#sonoric illusion

[felz]

Phenomental performs 'The Door' by Sonoric Illusion & Malákia Live @ Forest Star 2023 Neon Fire Holo

[stormvanari]

me, last year: ok *dusts hands* that’ll be the only animatic i’ll ever do

me, after watching a Mario and Rabbids-Sparks of Hope walkthrough months later: well shit

[xxdemonicheartxx]

Flight Rising flights but as art mediums:

There are some overlaps in mediums since dragons are so tight knit and far spread

Earth: tile work/mosaics, jewelry work, ceramics, stone sculpture, chalk, clay work, plaster, leather work, rain chains

Water: plaster work, woven tapestries, shell jewelry and chimes, pearl inlays, decorative sails and flags, basket weaving, sandstone carving, watercolors, mirrors and glass sculptures

Shadow: optical illusions, black and white photography, puzzle boxes, uranium glass work, maybe iron work, mycology arrangements, shadow boxes, gouache, anything that involves glowing in the dark

Light: stone carving and gold foiled painting, sometimes tapestry weaving to depict an image or scene, impressionism, oil paint, tempera, portraiture, clothing and attire, mirrors, pigment making

Plague: hyper realism, and taxidermy, ceramics, bone carvings, tattoos, ink block prints, collage art, murals, leather work, totems and large outdoor installations

Nature: floral arrangements, dye work, wood work, candle making, hot wax painting, landscaping, rain chains, wind chimes, tapestries, needle felting, carpentry, animal cosmetics (haircuts, animal safe dye, nail and claw painting, etc), apparel/clothing, pigment making

Ice: needle felting, wood carving, quilting, ice carving and sculpture, snow sculptures, knitting, the art of tea blends, dried plant arrangements, carpentry, fabric weaving, tapestries, crochet, wood burning, blanket weaving, candle making, dye work, wood turning

Fire: welding, decorative weapon smithing, glass blowing, wood burning, wrought iron, stained glass, latticed metal, terracotta, ceramics, obsidian and basalt carving, graphite, slate, charcoal

Wind: paper mache, ribbon mediums, basket weaving, sonorous sculptures, wind chimes, feathered attire, really tall and thin structures/sculptures, jade carving, blanket weaving

Arcane: resin, stained glass, welding, intricate silver work, collaborative neon work with shadow (they need that special eye for glow in the dark), crystal carving, zen gardens, bonsai art, screen printing, photography, illuminated manuscripts, clothing and apparel, gold foil work, abstract art

Lightning: bronze cast sculptures, sand sculptures (when lightning strikes the sand and turns it to stone) aluminum casts poured into ant colonies/hills, pop art, up-cycled art, photography, art that is still capable of being utilized and interacted with because people and dragons are part of the medium, assemblage art, banners and flags

[oliolioxenfreewrites]

Another Sneak Peak into Novaxiom. My world of Sonoric Sorcery!

The First Chapter! I wrote this overnight as I finally finished the outline I liked. I could do a deeper dive into this if you are interested :)

I emerged not like you did—not from some warm, comforting womb but from the cold, unyielding depths of the Crystalline Expanse within the Polar Symphonies of Novaxiom. My first memory isn't a mother's lullaby or a father's proud tears. No, my first memory is a perfect chord resonating through my being, waking me from a timeless slumber.

Imagine that. A vibration jolts Your entire existence into consciousness, a note so pure it slices through the void. That’s how it all started for me. One moment, I was nothing but an inert crystal; the next, I am Syrin, a sentient carved from the essence of the Gods themselves.

At first, everything was a symphony. The world unfolded in a stir of light and sound, each note and each shimmer a part of a grand composition that I could only begin to barely comprehend. So, I roamed the crystalline caverns with a kind of naïve wonder, my every movement refracting light into dazzling displays. The ancient energies flowing through the crystals whispered secrets of the past, long-forgotten songs, and the echoes of beings who had vanished eons before my awakening.

I could sense it all: the harmony, the beauty, the balance. It was intoxicating, this perfect world of resonant energy and light. But as with all things, perfection is an illusion, a fragile construct waiting to be shattered.

I remember that first discordant note vividly. It was faint at first, a subtle vibration that didn't quite fit with the rest. But it grew stronger, more seductive, like an unfamiliar yearning in my mind. Innate curiosity or maybe a sense of enticing the hands of doom - I'm still unsure which - drove me to follow that dissonance deeper into the caverns. It led me to an ancient, forgotten shrine, a place of power and ruin.

Here’s where it gets interesting. The shrine wasn’t just a relic but a battleground, the site of a long-lost struggle between harmony and discord. The air was thick with the remnants of that ancient conflict, and the dissonance I’d sensed was its ghost, still haunting the ruins. It spoke of betrayal, power, and a curse upon my kind—those like me who were born from the very essence of Novaxiom.

In the shrine, I learned of the beings who came before me. Auralis, the master of sound; Mentis, the weaver of thoughts; Vitalis, the giver of life. These primordial forces shaped the world and, in their wisdom—or folly—created beings to guard and guide the balance. But power corrupts. And where there is power, there will always be those who seek to twist it to their ends.

The Cacophonous Wars—what a mouthful, huh? It sounds almost lyrical. In reality, it was anything but. It was a barbaric, devastating conflict that almost tore the world apart. Psillusionists, with their twisted magic, turned harmony into a weapon. Korux, the name still sends shivers down my crystalline spine, was the worst of them. His legacy of darkness and discord is a stain that Novaxiom will never fully erase.

I saw it all through the remnants of the shrine. I witnessed the echoes of history replaying within those crystalline depths. I swear it! I witnessed the rise and fall of Korux, the Psillusionists' punishment, and their subsequent transformation, which led to the birth of Dysphoni.

Now, here's where it gets a bit muddy... Dysphoni are born deaf, cut off from the natural Sonoric energies that shaped our world. Defeated, they retreated to the Shattered Saskatchewan, harnessing and developing their own dark arts, manipulating silence and discord. Isolated and discriminated against, their resentment grew with each generation.

Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. It sounds like a bedtime story, a cautionary tale told to frighten children into behaving. But this isn’t a joke; I shouldn’t even be telling all of this to you; it’s all too dangerous. The Dysphoni didn’t just fade into the background. They bided their time, honing their skills, waiting for the perfect moment to rise again.

And rise they did. Led by a descendant of Korux, they surged forth from the Shattered Saskatchewan, their silence a weapon, their discord a plague. They aimed to engulf Novaxiom in darkness again to finish what their ancestors had started. The Great Silence, they called it, was an era where sound would be subjugated, where silence and discord would reign supreme.

But here’s the twist. The Dysphoni weren’t just the villains of the piece. They were victims, too, shaped by a curse that wasn’t entirely their fault. Born into a world that feared and shunned them, they turned to the only power they had left—silence. It’s tragic, really. A cycle of pain and retribution that keeps spinning out of control.

