’t concerned with the heat, and then appears again as one of the burned men in First Aid, having apparently experienced second-degree burns on every inch of his skin, but had completely undamaged clothes. the nurse describes feeling a burning sensation when the chanting starts, but dismisses it as a nervous reaction, then experiences the. boiling drink bottles and the burning hot door handles. she says she could feel a burning heat from gerard’s hand. the burned man’s body immediately self-cremates when gerard kills him. lee rentoul also gives specifically a lighter to angela for her Piecemeal curse, though that might be coincidental. he does burn the first box after he discovers it, though

- the garbage man describes the last Weird Trash as “tied off with a dark green ribbon, arranged in a bow like an old-fashioned Christmas present” - which contained a copper heart, possibly symbolizing alan’s real heart, with the rest of his body never being found. this matches both with robert montauk’s killings and the cursed boxes from angela’s curse- “brown paper and string, like an old-fashioned Christmas present.” there was also the weird thing with raymond’s hand, but im not sure that’s related 

the vampires’ victims bodies also seemed to disappear, not sure that’s related either 

- jon confirms that the pendant julia describes (the one belonging to her mother and also her father’s last victim) is a symbol of the People’s Church of the Divine Host cult. wondering if this is related to what father burroughs experienced. gerard keay is searching for a lost pendant in First Aid, but its design is unclear, and he describes it as brass. unsure if related. the fact that gerard’s tattoos/etc were of eyes, and the other pendant is of a closed eye, while one is made of brass and the other of silver seems like there might be some connection though even if it isn’t the same one. there didn’t seem to be any burning involved with the montauk case, anyway 

then there’s. this entire thing im just gonna paste it here, from sebastian adekoya in the Boneturner’s Tale: 

“Books are amazing, aren’t they? I mean, when you think about what they really are. People don’t give the actuality of language the weight it deserves, I feel. Words are a way of taking your thoughts, the very make-up of yourself, and giving them to another. Putting your thoughts in the mind of someone else. They are not a perfect method, of course, as there’s plenty of scope for mutation and corruption between your mind and that of the listener, but that doesn’t change the essence of what language is.

Spoken aloud, though, the thought dies quickly if not picked up. Simple vibrations that vanish almost as soon as they are created, though if they find a host, then they can lodge there, proliferate, and maybe spread further. Still, it is not a reliable method in terms of a thought’s endurance, as humans are fragile creatures, and rarely last a century.” 

this definitely seems relevant to jurgen leitner (and this is. one of the episodes about a leitner book, so) it definitely seems likely that he’s spreading some kind of.... Belief or Self or Power or Something through his books, possibly even his own consciousness is within them somehow, or at least the consciousness of Something or Someone. the man with all the bones in his hands. taking bones and warping them. bones appearing in the pages but Wrong. might be related to the bag of teeth, too, hundreds of All The Same Tooth

definitely something to the... immortalization of thoughts/memories/Consciousness through written word, especially when we consider the words literally tattooed into mary keay’s skin/the book possibly bound in her skin. i cant put a coherent thought together on this but its definitely... important, i think 

sebastian also for some reason specifically mentions he was holding a copy of Stephen King’s Misery in the confrontation with Jared’s mother, which is a story about an author being forced to write something against his will/words that aren’t really his own, to appease someone else, which. seems like it might be relevant somehow too, maybe. the fact that it was named specifically when it wasn’t apparently relevant to the story seems interesting 

[two-are-the-trees]

31 Days of Poe Day 11: “The Tell-Tale Heart”

“The Tell-Tale Heart” is one of Poe’s most famous and renowned works, reaching levels of recognition alongside “The Raven” and “Annabelle Lee.” It has been referenced and parodied in numerous ways (including the all-important honor of a Spongebob episode) and still proves just as chilling to readers today as it did when it was first written. There is no sense of melancholy or tragedy in this tale, just pure primal anticipation and shocked horror at what the darkest parts of humanity are capable of. The building tension, gruesome violence, and terrifying instability of the narrator all combine in Poe’s most heart-pounding (pun intended) tale. 

The story is told from the perspective of a man attempting to assure the reader of his own sanity. He begins to tell the tale of his troubled relationship with an old man whom he looked after. He claims to have harbored no ill will for the old man, however, he grew increasingly more disturbed by one of the man’s eyes, which he describes as cold and vulture-like. This mania leads the narrator to the conclusion that he must dispose of the old man in order to rid himself of the eye. From here, the narrator gives a detailed and methodical account of how he did away with his master and the strange events that followed. 

The most innovative and fascinating aspect of “The Tell-Tale Heart” is the complicated perspective of the narrator. He is very clear and detailed when describing his tale, explaining his reasoning behind every decision in order to assure his audience that he is completely aware of his actions and remains in his right mind. The irony is, however, that everything the narrator does to cement his own sanity actually indicates that he is a deeply troubled person and possesses very unusual reasoning. The narrator’s fixation on the eye is the first signal of this. The is fully able to understand that his hatred of the eye and his feelings toward the old man are in no way related, yet he cannot explain why the eye upsets him so much, even to the point of violence. He is willing to kill the old man just in order to rid himself of the eye, with no thought to the consequences of his actions. From this point, the reader is forced to decide how reliable the narrator actually is, creating an underlying tension throughout the story that only builds as the narrator becomes more outwardly unhinged. 

Poe’s language is also chilling in this tale, to reflect the turbulent thoughts of a narrator who has just murdered in cold blood. Through the narrator, he describes every small emotion and detail involving the murder. Horrifying anticipation builds at an agonizingly slow pace as Poe describes the narrator slowly opening the bedroom door by inches and carefully opening the lantern by minute degrees. We feel both the fear of the narrator and the fear of the old man lying in the dark as the old man’s heartbeat provides the only frantic sound in the oppressive darkness. This moment where both the murderer and victim wait in the dark room is one of Poe’s most impressive scenes. The tension becomes almost unbearable and the narrator’s calculated analysis of the old man’s progress of fear comes off like a predator stalking its prey. It’s the fear of unknown sounds and potential dangers in the darkness that we can all relate to, driving the scene home with primal terror. 

Would I recommend “The Tell-Tale Heart”? Absolutely, if you haven’t read this story by now, drop what you are doing and read it. Whether you enjoy it for the twisted glimpse into a killer’s mind, the masterfully crafted suspense, or the shocking ending, you will find that this cold-blooded story sticks with you and grips you until the very end. This is also one of Poe’s most commonly adapted stories and you can find screen and stage renditions of it from various time periods. I personally recommend the version in the anthology that I have mentioned a few times before called Extraordinary Tales. As a reflection of the innovative way in which this story is told, the segment features impressively strange black and white animation and is one of the most unsettling short films I’ve seen. In every rendition of the tale, however, the tension and unnerving behavior of the narrator remain.

For more analysis (which contains spoilers!!!) please read below the cut!

As I mentioned above, the unreliability of the narrator, as he unsuccessfully attempts to convince the reader of his sanity, is a remarkable feature of the tale and adds an interesting layer to a story of muder, rather than the story being told by a third party perspective. We are able to get directly into the murderers mind and attempt to understand why he did what he did. 

The narrator claims that all of his bouts of irrational behavior are caused by an acute perception of senses, like his sensitivity to the sight of the old man’s eye, however, it is clear that his lack of sanity is what causes him to hear the old man’s heart beating underneath the floorboards even though he has been dead for some time. Further, his lack of sanity makes him unable to cope with these perceptions, causing him to lash out. 

This brings us to the climax of the story, in which the narrator is driven wild by the sound of the beating heart under the floorboards and dramatically confesses his crime to the inspectors. There are several plausible interpretations of this moment and I think each one provides a different perspective from which to view the rest of the story. Perhaps the most obvious reading, as I mentioned above, is that the narrator’s unstable mental state is ultimately his downfall. While he is able to maintain his composure during the beginning of his visit and is able to accurately describe the process of the murder and his motivations, he cannot silence the auditory hallicunation of the beating heart and must confess in order to make it stop. It is a similar situation to what the narrator experienced with the eye. What he calls a sensory sensitivity is actually a much more severe condition that causes him to take drastic actions. 

The second possible reading is that the beating heart is a representation of guilt. The narrator is able to commit the murder and dispose of the body without any hesitation, however, once the task is complete and he is left to sit and contemplate what has occurred, he is gradually overtaken by guilt. This guilt could be inflamed by the fact that the narrator presents himself with such confidence and bravado regarding the inspectors, showing them every inch of his home and having them sit and rest right above the spot where the old man’s body lies beneath the floorboards. By doing this, the narrator steeps himself in the crime and is ultimately unable to handle the pressure of containing this devastating secret. This is why he thinks that he hears the heartbeat and becomes increasingly suspicious that the inspectors know he committed the crime. His own guilt leads him to give himself up, providing a fascinating commentary on the human psyche and how it deals with guilt. Poe would seem to indicate that humans are not capable of containing such vast amounts of mental pressure and, sooner or later, it will emerge. 