So, where do I fit into all this? I’m the observer, the chronicler of this endless symphony of creation and destruction. I’ve seen Novaxiom’s beginning, witnessed the rise and fall of its most remarkable powers, and now I stand on the precipice of its future. My role as an observer allows me to share these experiences with you, engaging and connecting you to the world of Novaxiom.

I walk through the Crystalline Expanse, my faceted form shimmering in the dim light, and I wonder. What’s next for us, for Novaxiom? Can we break the cycle, or are we doomed to repeat the same mistakes, to fight the same battles repeatedly? The echoes of the past are loud, but perhaps, just perhaps, we can find a new chord, a new harmony that includes even those born of silence.

Maybe that's the answer—not more conflict but integration, acknowledging the pain and resentment, and finding a way to turn it into something beautiful. It sounds naïve, I know, but after everything I’ve seen, maybe a little naivety is precisely what we need.

For now, I have to keep wandering; there are so many more frequencies I can attune to! At least the Gods gave me something to work with on this crazy ass planet! Just gliding along these snowy hills, listening to the songs of the crystals, the whispers of the past. I’ll keep telling you the story of Novaxiom in the hope that one day, we’ll find the harmony we’ve been searching for. It’s a long shot, but what else is there to do in a world where even silence begins to sing?

Tag List! ✬

@drchenquill @illarian-rambling @kaylinalexanderbooks @leahpardo-pa-potato @slenders1ckn3ss

@somethingclevermahogony @inky-duchess @sassystyl @rotting-moon-writes @highlycosmic

@avaseofpeonies @oc-atelier @ceph-the-ghost-writer @paeliae-occasionally @davycoquette

@unforgettable-sensations @hissorrow22 @boredwritergirl @scorpiothesaint @thewrathoffemalerage

@rirori-jeorgiarn @spookyceph @enne-uni @the-golden-comet

if anyone is interested in joining or being removed from the tag list, just reply to any post & let me know! :)

[gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan]

Your Secrets Shall Be Mine

Author's notes: the main conflict between Primaris Dark Angels and First Born Dark Angles is the paranoid secrecy that the older ones hold to. The Primaris are going to find the information that is being kept from them.

Author's notes: a new primaris boy for Husbandry! His name is Kerubiel Abderail.

Summary: a search for Truth, and to root out the secrets that his older brothers withhold from him ends with blinding light and sonorous darkness. He blinks. And realizes he's no longer on The Rock, but on a planet doesn't recognize. Welcome to Ancient Terra, big guy.

Tagged: @sleepyfan-blog, @ms--lobotomy , @thevoidscreams, @i-am-a-dragon34, @gra93fruit-blog

Tagged: @barn-anon, @bleedingichorhearts, @c-u-c-koo-4-40k, @egrets-not-regrets, @kit-williams

There is much that Kerubiel has learned while he trained on Mars. There is much that he has learned while deployed with the first founding chapter, The Dark Angels.

He and his fellow Primaris Space Marines have noticed very quickly that there are a lot of things that the First Born brothers keep from them. Information, good information is hard to come by in this shitty, fucked up galaxy.

Their older brothers being closed mouthed, stingy bastards only makes his life, and the lives of his brothers that much more difficult and in that much more danger.

He has learned that the Primaris Space Marines rollout has not been as easy or as welcoming for the rest of the Chapters as the Ultramarines had been.

He refuses to suffer and die, his brothers suffer and die due to the firstborn brothers deciding that he isn't worthy of information that is valuable and useful.

He does not know why they are so paranoid, secretive, and distrusting of them. He and his brothers are trying to show that they are worthy of respect and trust.

But the stubborn, dramatic, petty, and catty bastards just refuse to listen and see them for who they truly are. So- he and his fellow Primaris Marines have to use whatever means is at their disposal in order to get that intel- so that they know what their Older Brothers know.

Kerubiel shakes his head a little as he looks around this planet, he doesn't remember being here before. In this forest- he had been on a Hive world- acquiring information that his Older Brothers were selfishly hoarding.

Now he's here. Wherever here is. He closes his eyes and focuses his Will- to try and break the illusion if that is what this is. He grunts a little, when he realizes that is not the case.

So he walks- finding a source of water and heading downwards. Most human civilizations live along the water, or down stream of it. Kerubiel double checks his vox- they are working, and he silently listens on some of the channels he has access to

What he hears doesn't make much sense, however- one of the brother-cousins that's nearby is Cedric of the Black Templars- the Primaris Apothecary is one he's met before- and has patched him up while they trained on Mars.

He takes in a deep breath and uses his familiarity with Cedric's soul- good he's near shadows and surrounded by metal- part of a base of some kind.

With a rustle of leaves and a shift of wind he walks from the forest into the Base. Kerubiel has to lean against one of the walls as his legs buckle and his vision swims in and out of focus and darkness eats away at his vision.

By the Throne- that had taken far more energy than he thought it would. He's noticed that his body is being nonresponsive as he tries to move, and unfortunately his body, betray him as he feels himself finish falling to the floor with a soundless sigh.

The wounds he'd attained in the battle he'd recently been in complaining at him louder as he tastes the tang of blood in his mouth.

Fuck. Teleportation doesn't usually take that much out of him, but he's almost drained dry. He sees a flicker of movement and blue hued armor and he growls at the blurry blue form as he can't stop his eyes from closing as he mutters out, "Cedric."

[teejaystumbles]

I wrote this after I drew the picture with Hob in a corset earlier. 👀 I needed more background to that scene. I also needed 1789 Hob taken down a peg. ( I usually don't write smut AND I USUALLY DON'T WRITE SO. please be gentle, I don't even know how to tag this) (also on AO3)

1789

The Lord of the Dreaming returns to his castle and to his rooms. He didn't want to end the evening with Hob so early, but for his safety it is the wiser choice. He acknowledges his feelings grudgingly. Talking, nay, bantering with Hob...it has been amusing, pleasant... and he did not wish to leave. He hopes the man did get home safely.

Dream steps up to a mirror in his room and with a flick of his finger the mirror is showing him Hob Gadling. He is alone in a bedroom. So he did get home safely. Dream sighs.

Hob seems to be getting ready for bed, he is currently disrobing, hands untying the lace ribbon from his hair. He has already shed his coat, vest and trousers and is standing in tights, shirt and...corset. Dream raises an eyebrow. It is a common enough fashion choice of men this century, but Dream has never considered Hob would be so vain to choose fashion over comfort.

For you he would, a dark, knowing voice in his head whispers. He watches as Hob slowly untangles his hair. He looks dejected, troubled. Have Dream's words reached him? Or is he only sorry for their evening being cut short?

Is this what you would have shown me, Hob? The way you have forged your new self out of the blood and bones of less fortunate beings? What would you have me do to make you see?

Hob sighs and stretches, cracking the bones of his back and groaning. Dream appreciates the way the corset shapes his waist and silhouette.

Maybe you require...a personal nightmare...

Dream delicately places the tips of his fingers on the glass of the mirror. He imagines laying his hand on the flat expanse of soft fabric above Hob's pelvis, imagines gripping his hips hard and pulling the ribbons at his back tighter.

On the other side of the mirror, Hob gasps and reaches out for something to steady himself. His other hand grapples for the corset's ribbon but Dream blows softly on the glass and Hob shivers and falls to his knees with a broken cry, his hand flying instead to the back of his neck. He looks around wildly, fear and confusion in his eyes as the lights flicker out and he is left in darkness. Dream pulls the ribbons again.

Hob squeezes his eyes shut and moans. The pain is the tightness of ropes digging into flesh, rubbing it raw, drawing blood. It is a hand around his neck, choking him. It is a lash against his back. Another puff of breath from Dream is a gust of stale, rancid air full of the choking smell of sickness and human waste.

Hob sobs and claws at his throat and back. He can't get the ribbon open. His ribs are creaking under the strain. Dream pulls tighter.

"Please..." Hob whines, blind in the darkness, packed in with a hundred other bodies, the floor under his feet rolling, swaying him back and forth against others, inciting new pain on old wounds.

Dream hums and Hob hears a sound like nothing before, the sound of a being larger than the ship, a deep sonorous tone rising higher and higher until it is a shriek of pain, a cracking of bones and Hob sinks to the floor with another cry of anguish as his ribs crack under the whalebone corset.

"Please...mercy..." he begs, voice hoarse and broken, barely being able to breathe. His eyes search the darkness, tears streaming down his face.

"My friend...mercy... I'll change... I'll stop it, I swear! Please..."

Dream's eyebrows rise. Hob...means him, he's fairly sure. He has seemingly connected the dots, that only a being such as him could be responsible for these illusions.

Well.

"Don't forget this feeling, Hob. Never forget." he murmurs against the glass, his lips leaving no trace on it. Hob's eyes widen as a well-known voice whispers in his ear, the phantom brush of lips making him shiver and jerk. He tries looking behind him but Dream quickly pushes him down with a strong hand on his neck. Dream, overtaken by a feeling of desire and fondness he's been holding at bay this whole evening, let's his hand on Hob's stomach drift lower, finding his already stiff cock pressing up against his shirt. Dream curls his fingers delicately around it, squeezing him through the cotton fabric. Then he releases the ribbon and let's Hob breathe.

The man lets out a long groan and gasps, drawing in air desperately. He is coming, a whine escaping from behind clenched teeth, face pressed against the floor boards. He gasps and heaves afterwards, short on breath, and stays where Dream has put him. It makes something soft unfurl in Dream's chest. He withdraws quietly and the lights in the room flicker back on.

Against his mirror, the Dream Lord places his lips in a kiss and Hob gives a full-body shudder at the feel of them against his lower back, between the laces of the corset.

"Goodnight, Hob." he bids him the second time tonight, but he is stepping away - Hob can't hear it. The mirror goes dark.

In his room, Hob slowly pulls himself to his knees and just sits for a minute, heaving. He closes his eyes and wipes over his face. He knows what he has to do come morning. With a sniffle he whispers hoarsely: "Thank you..."

[the-ravens-requiem]

Plague-Tober 2023 #1 - Safe

DOCTOR'S NOTES - #666

- - -

There are many small towns and villages scattered amidst the forests and rivers in the Middle Kingdom. In one such village to the north called Pine Hollow, there is a clinic nestled amidst tall trees.

Those who are suffering from a malady or illness seek the physician out, well known for his bedside manner and kindness. Walking through the dark wood and coming across the small clinic is not an easy task for the afflicted, nevertheless the pilgrimage is often completed.

Tales of his healing magic curing symptoms of illness that plague the afflicted in just a few sessions are far and wide, and many come from other lands just to see him work. A miracle worker, by most standards.

I recently visited the physician so that I too, may see his work. Curious by nature, I found myself fascinated by the tales and wondered how one could capture such success. We share the same goal, after all: To help people.

Making the trek was an easier task for me than some, and soon I found myself in front of the healer's dwelling. It was a small place, much like my own. Though the nature of his work was slightly different than my practice. As such, once I stepped inside, I was not surprised when I found that he had partitioned parts of the clinic off for the infirm to rest. Only four beds, but I was told that it is because he does not often need more than once or twice to completely heal even the worst illnesses.

When speaking to the physician -- whose name was Marbas, one of the cat-shaped folk of the Faewild -- I found him to be quite charming and soft-spoken. The voice which came from his lionesque muzzle was deep and sonorous, almost melodic. I found that listening to him speak was quite pleasant and was easily persuaded to see how such a demeanor put ill persons at ease.

We spoke for a while. I asked him a few questions about his practice, though the longer I was there the more captivated I became. And yet, something was off. My long and well-honed instincts told me that there was more to Marbas than meets the eye. I did not think him a charlatan, but still. A nagging sort of feeling. I finally gave in once my surface level interview had been completed and requested a more private conversation once the clinic was closed, and he seemed to be agreeable.

I watched him work the rest of the day. The joy on the patient's faces when their suffering had been eased. He confided in me, off-the-record, that although he could cure afflictions he could not completely cease the pain of more chronic sort of illnesses. He was not the miracle worker of tales in the sense that he could not make a blind man see again, or make one whose legs were weak to stand or walk again. Such was out of his field and the nature of his magic. He could only return one to their natural state, and some things just were. I appreciated this honesty, and he noted that at the height of his fame he had to turn so many away because of this that it nearly broke his heart.

When I watched him work, however, I noticed that I was unfamiliar with the sort of magic he used. It did not appear to be any healing magic I had ever encountered on any of my journeys. It had the feel of something far more ancient. When we were able to speak privately, I asked him about it.

Marbas seemed startled that I had noticed, but after a moment or two he reached out to touch my hand. In that moment, I think we both understood the nature of the other. This sparked an honest confession.

I remember Marbas' eyes being golden in color. He looked at me through my mask as if he could see me completely, underneath. And when I looked back, I began to piece together what I had saw that day. The words were soft and mumbled, as if he were embarrassed by them.

"I feast on their suffering."

The catfolk visage was a clever illusion. Marbas was something far older than The Known World itself. The Old World would have called him a demon, and I was unsure of what they would call him now.

He confessed that he had started this venture a long time ago, simply as a means to eat. Suffering of the afflicted was sweet, he explained. His domain was disease, both in the giving and taking sort of way. When he discovered that more people would come to him if he healed them, he decided to pose as a physician and open a clinic. Over time, the joy of the healing took the place of his hunger, though he still fed upon the suffering because that is how he survived. But instead of causing it himself, he would absorb what would come through the doors of his humble clinic.

Marbas confided in me that he knew some of his regular patients began to see through his charade, but his service was so successful and eased so much of their pain that they chose to look past it. They felt safe with him, and the eating of their suffering was his payment when they could not provide coin. An open secret, essentially.