I think, however, that there could be another possibility to how the scene plays out. One of the most dramatic aspects of the tale is how the narrator gives himself away, rather than inspectors finding evidence or uncovering the body themselves. But is it possible that the narrator could be right when he cries “They know!”? Do the inspectors actually suspect that he committed the crime before his confession? This is where the unreliable narrator comes into play. We know that that narrator is clearly not sane despite his claims and we know that his perception of reality is somewhat warped. Therefore, it’s possible that he was not acting as collected and convincing when inviting the inspectors in as he leads us to believe. He does a very poor job of convincing the reader that he is sane, perhaps the case is similar with the inspectors. It’s entirely possible that the officers actually WERE increasing the pressure of the situation, playing along with the narrator’s bravado, sitting in the room where he suspiciously directed them, and staying for a long time in order to get him to crack. This would explain why the narrator keeps remarking “Why won’t they go?” The animated version of this tale in Extraordinary Tales plays with this idea, making the inspectors incredibly intimidating and emotionless with dark, reflective sunglasses. It really appears as if they DO know that the narrator committed the crime and that all they have to do is wait until he crumbles. 

So, what do y’all think? Do you think the inspectors were on to something? How reliable IS the narrator? Is there a deeper significance to the “vulture eye?” To share your opinion, please comment on this post or send me an ask! You can also use the tag #31daysofpoe to create your own response post!

[queenofbaws]

Don't know if it's too late or not, but if your still willing to do one more... Top 5 Horror Games

ahhh!!!! man, it is NEVER too late! i could (and usually do) ramble about horror games at all hours! ;P

5. perception - literally i found this one accidentally. i was poking around the playstation store, saw it was on sale, gave it a try, and JESUS christ, is this a beautiful game. without spoiling too much, the plot revolves around cassie, a blind woman who’s exploring a house that she keeps having nightmares about, trying to figure out what’s going on with THAT mess. since cassie’s blind, you navigate the game through a very cool take on echolocation, and the sense of dread and tension the game builds is just…amazing. plus the storyline is beautiful, cassie is a very interesting protag, and…i can’t say any more. it’s just an amazing game everyone should check out!!

4. until dawn - what can i say about this that i haven’t already said, lol!! horror + comedy is my ultimate weakness, and UD is all about that life. plus, the characters??? the characters. does it have its problems? sure. but don’t we all???

3. silent hill 4: the room - this is the only entry in the silent hill franchise that literally, l-i-t-e-r-a-l-l-y scares me. it’s the game i always have to brace myself before i replay because it’s just…it’s scary!!! the thought of being plunged into this horrifying world, this strange, gory hell, all because you picked the wrong apartment to live in??? there’s just a whole lot to unpack. plus, the older i get, the more i relate to the protag henry’s blank acceptance of all the weird shit happening around him.

2. hellblade: senua’s sacrifice - okay, so this one might not be a TRADITIONAL horror game, but i’m including it as a horror game regardless. you slay monsters, you carry around a skull, garm is there...there’s plenty of unnerving, bloody stuff to go around. senua’s sacrifice is about a young pict warrior who is trying to bring her late love’s head to helheim to try and save his soul from the norse gods that have taken it. senua experiences psychosis, so as you’re traveling the world with her on this journey, you experience the visual and auditory hallucinations she lives with. there’s a lot going on with this game - a lot - and as someone who IS mentally ill, i can tell you by the time i reached the end of the game, the emotion and the catharsis was so much that i really did just like…sob for ten minutes, hahaha! bawled like a BABY. the game is BEAUTIFUL. the story is BEAUTIFUL. the soundtrack is BEAUTIFUL. literally everything about this game is gorgeous, the writing is just next-level, and sdklfjsdklfj i genuinely can’t recommend this game enough. it’s a fucking 20/10 for me, dudes.

1. silent hill 2 - you know how sometimes you find a game that feels like being home when you play it? for me, that’s sh2. it’s old, the voice acting can be a little hit or miss, but if i could go back and time and wipe my memory to re-experience any game for the first time again, it would be sh2. if you’re like me and you enjoy sitting down and picking characters and their motivations apart (read: if you’re one of the nerds who spent too much of your free time analyzing all the required reading for english class), this game is just a treasure trove. it’s not really a jump-scare game, but a psychological, droning sort of horror that slowly drags you down, down, down until it all comes together at the end. i honestly don’t think there will ever be a horror game that could fill the shoes of sh2, haha, it’s always going to be my fav, forever and ever amen.

[alpha-incipiens]

Favourite music of the decade!

This is some of what I’d consider the most innovative, artistic and just great to listen to music from 2010-2019.

First a Lot of very good songs:

Crying - Premonitory dream

Arcade Fire - Normal person

Sufjan Stevens - I want to be well

Deerhunter - Sailing

Foster the People - Pumped up kicks

Carly Rae Jepsen - Boy problems

Grimes - Butterfly

Travis Scott - Butterfly effect

Future - March madness

Kanye West ft. Nicki Minaj et al - Monster

Juice Wrld - Won’t let go

Danny Brown - Downward spiral

Kendrick Lamar - Sing about me, I’m dying of thirst

Kate Tempest - Marshall Law

The Avalanches - Stepkids

Iglooghost - Bug thief

Vektroid - Yr heart

Ariel Pink - Little wig

Mac Demarco - Sherrill

Vektor - Charging the void

Jyocho - 太陽と暮らしてきた [family]

Panic! at the disco - Ready to go

The Wonder Years - An American religion

Oso oso - Wake up next to god

The World Is a Beautiful Place & I Am No Longer Afraid to Die - I can be afraid of anything

And my top 20(+2) albums:

Calling Rich gang’s style influential on trap would be like saying Nirvana may have had some impact on early-90s grunge. In 2019 with trap so omnipresent in popular music, hip hop or otherwise, through the impact of artists like Drake and Travis Scott it’s almost hard to remember when this was a niche genre - it was Rich gang that popularised its modern sound here. Birdman’s beats with their rattling hi-hats and deep bass could have been made 5 years later without arousing suspicion, while Rich Homie Quan and Young Thug deliver consistently entertaining flows and numerous bangers between them. Thugger, this being his first major project, steals the show with his yelpy and hilarious rapping style. This may have once been the defining sound of house parties in the Atlanta projects; now it can be heard blasting in the night from white people’s sound systems around the world.

Early 21p may have never aimed to be cool, to avoid a certain appearance of lameness, but they did have a knack for writing some really catchy pop with an optimistic message. To the devoted, the critics of Pilots’ apparent mishmash of nerdy rap, sentimental piano balladry and EDM production were just stuffy, wanting music to stay how it was back-in-the-day forever and unwilling to get with the times. This viewpoint is understandable when you approach this album openly and actually listen to Tyler Joseph’s lyrics about youthful anxiety and insecurity, delivered with real conviction and sincerity, actually recognise that disparate musical elements are all there for emotional punch. A few songs do underwhelm. But this is emo for post-emo Gen Z’s and it’s easy to see why to some it can be deeply affecting.

The musical ancestor to the ongoing and endless stream of ‘lo-fi hip hop beats’ youtube mixes, chillwave filled the same low-stress niche, and Dive released at the peak of the genre’s relevance. Tycho’s woozy, mellow sound prominently features rich acoustic and bass guitar melodies over warm synths, enhancing the music’s organic feel compared to that of purely digital producers in the genre. The experience of starting this album is like waking up in a soft bed, the cover’s gorgeous sunrise reddening the room’s walls, while a guitarist improvises somewhere on the Mediterranean streets outside. And it is indeed great to study or relax to!

Simple, minimal acoustic guitar and vocals. If you’ve got talent this type of music shows it, or else it doesn’t: perfect then for Ichiko Aoba. Her touch is light, her songs calm, meditative, in no rush to get anywhere. As if serenely watching a natural landscape, one can best understand and enjoy Aoba’s music in quiet and peaceful appreciation.

Through the incorporation of genres like shoegaze and alternative rock, Deafheaven managed to create a rare thing: a metal album that’s both heavy and accessible, needing no sacrifice of one for the other’s sake. Over these four main songs, there’s a sensation of being taken on an intense, atmospheric and even emotional journey, with the band stepping away from the negativity and misanthropy that dominates most metal. The vocals, closer to the confessionalism of screamo than classic black metal shrieks, express more sadness than they do aggression, and in respites between solid blaring walls of guitar and drums, calm pianos and gently strummed guitar passages set a pensive tone. This totally enveloping, flawlessly produced sound can take you away, like My Bloody Valentine’s best work, into a dream or trance.

By the late 2000s MCR had taken their thrones as the kings of a subculture formed from the coalition of goth, emo, scene and other assorted Hot Topic-donned kids, and earned a lifelong place in the hearts of many a depressed teenager. But after the generation-defining The Black Parade Gerard Way took off the white facepaint and skeleton costume, ditched the lyrics about corpse brides and vampires, and embraced an anthemic, purely pop punk sound. The silly story of Danger Days, set in a dystopian California where villainous corporations rule and only the Punks can stop them, serves as a kind of idealised setting for the all-out rebellion against authority and normality that so many fantasised about taking part in. The band’s electrifying performances are the most uplifting of their decade making music. For many diehards the upbeat sound here was a celebration that they’d made it through the most difficult years of their lives, and a spit in the face of those who’d done them wrong.

The teller of rural American tales, the indie legend, the teen-whisperer himself. John Darnielle, long past his early lo-fidelity home recordings and now backed by a full band, loses none of the heart his songs are famous for. The theme of the album, taken straight from John’s childhood when the pro wrestling on TV offered an escape from his abusive stepfather, is complemented by the country and Tex-Mex flavouring to the instrumentation. Some of the best lyrics in his long career infuse the stories of wrestlers with universal meaning - his characters try, fail, lose hope, reckon with their mediocrity, and when they step into the ring they’re up against all the adversity life can throw at them. John Darnielle’s saying that when that happens, you stand up and sock back.

Folk music was always a major part of the Scandinavian black metal scene during its peak years, so when American musicians began exploring the genre naturally they incorporated American styles of folk. The complex, oppressive and sometimes hellish compositions here, starkly contrasted with bluegrass that sounds straight from the campfire circle, give the impression of life in the uncharted woods of the American frontier, in the middle of a brutally cold winter. Almost unbelievably, one-man-band Austin Lunn plays every instrument on the album: multiple guitar parts, bass and drums as well as banjo, fiddle, and woodwinds.

Andy Stott seems to delight in making his music as unnerving, haunting, perhaps even scary, as possible. The female vocals these songs are built around become ghostly, echoing and overlapping themselves disorientingly. The percussion, audibly resembling metal clanging, rustling or rattling in the distance, is often left to stand for its own, creating a tense space it feels like something should be filling. UK-based club and dub music can be felt influencing the grimy almost-but-not-quite danceable rhythms here, but the lo-fi recording and menacing vibe makes this feel like a rave at some sort of dimly lit abandoned factory.

There’s so much Mad Max in this album you can just picture it being set to images of freights burning across the desert. True to its title, the nine songs on Nonagon Infinity roll into each other as if part of one big perpetual composition, with the end looping back seamlessly to the start and musical motifs cropping up both before and after the song they form the base of. With its fuzzy, raw sound, bluesy harmonica and wild whooping, the Gizz create a truly rollicking rock’n’roll experience. The band would go on to release 5 albums within twelve months a year later, but Nonagon shows these seven Australian madmen at the height of their powers.

Sometimes you just want to listen to fun, hyperactive pop. The spirit of 8-bit video game soundtracks and snappy pop punk come together to create a vividly digital world of sound that seems to celebrate the worldliness, connectivity and shiny neon colours of early 2010s internet culture and social media. The up-pitched vocals and general auditory mania recall firmly Online musical trends like nightcore and vocaloid, while the beats pulse away, compelling you to dance like this is a house party and the best playlist ever assembled is on. It demands to be listened to at night with headphones, in a room lit only by your laptop screen.

“You hate everyone. To you everyone’s either a moron, or a creep or a poser. Why do you suddenly care about their opinion of you?” “Because I’m shallow, okay?! … I want them to like me.”

The fact that that Malcolm In The Middle quote is sampled at the emotional climax of this record should give some idea to the absurdity that defines Brave Little Abacus. It’s not even the only sample from the show on here. And yet the passion and urgency so evident in Adam Demirjian’s lispy singing and the band’s nostalgia-inducing, even cozy, melodies are made to stir feelings. The tearjerker chords and guitar progressions are so distinctive of emo bands with that special US-midwest melancholia, and they are interspersed with warm ambiance and playful sound effects ripped from TV and video games, seemingly vintage throwbacks to a sunny childhood. Demirjian’s lyrics, yelled out as if through tears or in the middle of a panic attack, verge on word salad in their abstraction, but that’s not the point: you can feel his small town loneliness and sense the trips he’s spent lost on memory lane. The combined effect all adds to Just Got Back’s themes of adolescence and the trauma of leaving it. While legendary in certain internet communities for this album and their 2009 masterpiece Masked Dancers, the band remains obscure to wider audiences.

These Danish punks know how to convey emotion through their raw and dramatic songs. Elias Rønnenfelt’s vocal presence and charisma cannot be ignored: his husky voice drawls, at times breaks, gasps for breath, builds up the deeply impassioned, intense force behind his words. The band sounds free and wild, unrestrained by a tight adherence to tempo, often speeding up, slowing down or straying from the vocals within the same song, as if playing live. Instrumentally the command over loud and quiet, tension and release, accentuates the vocals in crafting the album’s pace. Horns and saloon pianos throughout give the feel of a performance in a smoky, underground blues bar, with Rønnenfelt swaying onstage as he howls the romantic, distraught, heartbroken lyrics he truly believes in.

At some point on first listening to Death Grips, a thought along the lines of “He really yells like this the whole way through, huh?” probably crosses the mind. When Exmilitary first appeared, quietly uploaded to the internet, the rapper’s name and identity unknown, another likely reaction among listeners might have been “What am I even listening to?” But perhaps more revolutionary than Death Grips’ incredibly aggressive sound and style might have been its foreshadowing of how over the next decade underground rap acts would explode into the mainstream through viral songs, online word of mouth and memes. It showed all you needed to come from nowhere to the top of the game was to seize attention, and it did that and far more. MC Ride’s intoxicatingly crass, intense rapping captures the energy of a mosh pit where injuries happen, the barrage of sensations of a coke high, while the eclectic mix of rock and glitchy electronics on the instrumentals is disorienting in the best way. If rap were rock and this was 1977, Death Grips would have just invented punk. Ride’s lyrics paint a confrontational, hyper-macho persona; unlike much hip hop braggadocio, the overwhelming impression given is that Ride truly does not care what anyone thinks. He just goes hard and does not stop. It’s music to punch the wall to.

Inspired by classic rock operas, this concept album represents some major ambition and innovation in musical storytelling. Delivered in frontman Damian Abraham’s gravelly shouted vocals, the complex lyrical narrative of the album follows a factory worker, an activist and their struggle against the omnipotent author (Abraham himself) who controls their fates. Featuring devices like unreliable narrators and fourth-wall breaking, it takes some serious reading into to untangle. But it’s the bright guitarwork, combining upbeat punk rock and indie to create some killer riffs, that gives the album its furious energy and cinematic proportions.

Joanna Newsom is enchanted by the past. Like 2006’s ambitious Ys, the music on Divers makes this evident with its invocation of Western classical and medieval music, throwing antiquated instruments like clavichords together with lush string orchestration, woodwinds, organs, folk guitar and Newsom’s signature harp. With her soulful, moving vocals leading the way, it’s hard not to imagine her as some kind of Renaissance-era country woman contemplating nature, love and mortality in the fields and the woods. As always Newsom proves herself a stunningly original and creative arranger with the sheer compositional intricacy and flow of these songs, and most of all the harmonious intertwining of singing and instrumental backing.

Burial’s music is born from the London night: the bustle of the streets, the faint sounds from distant raves, the buskers, the rain on bus windows. This EP’s dreamlike quality makes listening to it feel like taking a trip across the city well after midnight, watching the lights go by, with no idea where you hope to get to. Every single sound and effect on these two songs is so precisely chosen, from the shifting and shuffling beats, the swelling synths and wordless vocals that sound like a club from a different dimension, the ambient hiss and pop of a vinyl record. Musically this sound is drawn from UK-based scenes like 2-step and drum ‘n bass, but twisted into such a moody and abstracted form as to be nearly unrecognisable as dubstep. Just when this urban, dismal sound is at its most oppressive, heavenly soul singers or organs cut through like a ray of light in the dark.

There’s an imaginary rulebook of how construct music, how to properly make tempos and combinations of notes sound harmonious, and Gorguts have spent their career ripping it up and throwing it in the bin. On 1998’s seminal Obscura, their atonal experimentation sounded at times like random noises in random order. But listen closely to Obscura or Colored Sands, their return after a long hiatus, and the method behind the madness emerges. One mark of great death metal is that it’s impossible to predict what direction it will go even a few seconds in advance, and the band achieves this while presenting a heavy, slow, momentous sound. The density of inspired riffs, and the intricate balancing of loud and quiet, fast and slow paced throughout these songs are exceptional. In instrumental sections the guitars will echo out as if across a barren plane, then the song will build up to the momentum of a freight train. Behind the crashing and twisting walls of guitar the patterns of blast beat drumming are almost mathematical in nature. Luc Lemay’s harsh bellows sound like a warlord’s cry or a pure expression of rage to the void. It’s threatening, menacing, unapproachable, but it all makes sense in the end.