It was a secret I would keep with me, as well.

Who am I to deny a fellow healer with a secret? It would be hypocritical of me to sound such an alarm. And if he is not doing any harm, who am I to stop him?

- - -

Also inspired by this post.

[mako-neexu]

[オベぐだ♀︎] “Epilogue” -wip (because obe is a pain in the ass to write so finding an appropriate ending is hard)

-

She starts with a heaving gasp, eyes blown wide as she wakes up.

Darkness was all that she saw. A gaping void that threatened to consume her whole, a familiar sensation akin to seeing a friend on the way home from school.

She clenches her fist atop her chest and swallows even as her lips were dry and her heartbeat cannot be felt.

A dream? It feels way too real to be one. But so were her thousand other dreams when she tried to sleep or even daydream.

She opens her mouth with the intent to call out on someone, anyone---

A thundering applause shatters the silence, and she is forced to cover her ears from the hollers, the claps, the praise, the sneers, and the gazes from all around her.

It was still dark. Yet, she could finally see the light that was aimed down at her figure. A spotlight that made her the target of attention.

She could only tremble and face the void head-on, her eyes darting all around to find any clue on where she is in.

But looking down was a mistake.

“Ah...A-Ah,” Her hands were shaking badly, dyed red gloved hands that hid her crumbling appendage beneath.

She sees a little clearer despite the spots in her vision. She was wearing her mystic code. A dress with white, black, and grey accents and combat boots- a uniform that was given to her not too long ago.

She looks up in horror as the nonexistent crowd continued to give their praises and jeers at her, flowers of all kinds thrown at her before the stage.

A stage.

She was standing in the middle of a stage.

Just when she knew her dread couldn’t sink any lower, this time, it did.

Beside her were props. Bodies- Dolls of- of herself piled up and murdered, a pool of blood flooding the set. And to her left were the people she met and loved- thrown on top of each other in the same fashion as if they were nothing more than dead bodies to deal with.

The world was turning upside down. Her stomach was churning. She wanted nothing more than to wretch and close her eyes, and block out the sound that was beginning to resemble more and more like screams to her ears--

Silence.

Her head whips up as she realizes the sudden lack of noise.

Gone was the void that seemed all-encompassing, but what replaced it were red seats with figures that were too vague to point out.

She swears she saw someone wear a familiar blue cap and pigtails, another one wearing a short braid, another was a woman with an astrolabe as her staff...and another was someone wearing a ponytail... ah, a smile, a smile? Why does it look sad? How can she see them yet not see these people watching he-

A clap. The clap came from a single person, yet she couldn’t see someone moving in their seats. Slow, yet sonorous, she tensed up as she heard the source of it come closer.

“Bravo,” She froze on the spot, her gaze turning into surprise over the familiarity of the voice.

“Bravo!” She sighed. She was tired. She doesn’t want to deal with whatever is happening now.

Oberon stepped out from the darkness and gave her his princely smile. It’s just him. Her body relaxes, eased over seeing a friend.

“Oberon...” She called out and approached him... but it only took her a few steps until something invisible blocked her from closing the distance.

“That was more than well-deserved, don’t you think?” Oberon smiles, his eyes creasing happily. “A grand round of applause to the main character who had fought so dashingly and nobly on the stage!”

She tests the invisible wall again and finds that it was no illusion nor it was something that made her hesitate. Her stomach churned over the growing dread inside her.

She stays silent.

Oberon still doesn’t seem to notice. (No. He knows. He’s simply ignoring it.)“And! It is customary for audiences and supporting characters to give roses to the heroine as congratulations.” With a flourish, a bouquet of said flowers were shoved against her.

She stumbles a bit but nevertheless notices how that invisible wall was something he could phase through...as if he wasn’t affected at all.

She swallows and replies with hesistance, “Thank... you...”

His eyes turn into cresecents and his smile stretches until it was thin, “Mhm! My pleasure!” He leans back with the entirety of his posture that of relaxed. But she knew better. The air was becoming suffocating and dark. Something was closing on her and it wasn’t tangible for her to repel given her circumstances.

“Your role is quite difficult so I just ought to make sure you were praised for destroying seven worlds, vanquishing demon pillars, Beasts, outer gods, and thousands of stories,” He smiles, he smiles, “-each person bearing their own burden, responsibility, emotion, grief, love, hate, hopes, dreams, loved ones, past, present-”

She blinks.

Oberon Vortigern takes his place.

“-but not their future.”

Thousands of questions ran in her mind. What was this? Where were they? Why is Oberon doing this? What sort of metaphor is he trying to convey? Resentment? Why is he acting upon it now? Did she do something earlier? But she- oh. She doesn’t remember what happened before waking up here. What was the purpose of being subjected to a stage with nonexistent audiences clapping and hailing her for the things she had done?

A laugh. A cold laugh breaks her from her inner dilemma as she focuses on the Pretender, “Do you really think you’re deserving of those praises? The respect from achieving such great feats!? Do you really deserve to smile and laugh alongside your companions, eating cake with bloodstained hands!?”

He was shouting now, and she was like a fawn doing its best to stay strong in the face of such onslaught.

“And?” Oberon growls and grips her arm, on the side where her command spells were etched, “When the crowd leaves, the curtains fall, and the supporting cast withdraws, what are you left with?”

No more. She couldn’t bare to look at him. She couldn’t bare to listen to the words that stabbed her entire body like poison-tipped daggers.

And to that brief second of being alone in the stage, she knew what he meant.

All of her breath leaves her lungs when he wrenches the bouquet and crushes the entire thing with his clawed hand.

“You are nothing.”

Trembling and silent, she risked glancing up. His condescending smile as cold as his glowing eyes. “Imagine getting flowers wrapped in sweetness and praise after trampling over the lives reduced to nothing but data and numbers. The irony of it is enough to kill me, you know? Even your so-called friends seemed to bask in destroying those very lives alongside you.”

She opens her mouth and finally, gives voice to what she wanted to say. She looks straight up at him, eyes defiant, “...There’s nothing wrong in wanting to take back our world, our previous lives and everyone else who was in it.”

She takes back her hand by twisting it in his hold, allowing her to break free take a few steps back for herself, “Everyone did their best and fought to the very end, to that normalcy everyone yearned for. They’re happy because they survived. Because they avoided dying from a single blow that would mean the end for them. My friends gave their all to support each other because we were shoved into a that situation without warning. I did my best as well, even if what I did had a kind of responsibility no human can bear.”

Silence once more reigns the atmosphere between them. Dust motes floated about underneath the single spotlight that focused on the both of them.

Oberon’s face was slack, unamused, and she, guarded and tense.

“Even now, you’re still stubborn to a fault, huh?”

There was no time to react. No time to even flinch or use a spell before he’d grabbed her by her jaw.