Futuristic yet deeply retro, Blank Banshee’s music takes vaporwave beyond its roots in the pure consumerist parody of artists like Vektroid and James Ferraro and makes it actually sound amazing. Songs are built out of a single vocal snippet processed beyond recognition, new agey synthesisers, Windows XP-era computer noises, hilariously out of place instruments, all set to the 808 bass and hi-hats of hip-hop style beats. The genre’s pioneers intentionally sucked the soul from their music using samples pulled from 70s and 80s elevators, infomercials and corporate lounges - here the throwback seems to be to the early 2000s childhood of the internet, and the influence of a time when email and forums were revolutionary can be felt. The effect of this insanity is an album that whirls by like a techno-psychedelic haze: the atmosphere of dark trap beats places you squarely in a 2013 studio one moment, the next you’re surrounded by relaxing midi pianos and humming that a temple of new age practitioners would meditate to. Still, at some point when listening to this album, perhaps when the ridiculous steel drums kick in near the end, you realise that this is all to some degree a joke, and a funny one. It’s hard to overstate what an entertaining half-hour this thing is.

While 2012’s Good Kid, m.a.a.d City presented a movie in album form of Kendrick’s childhood and early adult years, TPAB’s journey is one of personal growth, introspection, and nuanced examination of the state of race in post-Ferguson America. It’s simultaneously the Zeitgeist for the US in 2015 and a soul-search in the therapist’s office. Sounding deeply vulnerable, he openly discusses depression, alcoholism, religion and feelings of helplessness. The White House and associated gangstas on the cover give some idea to the album’s political themes, with Lamar contrasting Obama’s presidency to the political powerlessness and lifelong ghetto entrapment of millions of black Americans. Everything I’ve written about the lyrics here really only scratches the surface because the words here are substantive, complex and dense with meaning. Near enough every bar can be analysed for multiple meanings and interpretations, essays can and have been written on the overall work, anything less does not do justice. The musical versatility on display is astounding: the album acts as an extravaganza of African-American music, from smooth west coast G-funk to east coast grit, neo-soul and rock to beat poetry, and most of all jazz. Like an expertly laid character arc the record progresses through its ideas in such a way that they’re all impactful, with the slurred rapping imitating a depressed drunken stupor followed later by exuberant, defiant cries of “I love myself!”, the white-hot rage against police brutality balanced by the hopeful mantra: “do you hear me, do you feel me, we gon be alright”. Perhaps the most culturally significant album of the 2010s and an essential piece of the hip-hop canon.

This harrowing hour chronicles the struggles and everyday tragedy of a series of characters and their relationship with the city they live in, narratively driven by some outstandingly poetic lyrics. Jordan Dreyer’s wordy tales despair at the poverty, gang violence and urban decay in the band’s native Grand Rapids, Michigan, an almost childlike open-hearted naivete in his words as he empathises with the broken and alienated people in these songs. There’s no jaded sneer or sly lesson to be learned as he sings about the child killed by a stray bullet or the homebird left alone after all their friends move away, just genuine second-hand sadness and a dream that compassion and community will eventually heal the pain. Taking elements from bands like At the Drive-In’s fusion of punk and progressive, and mewithoutyou’s shout-sung vocals, La Dispute hones its sound to a razor edge to put fierce instrumental power behind the lyrics. Not an easy listen, but a sharply written songbook and a perfect execution on its concept.

Around 2008, Joanna Newsom met comedian Andy Samberg. Within a year, their relationship was becoming the basis upon which the poetry of Have One on Me was spun. Newsom’s lyrics, exploring her relationship with her future-husband, nature, death, spirituality, are above all else loving. Through her warm and vibrant voice, at times an operatic trill and in others deeply soulful, she expresses the joy of love for another, the peace and earthly connection of her beloved pastoral lifestyle, deeply affecting melancholy and grief. Contemplative, artful, genuine or expressive: every lyric in every sweet melody is used to offer her ruminations on life or overflowings of passion.

More so than her previous and next albums, the feel of the album is of not just a folkloric past but also the present day, with drums, substantial brass and string arrangements, and even electric guitar anchoring the sound to Newsom’s real, not imaginary, life in the 21st century. Yet songs here with moods or settings evoking simpler lifestyles and the women living them in 1800s California or the Brontës’ English moors still have a universal relevance. Whether rooted in past of present, the instrumental variety of these compositions, from classical solo piano, grand orchestral arrangements led by harp, to the twang of country guitars or intricate vocal harmonising, makes it apparent that this is the work of a master songwriter in full command of well over a dozen talented musicians. Ultimately, what makes this my favourite album of the decade is that, very simply, it is one stunningly beautiful song after another, all collated into a cohesive 2-hour portrait of Newsom’s soul.

[radiovisual]

He really, truly, in every conceivable way, did not have the mental bandwidth to deal with this stupid legal battle negotiation bullshit. Figures though, doesn't it? That Hell's legal system would be absolutely shit EXCEPT for when its being used against fallen sinners. So now he's stuck in this issue, going over the semi-final drafts of the NDA and out-of-court agreements one more time on his way out of his studio apartment's complex.

He didn't bother looking up at he pushed the front door open, knowing exactly where one of his employees would be holding the door of his limo open for him just outside--this proved to be an error on his part.

He felt his stomach lurch up, like that feeling one gets when take a step down that they didn't realize was there--the noise of surprise he made was far from graceful when his foot did nit meet any kind of floor. He fell into something, all confusing colors and darkness, unnerving imagery that he could barely register and auditory snow--

And then he was spit out, tumbling across a hard floor and banging the side of his screen against something loud chorus of cracks and glass splintering.

"FUCKING SHIT!"

His hangover headache just increased 3 fold. He pushes himself up to see what just cost him a small fortune--but whatever he was expecting, it wasn't a goddamn treadmill. A confused glance around the room offered only more questions--paintings, a pile of sheets and blankets, water, and a... Long furby? With no other demons or sinners in sight.

He wasn't sure if he should be amused, or worried about the comedic absurdity of the bunker's contents. He settles for being righteously pissed off.

"Three seconds to show your face, chucklefuck. Come out now, and I'll consider not frying it off."

Alastor hadn’t been intending to spare Vox much thought lately, and likely wouldn’t have for a while had he not come feet away from having a chance encounter with the fellow just the previous day. He’d overheard something interesting when he’d slipped into a shadow to avoid notice, and that had caught his attention.

Amusing as it was to hear of some kind of lawsuit, he wouldn’t have spared the news more than a chuckle had it not been for one surprisingly tempting detail - Vox’s grumbled desire to not have to deal with a forthcoming meeting on the subject. That had tickled him with an idea - he could do Vox a… favour… He wanted to get out of that meeting? Alastor could make that happen - it had been a while since he’d last twisted a wish, and it being the walking idiot box’s fleeting desire added spice.

Of course, he couldn’t simply leap out and stuff Vox into a comical kidnap sack, that was nonsense - he’d had to find out when and where the meeting was to occur, before carefully laying a concealed magical trap. Specifically, one intended to transport Vox - and only Vox - into the secure bunker of one of the boltholes he maintained in his territory for emergencies.

As soon as dawn broke, he was back, waiting eagerly in the concealment of the shadows for the butt of his jape to arrive.

(starter for @333-host-mortem)

[lobsters-on-their-heads]

Welcome to Clone Club, Chapt. 3: Sarah Stubbs

The stories of how certain people came to join Clone Club.  The entire series can be found here:  http://archiveofourown.org/works/12073659  As always, I love me some feedback.

Early in the morning on September 9th, Sarah drove out to the cemetery, a bottle of sangria wrapped in a beach towel on the passenger seat. It was now a yearly ritual, visiting Aynsley's grave on her birthday, and this time Sarah was alone. Last year Chad and their kids had been with her, along with Reverend Mike and a few other friends. But now Chad and the kids lived up in Ottawa, and Reverend Mike was too busy. As Sarah approached the gravesite, she thought of Alison Hendrix, another member of their old group who was never around anymore. Sarah made a mental note to stop by Bubbles on her way home to see how Alison was doing.

“Hey, Aynsley,” Sarah said to the grave. “I brought you some of your favorite for your birthday. I'm sorry it's just me today, though.” She unwrapped the sangria, then lay the towel on the ground and sat on it. “It's a beautiful day up here,” Sarah said. “Perfect, really. It's nice and warm, the sun is shining, and there's just a little bit of a breeze. You would love it.”

The fact that she was talking to a corpse hit her again, but she was getting practiced as pushing that discomfort aside. She uncorked the sangria and poured some of it onto the ground above Aynsley's body, then leaned the bottle against the stone.

“There ya go,” she said. “Drink up.”

The breeze picked up then, and Sarah smiled. She liked to think that was Aynsley's way of saying thank you.

“I called your mom yesterday,” she went on. “She says the kids are doing fine and she's sorry she can't come down today. Her hip's been bothering her.” Sarah paused to let Aynsley think about that. “Everything's doing great up here, too. We got the go-ahead from the school to take the kids in Level 4 to France this year, so that's super exciting. Wish you could come! Oh, and remember Josh Carr, that boy with the auditory problems a couple years ago? You gave me that book that was just so helpful, and he's in Level 4 this year! He's doing so much better, and he's super stoked to go to Europe.”

She paused again. A robin hopped around nearby, landing on headstones and flower arrangements without getting too close to her. It reminded her of the bird feeders in Aynsley's backyard, and she told Aynsley that. She told her about local politics, about the suburban dramas that had happened since the last time she had visited. She talked until her legs cramped up from sitting so long. With tears in her eyes, she stood and tapped the top of Aynsley's grave stone.

“We miss you up here,” she said. “It's never gonna be the same without you.”

* *

She got to Bubbles right as the store opened. It had been months since she'd been there. The last time she was there, a young man behind the counter told her Alison was busy with her school trustee work, and the time before that, Alison had been on vacation. Sarah didn't have high hopes for seeing her this time, either, but Alison had changed her phone number and hadn't responded to the card Sarah sent last month, and frankly Sarah was worried about her.

When she walked in, she recognized the bouncy tune of “With a Girl Like You” by the Troggs. She was the only customer, and no one was behind the counter, so she sang along, bobbing her head while she browsed the selection of soaps until she almost bumped into a woman stocking a lower shelf.

“Oops, I'm sorry! I didn't see you there!”

The woman had curly blonde hair and seemed to have been lost in the music herself. When she looked up at Sarah, though, Sarah froze. It was Alison's face, clear as day, but it was not Alison.

“Hello,” the woman said with a smile. She spoke slowly, with heavily accented English and her head tilted to the side. “Can I help you find something?”

“Oh, um... actually I was looking for Alison Hendrix... the owner.”

The woman stood and regarded Sarah with her lower lip between her teeth. She was the same height as Alison, too, Sarah noticed. “Sestra Alison will be here soon,” she said. “She is getting us breakfasts.”

“Oh.” Sarah smiled again. “I didn't know Alison had any sisters.” Actually, Sarah knew for a fact that Alison was an only child, but she wasn't about to correct this woman who wore Alison's face and shop uniform.

“We have many sisters,” the woman said gravely.

Sarah nodded, increasingly unnerved by this woman's gaze. Over the store speakers, The Troggs went on, playing “Wild Thing.” Before the interaction got too awkward, the shop door opened and Alison Hendrix entered, pushing a baby stroller with twins. Alison's hair was shorter now, with purple streaks in it, and for a second, Sarah didn't recognize her, but her bearing and facial expressions were all Alison.

“Alison!” Sarah cried, louder than necessary, pealing herself from the shop assistant to see her friend.

“Sarah!” Alison gaped at her, almost smiling but clearly panicking at the same time.

“I haven't see you in so long, I thought I'd come by to visit you here.”

“Oh, my goodness. It has been a long time, hasn't it.” Alison pushed the stroller further into the store and unloaded the coffee cups and paper bags from its storage compartments. Meanwhile, the woman who looked like Alison watched, fiddling with the string on her shop apron.

“I didn't know you had twins, either!” Sarah went on. “No wonder I haven't seen you around! You know, I had heard that you were looking into trying fertility treatments again, but I didn't know it was successful!”

Before Alison could reply, the shop assistant spoke up. “They are not hers. They are my babies.”

Sarah's face burned. Way to go, genius, she thought. “Oh! Oh, I'm sorry, I thought...”

“It's okay,” Alison assured her, even though her face said that it wasn't. “Um... this is my sister, Helena. She's staying with us for a while, and, uh, helping me around the shop. And these are her boys, Arthur and Donnie, Jr.”

Sarah would have asked about the sister part first, but the names caught her attention. “Donnie, Jr? Named after your Donnie?”

“Yes,” said Helena. “He is named for Donnie Hendrick.”

It would have been adorable. Alison loved babies, and these two were cute as buttons in their stroller, in shirts with dinosaurs and planets on them. The air was heavy with tension, though, even as the Troggs began yet another song, this time “Love is All Around.” Sarah had a feeling that Helena might be responsible for the music selection.

“So how have you been, Sarah?” Alison asked, forcing a smile.

“Oh, you know, good. I went to see Aynsley this morning.”

Alison's face relaxed instantly and she took a deep breath. “Oh, shoot, it's her birthday, isn't it?”

“Yeah. You've been busy, it's okay if you forgot.”

Helena shuffled over and took her coffee at the same time Alison took her own, and Sarah noticed that even their hands were the same. “Thank you, sestra,” Helena said.

“You know,” Sarah said, “I could have sworn you were an only child. I remember being jealous of that in school, when my sisters were picking on me all the time.”

Alison did not answer right away, but sipped her coffee and watched one of the babies chew on his seatbelt strap. Even when she did speak, she did not answer the underlying question. “What are you doing tonight, Sarah?” she asked.

“Tonight? I dunno, probably watching Netflix. Why?”

“I'd like to have you over to our house for dinner tonight. With my family.”

* *

For the second time that day, Sarah Stubbs drove to see an old friend, but this time she wasn't carrying any alcohol with her. Alison didn't need that in her life. As Sarah parked along Black Oak Drive, she watched a young family going in and out of Aynsley's old house. She wondered if they knew someone had died there.

Oscar greeted her at the Hendrix's door, and Sarah swore he'd grown a foot since the last time she saw him. Inside she heard voices chatting and laughing, then the cry of a baby.

“I heard you have some new cousins staying with you now, Oscar,” she said.

“Yeah,” he said. “They don't do much yet. Gemma loves them, though. She even likes changing their diapers.” He made a face as his mother appeared in the doorway.

“Hi! Come on back,” Alison said. “There's someone else I want you to meet.”

Walking into the dining room through the kitchen, Sarah took in the changes. There were highchairs and baby supplies all around, and more pictures on the fridge than she remembered. All in all, the house was less tidy than it had been previously, but Alison's smile was wider. Helena was there, one baby over her shoulder and a carrot stick in her mouth. The other baby was in the arms of Felix, the adorable gay man who'd helped Alison with her campaign. In the dining room, Gemma and another girl her age were setting the table. There was one other woman, there, too, who drew Sarah's eye first for her utter contrast with everything Alison.

“Sarah Stubbs,” Alison said, “I'd like you to meet one of my other sisters, Sarah Manning.”

This sister, this Sarah Manning, leaned against the kitchen wall drinking a bottle of root beer. She had wild dark hair and a T-shirt for a band Sarah Stubbs had never heard of. “Cheers,” this new sister said, raising her bottle. “Great name.”

* *

Throughout dinner, Alison was more relaxed that Sarah had seen her in years. She laughed at the silly stories the children told, playfully swatted Donnie's arm, asked Felix about his boyfriend, and encouraged Clone Sarah (as the others called her at the table) to try dating sometime. Helena, Sarah quickly noticed, had some sort of social or developmental issue, and Alison or Donnie sometimes reminded her of table manners, but no one ever got upset with her. The children, especially the girls, adored Helena, and the affection was plainly mutual.

At one point Felix stood and raised a glass. "To Sarah Stubbs," he said, "the newest member of Clone Club." Everyone toasted her as well, making her blush. She had never been toasted before.

Afterwards, as Sarah got ready to leave, Alison took her aside. “I know is this rather strange,” Alison said. “But it means a lot to me that I can share this with you.”

“Oh, honey,” Sarah pulled her in for a big hug. “You have a big, beautiful family. Honestly, I'm kind of jealous. I have a lot of sisters, too, but you know we don't get a long very much.”

Alison just laughed. “Come back sometime soon. We'd always love to have you.”

[lowat-golden-tower]

Bloody

AO3 Mirror

@caustic-synishade

When Mark regained consciousness, he was no longer strapped down to the table. Immediately, he felt relief, even if he could tell he was still restrained. It felt like he was sitting up, which was good, because it meant they couldn’t drown him anymore. At least, not easily. If that was still their end goal, Mark was relatively sure they wouldn’t have bothered moving him.