His glare was scathing, and by now she was used to such looks. She thinks she’s used to such looks. “And you, my fellow liar, if you know so well about what they feel, it is only fair you tell me about yours beyond that horseshit of ‘I’m okay’ and ‘I’m strong because of my dearest friends’.”

“I-...” For once, she is rendered speechless against him. Her hesitation was taken as a cue.

His grip on her tightened, and she had to wince from how much he was hurting her from that alone. “And so they rejoice in saving their skin! They stay in that comfy little ship with only physical support to back you up. But what about your mental state? Do they even bother addressing the damn weight you carry? Do they even ask about what you feel after felling a world? They don’t, do they? Hah! At best, all they have to offer is for you to get an hour of rest, leaving you to your own devices.”

She did her best to glare at him, weak as it was. Because deep down, that ever selfish part of her knew that he was right. That they believed her to be strong because she smiled through it all. That they believed her to be someone who can handle the stress of it alone.

“You know it too, don’t you?” The smile was poisonous, his face so close that it felt as if he was seconds away from biting off her head. “That you’re broken right from the start, able to make hundreds of contracts with sentient weapons and do even the stupidest shit no human would ever dare do.”

His voice was scathing. Oozing like lava and burning everything it touches,it scorches the depths of her heart, yet shes faces it head on. “With the repercussions of the things that made you seem so cool and special, you’re tortured by voices. Voices in the guise of that blond commander, that homunculus inventor, that detective clothed in white wool, and the hundreds who stuck by your side but never called you by your name.”

Name. Her name. She was called by so many names, that her very own was overshadowed by the countless titles she’s gained throughout these years.

Senpai. Kouhai. Contractor. Christine. Lord. Anjin. Piglet. Albrecht. Little Deer. Jokanaan. Accomplice. Mom. Liege. Prince. Student. Retainer. Lover. Daughter. Sister. Prey. Enemy. Friend. Master.

Unable to help herself, she spat out, “They’re names given to me by my friends-”

Oberon clicked his tongue and growled, “-all of whom who’ve never once used your own name. Not even once. But I digress. Those voices you hear were taken by your own head and malformed all of it into a vessel of your self-hatred and insecurity.”

Horror dawns on her as he addressed her pandora’s box she carefully kept hidden away from prying eyes.

Her body trembles, and she tries to pry away from his grasp, but all of that were rendered useless when he smiled cruelly at her.

“Fujimaru Ritsuka, Panhistory’s Last Master yearns to be punished. To finally be absolved of the burden of her sins and responsibility, clinging on to death without realizing it.” He lifts her chin to face him, but she doesn’t dare squeeze her eyes shut. “With a desire like that, are you still truly wishing to go back to that normal everyday life when you have come this far?”

No longer human, not with how many she has made sure to dye each world’s stories in inky black. To the point where her hands were stained with it. Blood and pen ink mixing until no longer discernible. Just like the play she was forced to act in.

notes:

she’s standing at the center of the stage.

[belespritbooks]

Favorite Quotes: The Sound and The Fury

"The road rose again, to a scene like a painted backdrop. Notched into a cut of red clay crowned with oaks the road appeared to stop short off, like a cut ribbon. Beside it a weathered church lifted its crazy steeple like a painted church, and the whole scene was as flat and without perspective as a painted cardboard set upon the ultimate edge of the flat earth, against the windy sunlight of space and April and a midmorning filled with bells." - page 292

"The preacher had not moved. His arm lay yet across the desk, and he still held that pose while the voice died in sonorous echoes between the walls. It was as different as day and dark from his former tone, with a sad, timbrous quality like an alto horn, sinking into their hearts and speaking there again when it had ceased in fading and cumulate echoes." - page 294

"And the congregation seemed to watch with its own eyes while the voice consumed him, until he was nothing and they were nothing and there was not even a voice but instead their hearts were speaking to one another in chanting measures beyond the need for words..." - page 294

"I give you the mausoleum of all hope and desire; it's rather excruciating-ly apt that you will use it to gain the redact absurdum of all human experience which can fit your individual needs no better than it fitted his or his father's. I give it to you not that you may remember time, but that you might forget it now and then for a moment and not spend all your breath trying to conquer it. Because no battle is ever won he said. They are not even fought. The field only reveals to man his own folly and despair, and victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools." - page 76

"There was something terrible in me sometimes at night I could see it gaining at me I could see it through them grinning at me through their faces it's gone now and I'm sick" - page 112

"And we'd sit in the dry leaves that whispered a little with the slow respiration of our waiting and with the slow breathing of the earth and the windless October..." - page 115

"If it could just be a hell beyond that: the clean flame the two of us more than dead. Then you will have only me then only me then the two of us amid the pointing and the horror beyond the clean flame" - page 116

"... they too partaking of that adult trait of being convinced of anything by an assumption of silent superiority. I suppose that people, using themselves and each other so much by words, are at least consistent in attributing wisdom to a still tongue..." - page 118

"The bird whistled again, invisible, a sound meaningless and profound, inflexionless, ceasing as though cut off with the blow of a knife, and again, and the sense of water swift and peaceful above secret places, felt, not seen not heard." - page 136

[stormxpadme]

Whumptober 2023 No. 17 - Collar

Scogan Bingo challenge Dessert

That this mission would be an ugly one had been clear from the moment, Scott had learned, Marie and Logan had been kidnapped right off the damn street by some Weapon X goons, of all people, effectively ruining what should have been these two's first mission together after Marie's official appointment to the team. Some kind of trauma waiting for everyone involved at the end of that day? That had been a no-brainer, really. No matter how much Marie had been working her ass off since Alkali Lake to become a valuable fighter in Scott's group and though he was perfectly aware, she would happily suck the life out of him with her bare hand in a death grip around his balls if he'd ever admitted that to her face … That girl still was half a teenager.

Especially after losing a woman Scott had loved to this fucking job not too long ago, it had taken a lot of convincing from both Charles and Logan until he'd reluctantly given in regarding filling Jean's spot among the X-Men with some fresh blood as it was, painfully aware that sooner or later, that would not only be a figure of speech. Naïve as he sometimes still was, even after 15 years in the field, he'd just hoped to have at least a couple of months to go without another catastrophe. After almost running himself entirely into the ground following Jean's demise, barely saved from that particular abyss by a certain other team member whom he'd lately come unexpectedly close to … All Scott needed right now was a fucking break. Sadly, the life of a superhero was rarely considerate of such childish hopes. There was a lot of disillusioning terror about to unload onto their newest fellow warrior; Scott had no illusions about that when he gathered his people in the Blackbird that afternoon, starting up the engines hectically. Cursing under his breath, he followed the path of their missing team members' tracker signals quickly moving north on one monitor with his gaze while maneuvering his beloved jet out of the hangar so quickly, he almost grazed the not-quite-yet open hatch with one wing. Ororo's disapproving frown from the co-pilot seat, he regarded only with a tense shrug. With how things had gone between Logan and him in the last few months, the others probably thought this development was why Scott found it increasingly hard to keep his usual cool about leaving for another possibly deadly quest, and in the very place where Logan had once been tortured beyond comparison and where the X-Men had suffered their worst blow so far no less. But that wasn’t why Scott had to clench his hand so exaggeratedly hard around the stick that day, to hide even from his own blurred sight how much it was shaking.

Logan came with the powers, and in spite of his ongoing amnesia with the experience, too, to deal with another few hours in this insane people's horror cabinet. Scott had spent enough nights lately, holding and talking his partner through one of his PTSD attacks after particularly bad nightmares to be certain of that.

Marie, for reasons of her skin-reactionary mutation alone, would have no one to comfort her like this if this whole thing went as Scott feared, especially not since Bobby had fucked off to run and live alone after Alkali Lake, breaking all those big promises he'd made to the girl about being able to deal with her gift beforehand. The only other person Marie was really close to was probably just being cut into neat little pieces right in front of her eyes, up there in that damn rebuilt Alkali Lake facility. Goddamnit, just when Scott had thought he couldn’t hate these bastards and their whole inhumane illegal experiment fetish even more.

"Focus, my young Captain," a sonorous voice from the seat behind him warned him, a broad blue paw coming to rest on his shoulder when Scott had to correct the jet's position for the fourth time within ten minutes because he just couldn’t concentrate on the radar properly. "It's only been an hour since we got the alert from their car. And their vehicles don’t fly with Shi’ar tech. It's perfectly possible we'll arrive there before they do. We can still get them out of there in time." As so often, the level-headed, analytic mind of a long-lost-thought former team member who had been doing a great job replacing Jean at least in the sick bay after Alkali Lake, helped Scott clear the disturbing fog of his emotions as well. Aim that energy he'd need to come up with a suitable plan as soon as they would be able to tell how much had changed at those damn laboratories since their last disastrous visit there. With a little grimace, he shook out his arm when he realized how tensely he'd really been holding on to that damn stick, an old sting throbbing in his shoulder from some sparring less than a week ago with Marie when she'd almost ripped his damn arm from his socket.

No, physically there was little doubt, the group's rookie would be doing hopefully okay in a confrontation with an unknown number of hostiles. But the biggest traces Logan had walked away with from his own encounters with these psychos were famously located on his soul, and not only because his healing factor rarely allowed scarring.

With a sigh, Scott finally gave in to Ororo's impatient gesture from the neighboring chair and swiped over the brightly blinking display combination that would sign the navigation over to her console. An hour of sitting on the floor cross-legged somewhere in the rear should hopefully ban these useless considerations from his mind. Meditation was something he'd never used to believe in before getting together in some loose relationship with a certain feral, of all people. But something that helped keep even Logan's sometimes so untamable instincts in check probably couldn’t hurt, Scott's own betimes over-obsessive brain stay on the correct course. "You know, I told her I'd only give her one of those uniforms if she was sure she wouldn’t come to regret it. It's not only been six damn weeks."

Ororo reached out to stop him by his wrist when he moved to get up, regarding him with a patient headshake. "We were all surprised you made it through six weeks of her nagging and complaining before you sent her off to that recruitment run with Logan. The guy's been watching your depressed butt ever since our last mission at this place, Scott. He was there when I was certain for weeks after we lost Jean, that I'd find you drowned in your own vodka vomit and tears one morning." Almost a year, and there was still that suspiciously rough tone in Ororo's bright voice at the mention of her best friend's name, that vengeful stare in her black eyes that she tried to hide in vain behind her long white fringe before pulling herself together and turning back to the controls, to Scott's reflection mirrored in them. "I have no idea how he did that, but don’t you think you can trust him to be her shield, too?"

"No idea how he does it either," Scott gave back with a slightly embarrassed shrug, realizing Logan's and his occasional nightly visits in each other's apartments on the teacher's floor had gone even less unnoticed than they'd half and half hoped. Not that Scott had ever been bothered a lot by people gossiping about his love life. He'd honestly had worse headlines. Besides, right now, he'd even put up happily about some think piece regarding Logan's and his alleged kink preferences in the goddamn Daily Bugle if only that meant he wouldn’t have to read a damn obituary or two there tomorrow instead. "Let's just hope, with her, he won't have to. We've left enough blood in that damn lake, 'Ro."

"No more." Ororo squeezed his arm for another brief moment and then released him with a vague nod backward so that he could find the desired few minutes of peace before the new action and drama to be expected.

*****

"I got them." Scott wasn’t sure Ororo and Hank would even be able to hear him over all that screaming, the gunshots, and pained yells – the latter fortunately only from the enemies' side – that he could make out through the open radio line. For now, it didn’t matter either. Too relieved he was that apparently, all that fretting and self-blame over his latest staff decision had been for nothing, as he strode further into the room, locking the door behind him once he was sure he was alone with his missing teammates. A single look at their restrained, partly battered shapes was enough to know, Scott would need all the time he'd asked Ororo and Hank to buy him to free the others, after they'd already wasted far too much of it, making their way into the newly constructed labyrinth of their destination's underground passages unseen. It was both better and worse than he'd feared; Scott already made a mental note that he'd probably have to spend the next few days in Logan's apartment nonstop, making sure that this new most unpleasant encounter with his lover's worst enemies wouldn’t be haunting Logan too badly at night.

But from all he could see in the dark of that moldy cell that the strong flashlight from Scott's belt couldn’t help much, those sick bastards had at least indeed only tried to get through to Logan with their usual primitive methods. Trying to win him back for their psychotic causes once again probably, until the X-Men's arrival had interrupted their sick fetishes. And these assholes hadn’t even given their favorite prisoner a goddamn break when swarming out to try and rid their precious facility of the intruders.

But Marie's bent-over shape, chained to some hook in the ceiling, seemed unmarred at least. Her lips were bleeding a little from where they were stretched by a too-large gag, and her beautiful dark brown eyes were wide open, filled with a hint of fear that Scott had not seen in her in a long time. But her uniform had no tears, her stubborn movements as she tried to free herself from the cuffs around her wrists revealed no impairment of any kind. Only the same broad, red blinking collar around her neck that endangered Logan significantly prevented her from using that super strength she'd recently acquired after touching one of her accidental victims for too long.

All in all, the whole thing was a valuable lesson for both of them regarding the respect for a deadly job and the faith in one's teammates, Scott thought bitterly, as he signaled Marie to stay put, after making sure with a quick Shi’ar signal scanner from his belt there were no cameras or microphones in the room alerting unwanted company anytime soon. He'd have loved to get the girl out of that uncomfortable strappado position immediately, a sight promptly provoking a painful phantom twinge in Scott's own shoulders. For all their bloodlust and ruthlessness, these Weapon X bastard sure as fucked lacked creativity. But freeing Logan from his painful predicament took priority. At least if Scott wanted his lover to walk out of these damn halls on his own two legs. Therefore reluctantly ignoring the headshake from Marie and the muffled whine from her lips, Scott bent over the examination table that Logan was being tied to, seemingly entirely out of it, and rested his hand on his lover's forehead, worried to find it not only bathed in sweat but far too hot.