Though all the water had drained from his sinuses, he was suffering some lingering side effects. There was an excess amount of mucus clinging to his throat and inside of his nose; some of it having long trickled down past his lips. It was disgusting, but due to his latest set of restraints he was unable to wipe the mess away. Mark forced his eyes open and wasn’t surprised when he came face-to-face with more darkness. He supposed he wouldn’t have been able to see much better if there were lights, since his glasses were still missing. Either they’d been left in that corridor with the bear trap when he was clocked over the head, or one of the monsters had them. Mark doubted he was going to be getting them back.

Squinting through the heavy shadows, Mark was only able to make out silhouettes of his new predicament. He was definitely in a chair, which didn’t budge an inch when he threw his weight into it, which meant it must be bolted to the floor. He felt more than saw the fact his knees and ankles had been bound to the legs of the chair; the pressure hardly easing the pain in his still injured calf.

Mark whimpered, twisting his wrists against the ropes binding them to the arms of the chair. There were ropes looped around his stomach to the chair’s sturdy back, and more layered over his chest and shoulders to make absolutely sure he wouldn’t be arching off his seat any time soon. Mark could scarcely wiggle under the tight hold and he felt trapped; suffocated. A rag had been pulled between his teeth several times and wrapped around his head in a makeshift gag; forcing his lips apart. He could feel his heart pounding rapidly in his chest as the seconds ticked on.

How long were they going to make him wait? Were they even in the room? Did they know he was awake? What if they were just standing there, watching him squirm?

Mark’s head swiveled wildly in some effort to confirm or deny his suspicions. Briefly, he thought he spied two pinpricks of red in the darkness, but he blinked and they were gone. His hair was standing on end, goosebumps riddling his flesh, and the dampness clinging to his shirt did nothing to assuage his fearful shivering.

Abruptly, there was a soft click, and it was all the warning Mark received before a bright light splashed across his face. He was immediately blinded with a muffled cry and squeezed his eyes shut in some effort to soothe the instant pain in his retinas, but the flash was practically burned onto the backs of his eyelids. His face scrunched up as he cringed away from the light he swore he could still feel on his skin. The shadows moving through its broad beam were lost to him until it was too late.

A hand gripped roughly at Mark’s hair and jerked his head back with an audible snap. He cried out again, louder that time, but the gag cut through the sound rather effectively. The fingers grasping at his locks didn’t lighten up even an inch; leaving Mark’s throat utterly exposed. He wished he could say he wasn’t expecting the sharp edge that soon pressed against it, but he’d never been the most optimistic when it came to his rotten luck. He gulped loudly.

“Look how scared he is. I think he learned his lesson from our last little session.”

“I dunnoooo. He’s a pretty stubborn guy, Tyler! I think he’s still got a lot left to learn and as his best friends, it’s our job to teach him!”

The demented voices of his hijacked friends clawed into his auditory canals as deeply and painfully as they had before. Mark could feel another headache coming on as his neck was forced to bend back at such an uncomfortable angle. Hands came to rest over his wrists and weight was applied, though not enough to really offset the discomfort in his scalp and vertebrae.

“Maaaark. Hey Maaaaark! Look at me. Look at meeee~!”

Mark just whimpered again. He would have shaken his head, but Tyler’s grip on his hair was too strong and unyielding. At least, he assumed Tyler was at his back and Ethan at his front, based on the direction of their voices. The pressure on his wrists increased and Mark bit down into the cloth of his gag.

“Ruuuude!! I said look at me, you dickbag!”

Ethan’s childish shout dragged barbed wire through his ears and into his brain, but still Mark resisted. Though Ethan’s shadow was blocking a majority of the light that had been focused on him, his eyes still stung from the initial shock of it. It was also easier to tolerate the pain Tyler was supplying if he kept his eyes squeezed shut. Besides, since when was Mark the kind of person to just give assholes like them whatever they wanted? So far as he was concerned, they could kiss his fantastic ass.

Mark would immediately regret his bullheaded decision.

“I SAID LOOK AT ME, ASSHOLE!!!”

White hot, burning agony shot up through Mark’s arm and his mouth parted much as it could in a ragged scream. Were it not for Tyler’s iron grip on his hair, Mark’s reflexive flinch probably would have lodged the knife deep into his own throat. Thankfully, the gut reaction was suppressed, and Mark only twitched enough to create another shallow cut along his neck. That was the least of his concerns.

Forcing his eyes open and blinking back tears, Mark tried to catch a glimpse of just what Ethan had done out of the corner of his eye. The angle Tyler had his head pulled into made it difficult, but he knew he could see blood. Something glinted in a shaft of the bright light and Mark could only guess Ethan had gone and shoved another knife into his forearm. He’d missed the bones, but the blade had sunk all the way through to the wood and was likely the only reason Mark’s arm wasn’t a fountain of gushing blood. Nausea washed over him at the realization and he gagged again; the stench of iron and copper filling the air.

“Haha oops! Silly me. My hand slipped! If only you’d just listened like I mentioned earlier, maybe I would’ve been a little more careful with my toys….”

“You’re patching that up. I dealt with the last one.”

Ethan blew a noticeable raspberry. “IIIIIIIIIIII’m Tyler, and I’m too hyper masculine to play nurse to our plaything! Durrhurr, why do humans need all this blood in their bodies anyway? We should just suck it allll out!”

The only response Mark heard from Tyler at the teasing was a growl; deep, low and guttural in a way that made all of Mark’s primal instincts want to run and hide. Unfortunately, he was still stuck, and now there was absolutely no way he was moving that arm.

“Oh, let him go already, Tyler! At least his hair. I want him to see how pretty I’m gonna make him! I want him to see all the fun things we’re about to do to him!! I couldn’t see anything last time, but now it’s my turn, and I’m gonna enjoy every tiny second of it! So let go!!!”

Ethan’s voice, while still as bubbly and discordant as ever, reached a terrifying shrill at the very end. Mark felt his skin crawl and had to wonder if Tyler experienced a similar sensation, seeing as the hand left his hair rather quickly. The knife at his throat remained, but Mark was allowed to tilt his head forward again with a renewed whimper of slight relief. Part of him soon regretted the freedom.

Two crimson dots, burning like red hot embers at the very core of a wild blaze, met Mark’s exhausted and frightened brown ones. The red was utterly engulfed by pure black. It wasn’t the same black as a normal pupil, or the shadows still clinging to the room surrounding them. The closest thing Mark could compare Ethan’s sclera to was possibly the darkness of space itself; or a black hole. It was deep, endless and encompassing to the point it overflowed from his eyes to trickle haphazardly down his cheeks in narrow strings. The horrifying abnormality was accompanied by a face-splitting smile that showed no teeth, but still managed to be supremely unnerving. The entire display was made all the worse as Ethan slowly tilted his head.

“Maaaarkimoooo. I see you.”

Ethan’s renewed giggling grated once more on Mark’s ears while a hand reached up to gently brush the backs of knobby, pale fingers along his still bruising cheek. He shivered and shied away from the touch, much as the knife at his throat would allow. Ethan’s smile sunk instantly into an unamused frown.

“So. Fucking. Rude.”

Mark anticipated the ensuing open-palmed slap, and so was Tyler apparently seeing as he edged the knife away from Mark’s neck seconds before impact. Again, he narrowly avoided having his throat slit via jostling but the skin on his face and the bone lying underneath still throbbed unpleasantly from the sting. Ethan’s expression didn’t improve as he pushed away from Mark; the brilliant lighting at his back casting his front into deep shadow.

“Y’know Mark, I was gonna be reeeaaaal nice to you here with this one but I don’t think you deserve nice Ethan. So I’m gonna have my fun, and you’re gonna wish you’d kept that big, stupid mouth of yours shut! And that you didn’t test me. Because you know, whatever kind of patience he had, I didn’t keep any of it.”

A large crescent of white cut through the shadows on Ethan’s face and Mark shivered. He could feel his gut clenching with anticipation at those pitchy words. Ethan had already stabbed a knife through his arm, what else could he possibly have in store? Fiery red pinpricks left Mark for a moment to look over the top of his head instead. Ethan’s terrifying grin didn’t waver a millimeter.

“Hey Tyler, mind doing the thing while I go and grab another knife? Mark’s using mine right now.”

“Fine. But hurry it up. All this light’s giving me a headache.”

The knife finally left Mark’s throat and he relaxed minutely, even as he felt another bead or two of blood trickle down to soak into his dampened collar. He could hear the shuffle of footsteps behind him and could only guess Tyler had turned around, as Ethan was making mocking gestures in front of him. Sticking out his tongue, the blue-haired human-turned-monster walked off himself, presumably to do as he’d said. Mark didn’t like the idea of becoming a human pincushion and hoped no more knives would be getting stuck into him.

At the thought, Mark figured he should probably get a look at the damage now that his head was free to move around again. He immediately regretted it as his stomach did an outstanding somersault in his abdominal cavity and he came extremely close to vomiting.