These fuckers must have cut Logan's femoral artery open a few minutes ago already. Cut – butchered, literally, whole pieces of his flesh ripped from his side and his leg as if someone had torn it out with their bare hands …

For a second time today, Scott had to push deeply rooted hatred and panicked worry back into the furthest corner of his soul lest he'd just rip his VISOR off and shoot a long, deadly blast through this whole damn facility, making these bastards pay for what they kept doing in particular to the man he loved. Not now.

The rest of Logan's uniform at least was still somewhat intact, no other injuries being apparent that Scott could make out at first glance. It was only a matter of picking the lock of that damn inhibitor collar, then those gruesome wounds would close within seconds. By the time Scott would be finished with doing the same for Marie, guy would be back on his feet already, from all Scott had ever seen of that impressive healing factor.

Then they could regroup with the others and get the hell out of here, preferably after blowing this damn facility to fucking pieces for a second time …

"Hands off, Slim."

Scott's fingertips hadn’t even grazed the collar when Logan's voice unexpectedly had him startle back. His limited vision in combination with the bad lighting in here had tricked him. His lover sounded far more awake than anyone with so little blood in their body should be. "Lie still. I'll get you out." He held Logan down by his shoulder when his lover weakly started to struggle against the cuffs around his blood-covered wrists, cranking his head away from Scott with a warning hiss.

"You don't want to touch that," Logan snarled, his eyes darting over to that corner where Marie was cowering, wide with worry for someone he cared for a lot …

And only now Scott realized, he'd got it all wrong a second time. Logan wasn’t the one whose life was in danger. "What does it do?"

"Lock's connected by radio to some switch in the kid's collar. You open it, blades inside that thing will cut her head off. You better be fucking quick, Slim. No idea if that damn mechanism's got a remote ignition, too." Unlike Scott, Logan didn’t even try to keep his increasingly slurred words to a muffled volume not to frighten their young teammate – that was long yesterday's news. They were far beyond sugarcoating. "Forget it," he snapped at Scott when Scott regarded his dangerous injuries with another restless glance, rummaging in his belt for something to at least slow those terrible bleedings down. "Get her out of that thing, now. You hesitate, people die. We don’t wanna learn that lesson around here a second time."

Scott hated Logan for conjuring up that one, that worst pain in his soul in that crucial moment of an impossible decision of all times, and at the same time wanted to kiss those too-dry, insolent lips, out of pure relief that they still could spew that necessary lesson. And out of gratefulness for a much-needed kick in the ass. Sadly, there was no time for that right now either. Not even for using the couple of tools he'd come up with from his belt by the time he knelt down next to Marie, carefully coaxing her to lift her head as much as the painful bondage allowed, making use of her suppressed powers for a brief, soothing caress over her far too-cold hands. With how little he was seeing in here and no idea how the trigger for those deadly weapons he could all but see embedded inside that far too thick collar, was connected to the lock, it was a guessing game, opening that thing without making exactly the wrong movement. "Yeah, this is not gonna work. I have to find a key for this thing."

"By the time you do, we'll both be ghosted," Logan stopped him as sharply as he could still manage with how alarmingly quickly his strength was leaving him. "Or we'll all be particle dust because these lunatics will rather blow this whole facility up a second time with everyone in it than waste a chance to get rid of some of the most powerful of us. Just shoot the damn thing in two, Slim."

"You want me to shoot at her neck." Scott's stomach promptly clenched even worse than this noon when they'd learned about their teammates' dangerous fate.

A disbelieving glance at Logan's ashen, pained grimace sadly had him suspect, that had not been an especially tasteless joke. Bleeding out from a dozen spots at once, even a Wolverine obviously lost his humor. "The collar, not her neck if it's not asked too much," Logan growled at him through his arduous, worryingly slow breathing. "Quit the drama and move, Slim. We're short on time."

"Logan, I can impossibly …" Scott paused, at a total loss, and not only because several, terribly familiar kind of vibrations and the noise of small explosions in the neighboring hallways revealed, they would indeed have to hurry. When Logan just glared at him from his stretcher with feverish eyes and he turned his gaze back to Marie, he was staring into still scared-looking but very determined, flashing pupils, a challenging, impatient nod downward at that damn collar following that was just waiting to kill this damn kid cowering there right in front of Scott …

Only Marie was no longer a kid, hadn’t been for a while. She was a confident young woman early weathered by her burdening mutation and all the losses and tragedies she'd had to encounter since coming to live with Charles. And even on days like this when all the weight of this dangerous job was on her thin shoulders, she was less intimidated than even Scott himself. Marie had faced and beaten death too often already to not flip it off in good old Logan-style when it reached out its spidery hand for her neck, literally.

"Keep away from the blade mechanism," Logan urged him again, seeing Scott fight his inhibition reluctantly. "Breaking piece should be at the back of her neck. Low-pressure blast. You don’t want to shatter her spine. Don't!" he interrupted Scott sharply before he'd even taken a breath, his fingertips leaving the control wheel of his VISOR again already. Logan's voice was shaking dangerously as the exhaustion of his lousy condition threatened to drain his strength. "Christ, Slim, I've seen you coring apples for the kids at breakfast with that damn thing on your eyes. You never got any of your people killed. You're not gonna break that streak now," he added quietly, the never-forgotten grief choking him for a moment that they'd bonded over so deeply back then. Enough for Logan to know exactly what was haunting Scott so much in these moments when maybe for the first time in the field at all, he felt afraid. "Now."

Before he could hesitate for another second and be responsible for them all biting it, because someone in the control center of that damn lab would lose it, Scott reached for his VISOR again and took his shot.

****

"I told you I'm not hungry." Grumbling, Logan turned away from the bedroom door and buried his face in his pillow, apparently determined to continue being an ass about his weakened condition after already refusing to let Hank put him on a drip on the flight home or check up on him on the sick bay.

In this case, Scott had the best arguments to convince his lover to let himself be spoiled though, whether Logan liked it or not. "Marie spent two hours in the kitchen, cooking for you. She said to tell you, if she doesn’t see an empty plate on this tray tomorrow morning, she'll choke you back out personally."

"Kid's spending too much time with me." Indeed, Logan sounded amused more than cranky at once. With a still unnerved sigh, he arduously sat up a little on the mattress, regarding Scott with a withering glance when he stacked a couple of pillows in his back, which Scott masterfully ignored.

Demonstratively, he put down that tray on his lover's legs and pointed at the delicious-smelling grilled chicken and a whole mountain of mashed potatoes, both basically drowning in a whole bottle of BBQ sauce. "Help yourself. Dessert's on me, by the way."