A large knife, nearly the length and width of his forearm itself, was lodged directly in its center with the sharpened edge aimed towards his clenched fist. He couldn’t be completely sure, but if he recalled the few medical classes he’d taken for bioengineering before dropping out of college, the blade was likely resting squarely between the two bones lining his forearm. Just trying to move the appendage even an inch could spell disaster; as if the amount of blood steadily leaking from the lacerations wasn’t enough cause for concern. The current flow would take a while to pose any significant side effects or become an active threat to his life, but it was still unnerving to watch his blood once again drip down to the floor. His breathing was becoming more labored at he stared wide-eyed at the sight, but then footsteps were returning and rounding the chair to Mark’s front.

“If you think that’s bad, then you’re in for a real nasty time. Personally, I would’ve stabbed you in the shoulder, but he’s got a thing for playing too much with his toys. Better keep him amused unless you want a matching one in your other arm.”

Tyler’s words held about as much emotion as his expression- that being absolute zero. He was as stone-faced as the joke always implied and if any part of Mark’s childhood friend was still in there to care about his wellbeing, it didn’t show. Tyler had the same chilling eyes as Ethan, but Mark wasn’t sure if the blank slate staring him down from above was better or worse than Ethan’s slasher smile. Both expressions were proving themselves to be equal amounts of unpredictable.

Mark could only whimper and babble unintelligibly around his gag as Tyler knelt down in front of him. He’d been carrying some kind of device in his hands, but set it aside so he could reach for Mark. It didn’t matter if he didn’t have a weapon; Mark still tensed and flinched away after all they’d done to him. It looked as if Tyler might roll his eyes, but the fiery pupils remained stubbornly centered as hands, larger and meatier than Ethan’s, gripped at his shirt.

“Stop being a baby. I haven’t even touched you yet. I thought maybe, after our first two encounters, you’d be a little less pathetic than this. I love seeing fear as much as the next guy but yours is starting to irritate me. I think after this one you need a breather to let things settle in a little.”

Tyler worked diligently as he spoke, rucking up Mark’s shirt beneath the ropes still binding his torso to the back of the chair. Mark had no idea as to the “what” or “why”, but Tyler’s words were plenty enough to set him on edge again. Goosebumps rose immediately to his exposed skin in the chilly room as Tyler left the material bunched up around Mark’s armpits. Normally, Mark could care less about being “shirtless” in front of his friends, but this wasn’t a normal situation. Bound as he was, Mark felt far too vulnerable.

Then Tyler was picking up the device he’d discarded earlier and Mark muffled a frightened shout against his gag. His muscles tensed, sneakers scraping in increments against the dirty floor as he tugged and twisted his good arm against the ropes. He wildly shook his head as Tyler inched even closer, an amused grin finally breaking across his face. Apparently, unlike Ethan, he preferred watching Mark panic.

“No homo, all right? Trust me, this isn’t gonna feel good. Unless you’re a masochist. But I think we would’ve figured that out by now.”

Unceremoniously, a small, metal clamp was attached to each of Mark’s nipples; already hardened due to the temperature of the room. The pinch made him shout and jerk in his bonds, the cry immediately escalating into a slightly higher pitch of torment as his injured arm was jostled. Fresh blood was shaken from the chair to drip heavily onto the floor with the rest and Mark whimpered loudly around his gag; chest heaving. It wasn’t the clamps he was worried about.

Bzzzzt.

Mark screamed again, throwing himself back against the chair as electricity coursed into his chest from the two established points of contact. It wasn’t a pleasant buzz or even a light shock. Mark recognized the sensation from the shock collar challenge, possibly cranked up another few degrees just to make it extra painful. The fact it was hitting his body through such a sensitive place made it all the worse.

Bzzzzzzt.

Again he screamed, rough sobs slipping out from around his gag as tears prickled at the corners of his eyes. His body tensed and spasmed against its bonds but the chair didn’t budge an inch. All Mark accomplished was more searing pain in his arm, and more hot blood splattered onto the floor. Tyler chuckled somewhere in front of him but Mark, head thrown back from the pain, was once again squinting in the harsh light. He couldn’t see anything.

“Already having fun without me? Told you this was a good idea!”

Tyler’s chuckles abruptly ceased and he stood; briefly casting his large, imposing shadow over Mark. His face had returned to its expressionless mask as he shot the returning Ethan a look. “Shut up. I’ll control the remote. Just get to it already.”

“Fine, fiiiine~! Acting all grumpy like you aren’t enjoying yourself. Both of you are downers.”

Ethan practically skipped back to Mark’s front as Tyler retreated around to the back of the chair. The wires trailed in his wake, getting tucked up over one of Mark’s shoulders, and then the taller man was lost to him. He must still be in the room, but Mark couldn’t see or hear Tyler at all in his current position while Ethan positively beamed down at him.

Bzzzzt.

Mark muffled another shouted curse against his gag as he spamsed again; eyes squeezing tightly shut. He heard giggling, and then cold steel was being pressed to his cheek. Instantly, he shivered to a frozen halt as his breaths shortened with renewed fear.

“Handsome and more tolerable as you are gagged, I really wanna hear you scream. I wanna hear you make all the noises while we have our fun! So do me a big favor and don’t hold back, okay? If you try being all tough like Tyler over there, I might have to tryhard! And no one likes a tryhard….”

Ethan’s cooing echo slithered into Mark’s ear, prompting another shiver, but then his gag was being cut away. He hastily spat out the wet cloth from his mouth and let it fall around his shoulders. Gasping short, ragged breaths, Mark opened his eyes again to look at Ethan in obvious terror. The fist on his good hand was clenched tight, but he’d relaxed the other one in an effort to lessen the throbbing in his arm. When he spoke, his voice was scratchy and hoarse. “Wh.. what’re you gonna do to m-me?”

Ethan’s teeth returned as a grin split his face anew. Mark thought he saw his eyes flash with some kind of emotion, but it must have just been a trick of the light. “So happy you asked! Now you see? Being polite’s not haaaard. We’re gonna play a little… game, Markle Sparkle.” Ethan twirled and fiddled with the knife in his hand, which was smaller than the last but probably just as sharp. “I’m gonna open up your pores a little. Let in some fresh air- heard it’s good for the skin.” Ethan’s free hand trailed down the side of his own face, not disturbing the trails of inky black in the least, before moving over to mimic the action on Mark’s. He couldn’t suppress another shiver. “Y’know, ‘cause yours is just. So. Perfect. And ooooocasionallllyyy… Tyler’s gonna get bored, and he’s gonna make you dance. If it happens to be when I’m making a cut, well… oopsie-daisies! We can’t all be perfect, now can we?” Ethan’s voice pitched into a deeper register and Mark swallowed hard.

“You d-don’t have to do this. Look, I don’t know what you are, but just let them go. Let Ethan and Tyler go a-and… and I don’t know, we could work something out! Surely you guys have better shit to do than ju-” Mark’s reasoning was cut-off by another scream, now unhindered, as a fresh shock traveled through him. Tyler was ever silent, but Ethan’s giggling rang in his ears as the younger man leaned in close to whisper.

“Ethan’s here. Ethan can see eeeeeverything. He acts like he’s upset, but I know part of him likes it. Doing this stuff, it validates a part of him you like to step on. And I know that part of him is gonna enjoy this just as much as I am.”

Ethan brought the knife to Mark’s bicep and made a shallow cut. It was no deeper than the ones on his neck, and would probably only produce a few rivulets of blood, but it still stung. Mark’s lips pulled back into a pained grimace and he hissed; wincing as he watched the blood well up. Ethan merely hummed and giggled in delight as he cut again, then again, before shifting over to cut at Mark’s uninjured forearm instead. Mark twitched and whimpered as the knife bit into his flesh but really, it was nothing he couldn’t handle.

Bzzzt.

The next shock hit as Ethan was carving an elaborate curve into the back of Mark’s hand. He shouted and jolted in his seat, jarring the blade still pressed into his skin. Half of the arc became a deeper slice that cut into the meaty side of his palm and Mark’s shout swelled into a scream of pain as Ethan laughed outright.

“Hahaha! Whoops! Silly Tyler, you know I’m doing delicate work over here! Shame on you.”

The finger wagging was hardly humorous to Mark when he could feel blood pouring out of his hand. Clicking his tongue like a disapproving parent, Ethan paused to grab the cloth still resting around Mark’s shoulders. He wrapped the still damp length around Mark’s hand to stem the blood flow.

“There, there. Your buddy Ethan’s got you covered, Markimoo. See? Alllll better! Now where were we…?”

“Please, stop. Stop. I’ll do anything just please let me go….” Mark sniffled, the tears that had been stinging at his eyes dripping freely now down his cheeks. His lips trembled as Ethan cocked his head almost curiously; watching him. He tapped the bloodied knife to his lips thoughtfully.

“Hmmm…. Let you go? Let you go? Mmmm… no. No, don’t think that’s a thing I can do. Sorry pal! We’re just having way too much fun and we’re not gonna stop anytime soon! So buckle up, buttercup, ‘cause you got a lot of skin and I got a lot of ideas!”

[datawesomenessdoe-blog]

TFtCS: A Moment in Future’s Past

   “So…” Davy stammered, having to look down and back up to reassess her thoughts. “...Are we gonna tell Brother ‘bout Observant?”    A set of listless footsteps make way to the thick exit, Melissa clearly sought out on exiting the scene, hands wrapped around each other behind her back.    “Are you serious…?” She turns her head to peer at the captain who she’s been freeloading off from for oh-so long, her previous objective now counteracted by such a naive question. “Davy, you want to find Nemesis, right? Who’s to say that the Vanguard will actually keep us involved. If we tell them about Observant, they’d most-likely try to confiscate our only lead!” The wizard’s body slowly turns, one foot moving around the other to let her form rotate a full 180 degrees. Her eyebrows are flat beneath their glass covers and her back stays straightened. “No videos. No lead. No Nemesis.”    Dav’s highest desire was to speak, her fleshy index finger already extended and mouth open, however, another idea had approached the young mind, overthrowing the last.    “I mean, of course! But... why do you care? What’d you have t’ gain?”    “I-” Melissa’s body refused to move as she pondered; she didn’t even know herself! Her once-relaxed eyes both twitched open open, the silence followed by a radiant blush. “I- I just think that you pirates could use someone as great as me!” Her arms cross tighter than before and eyes shut completely, head turning away as she throws the taller female aloof. The room is met with an awkward few-moment silence, it being broken as Jessie flops down into one of the secondary chairs and reclines.    “Welp. If I’m gonna be the kid’s handbook then I ain’t driving~” The co-captain’s forearms rest behind his head and legs cross as his eyes rest, mouth sneered and pointed along the edges. Melissa jumped at the opportunity, both metaphorically and literally. She took a dive directly at the door and blipped from existence, definately to the laboratory below. Davy holds her previous questioning expression, having to jostle around her head just to become reorientated with time.    “Guess I’m drivin’!” The black-hatted woman reaches over and grips down over the head of the driver’s seat, hoisting herself over like a catapult and dropping down amongst the inviting, cushioned item. Her hands reach towards the wheel, hands grabbing at the various wooden prongs that protrude from its cylindrical body, right hand soon releasing it to crank up the craft’s stick to send them forward. The steampunk-esque boat floats its way through the cosmic emptiness, slowed by the two still-bursted engines. The communications monitor lights up with a loud ring, a basic caller identification displayed across its dirty, reused glass. Upon it flickers a rounded automaton. The woman revealed herself to be none other than Davy’s contractor! A singular eye isn’t exactly the best thing as showing off complicated emotion, but the way that Lynn jostled and shimmied herself around showed that she was definitely unnerved, though, not fearful..    “Lynn!” Davy happily shouts after aiming her vision towards the monitor glance, not really too contempt with focusing on the nonexistent road due to its lack of, well, anything.    “Davy! Just what in the Forerunner’s name is going on!? It’s supposed to be the middle of the night and all of a sudden the whole planet lights up like some kind of supernova! I tried to call you like, eight times now, but I haven’t been able to connect!” The captain gives a small, sudden hop, quickly rotating her up-most body part back to face her secondary. He givs a relaxed shrug, not really caring too much about the situation, and she turns back, now having to think-up some spontaneous story.    “Oh! Well, uhh… You see, af’er completing our listing… A Vanguard Cruiser flew in ov’rhead! We probably jus’ got caught under their security scramblers or somethin’. As for the lights, I’ve got absolutely no idea whatsoever!” Davy tries to reassure her close friend with a large, shiny smile, the gate of white panels having a hard time imprisoning her faulty lie, to which Lynn just responds with a confused gaze; one side of her eyelid lifted higher than the other.    “Well… Eh, whatever. Anyway, I was hoping we could just hang out sometime; things have been getting pretty hectic around here lately and I need a break.”    “Will do!” Davy looked over to the caller and gave a thumbs-up, a no-mouth smile being returned before the call ends.    Melissa steps back down into the laboratorym chunks and blades of metal scattered all around the floor, the monitor and computer as a whole having to be restarted after the power outage. She approached the beastly device, flicking a lever or two and pushing down on a large button. The system soon resets and the wizard finds herself intertwined with a series of files once more, each video being exactly 24 hours in length, all named by their date taken.    “Hmm…” Thousands of meaningless icons bombard the screen, Melissa having to pass through most of the uninteresting thumbnails of when the daily cycle resets. Many were just black screens, probably from Observant’s power-down sequence, something all droids have to do in order to avoid overheating. She started to get annoyed with the lack of progress as seconds turn to minutes.    Finally, after roughly ten minutes of searching and inspecting, Melissa finally uncovers the very last, or rather first, of the spammed data. The thumbnail is, as expected, a mass of pure black. This had to have been the bot’s very first activation, so something like this was expected, and the only exception on generating distraught.    “Here we are…” The small woman’s tongue slipped out from the side of her mouth as she moves the cursor over to the icon, giving it a pair of determined clicks. The file opens and takes form across the entire screen, a blipping light appearing in the center as it loads.    “Let’s see just what went on here…”    >October 10, 2249: Initial Boot-Up    The monitor glows to life, revealing a large, open structure. Above stood a massive ceiling, both sides curved together to meet at a central line that massed through the entire building’s top, the rounded grooves giving it a small amount of noticeable texture.    “Haha! I’ve done it!” A figure happily walks into Observan’t vision. That short red hair, the puffy bun atop it; this could only have been Nemesis! Her right eye’s eris was a light red, a soft patch of cotton-escue material was bandaged onto her face and covered the other socket. “It’s taken me eight months but I’ve finally done it! Davy, come here!” She looks away to an off-screen figure as she fans over to her, a younger form of the captain herself walking into view. She lacked any kind of hat and her eyepatch was the same as the other female’s, only colored black as opposed to Nemesis’s white.    “Woah…” Davy curiously tapped on the screen, triggering the automaton to reach and gently grab her wrist.    “Please, don’t.” A booming voice overpowered the sounds made by the two humanoids, both of them responding with a small amount of shock.    “Haha! His auditory systems are functional too!” The doctor’s hands clasp together directly in front of her face as her eyes squint shut in extreme joy.    “So Nem, you’re telling me that with only a few spare manuels, you taught yourself how to program a robot? And in just eight months!?” Davy looked over to her partner in awe, both curious and surprised.    “Correct! And what have you been doing all this time; reading that silly book~?” Nemesis chuckles and cocks back an eyebrow, the lids of her eyes moving in a subtle, yet similar matter. Davy blushes and straightens out her body, arms, legs, and back.    “Hey! Pirates are cool!” She lifts up a hardcover kids book, on it being a group of colorfully-drawn pirates atop their ship, its contents being a playful story that gifts her with small insight on just what a ‘pirate’ actually is. Nemesis rolls her singular mechanical eye and snuckers out of satirical sass.    “But Davy! Think about it! We’ve only talked to each other ever since we woke up, we can make a whole society if we wanted!” The doctor’s hands were still gripping against each other’s palms, but her head was tilted up with star-filled eyes.    “That would be cool…”    Observant’s head turns back and forth to each woman, he soon hoisting himself up with his two forearms. The large droid was still laying down against his back-most half, but now had a bit more mobility to his upper portion.    “Speaking of which… Davy, how’s that new arm treating you?” The captain extends her half-mechanical limb, its fingers giving a gentle numb wiggle and not much more.    “Hmm… Kind of hard to control… It’s been helpful on shipwork, though; great for moving things around!”    The automaton turns his head to look towards the open end of the factory’s hangar, in place being a comfy, four-legged spaceship. The runway was flat, the only items left strewn across its surface being the various resources needed to craft the unfinished cruiser.    “Well you better be helpful! You’re the one who wanted to stick with the whole pirate theme~” Davy’s left leg bends and slams against Observant’s laying-desk, her back becoming firm.    “Ahoy ye matey! It be a fine day for some adventure!” Her hand flattens and sits level with her eyebrows as she looks around, lightly roleplaying as if they were a pair of humans out at sea.    Melissa pauses the video and closes the video file, her lips flat and emotionless, but her eyes widened with knowledge. The ship comes to an abrupt halt after slowing down, they were entering the historical site. She could hear the engines slowly power off and lower in tempo ultil they ultimately went silent.The main door opens and metallic footsteps come from above. While the voice was muffled, Elo had began speaking with whoever was up there with him, most likely Davy and some crewmates.    “So, uhh… Wha’d I miss, exactly?”