"I don't need dessert, especially not after this." Logan was too grumpy from the weakness in his reloading cells to even catch on the suggestive grin on Scott's lips. "What are you doing here anyway? It's past midnight. You got classes at eight. Get some sleep. Not gonna die on you here in the middle of the night, don’t worry."

"You should realize by now I'd not gonna let you anyway," Scott answered calmly, determined for once to not let Logan provoke him too badly, not after a day filled with so much blood and death, the latter fortunately only with regard to their enemies. Dipping one fingertip into that mess of brown and yellow on Logan's plate, he playfully licked it off to give Logan a better idea of what was to come but gestured over the still almost untouched food then, one eyebrow raised.

Logan let out a dramatic sigh and finally reached for the fork, eating away unceremoniously, quickly and silently, only occasionally throwing Scott a suspicious side glance, not quite sure what to make of his nervous fidgeting on the bed, of his occasional blush as Scott was imaging how the rest of that night would go.

The humiliating loops he'd have to jump through soon had been Marie's idea too, of course, and Scott wasn’t thrilled … But after almost having lost his lover today, he wanted to personally see to Logan being back on his feet as quickly as possible. If that included a mess that Scott's neat freak heart wouldn’t be too happy about, and feeling like an idiot for a hot minute … Well, he was pretty sure, Logan would find ways to make him forget that. Only when there was really nothing left on that plate and Logan had emptied almost the whole jug with orange juice, too, Scott got up from the bed with a satisfied nod. "I'll tell Marie you've been a good boy and see to that dessert in my apartment. Take a shower and come by in ten minutes." With a cheerful whistle, grinning to himself about Logan's increasing confusion, he went to put his plan into action.

****

Considering Logan's irritated mood, Scott wouldn’t have been surprised if his boyfriend had never shown up, but that whole truckload of carbs had apparently revived Logan's energy at least enough to spark curiosity. The rest, a surge of adrenaline seemed to do when he entered Scott's bedroom, to the sight of Scott waiting for him naked, covered in nothing but half a bottle of chocolate sauce and a bit of strategically placed whipped cream. After just staring at him with his mouth hanging open, Logan buried his face in his hands with a dry chuckle and shook his head slowly. If it hadn’t been for that quickly building tent at the front of his loose dark night pants, Scott would have had to seriously worry, he'd scared his lover off with that unbearably mushy idea.

Only when Logan looked at him again and Scott suddenly saw a suspicious glistening in those beautiful hazel eyes, he understood … And there was promptly a thick lump forming in the back of his throat as well. Neither of them said it, not yet. For that, it hadn’t been long enough yet, and they were both still processing the loss, each in their own way … But maybe knowing for sure now that they were perfectly suited to do that together, in spite of all differences, not least because they were ready to go through the necessary sacrifices for the other if necessary … That might be more than enough for the moment. "Come 'ere?"

"So that we're both gonna be a mess? Not gonna happen," Logan smirked, his cheeks increasingly flushed, that deep, determined tone creeping into his voice that Scott had very quickly learned to listen to in their nights together unless he wanted to put up a fight. Which he was rarely in the mood to.

For that, he enjoyed it far too much, handing over the reins to someone he could trust with his body and life not only in the field. Submitting, surrendering his pride, always meant a few blissful hours of forgetting everything making life so difficult for both of them, and that was all that counted. So he didn’t hesitate when Logan snapped his fingers at him, nodding at the ground before the bed, not moving an inch from his spot by the door until Scott had gotten up, his own cheeks inevitably blushing when Logan traded spots with him and he was now standing before his lover nude and decorated like this in all sticky glory.

"You keep this up, I'm gonna be too heavy for active duty soon," Logan murmured fondly, heated, another twitch of need going through that bulge at his front when he reached out to run two fingertips through that mess covering Scott's chest and licked them clean with an audible purr. "I'm gonna have to take it back though: You can cook."

"Logan …" It was impossible for Scott to keep that needy whine out of his voice, his own arousal growing by the second which only that thick, sugary mass of white all over his loins was more or less hiding. But the smallest attempt to reach out for his lover was rewarded with his wrists being caught in a firm grip by supernaturally fast reflexes, guiding him to take his hands behind his back. Right. Definitely one of those nights. "You know I'm still responsible for making you eat up, right?"

"And the best thing about that? We have all night," Logan answered unfazed, looking up at him in amusement, his eyes sparkling as he slowly licked his lips until Scott let out another low moan, his body soon shaking only from being kept waiting and tense like that, turned on more by the second by that piercing, hungry glance. "But since you did a great job today, you deserve a little treat." Unexpectedly burying his strong, large hands in Scott's bare butt cheeks, Logan licked a long, greedy stripe over his chest, and another one when Scott whimpered in want. Within seconds, he'd reduced Scott to a writhing something, never letting him out of his punishing grip as he covered every inch of his shoulders, his pecs, his stomach, with his firm, slow sucking movements, sure to clean every smallest bit of sauce off of him before finally turning to the sensitive, tender skin of his nipples.

A harsh, teasing bite drew a quiet scream from Scott's lips, his hips thrusting forward instinctively, his messy loins pressed against Logan's stomach leaving some of that half-molten, cool cream on his lover. Unable to stifle his desire any longer, Scott finally buried his trembling hands in Logan's hair, a hoarsely whispered plea on his lips, shuddering when Logan still ignored him, soothing his aching nipples with a few soft licks until those spots too were impeccably clean, tightened and pebbled with lust. "More, please …"

"After you made such a mess? Don't think so, Slim." Feigning strictness, Logan pushed him away a little with one hand and scooped up the cream that had ended on his pecs with the fingertips of the other, this time not licking the white, thick mass off though as a lewd smirk spread on his lips. "Got a pretty good idea where this is going though." Not giving Scott a second to think about a probably once more not exactly sanitary plan, he unexpectedly lowered his head to Scott's loins at last. Slowly, inch by inch removing all of that unhealthy sweetness from there too, his iron grip on Scott's hips held him in place while Logan's cream-slippery fingertips were back on his cheeks, dipping between them, teasingly circling the hidden opening there. With his clever lips finally wrapping around the head of Scott's rock-hard cock, Logan chased away any possible protest before Scott could even come up with it, a cautious, slow fingertip breaching him at the same time.

The assault from two sides after so much foreplay was almost enough to make him come on the spot. With a substance not exactly meant for that use though, that stretch was still a challenge which made holding back easier. Scott's hands clawing down on Logan's scalp, he was quickly fighting to stay on his feet as the muscles in his lower body clenched hard, unfulfilled need throbbing through his veins as Logan's teasing tongue bathed every inch of reddened skin, of his swollen, heavy balls, before that deft mouth slipped back over his cock, swallowing him down bit by bit. A second finger buried deep inside him at that point, unerringly hitting his most sensitive spot, it took only a few desperate quick thrusts until Scott was all but hit from behind with his orgasm. He was all but crashing into Logan's arms and was glad when his lover pulled him down next to him for a lewd kiss full of salt and sweetness, moaning against his lips when Scott instinctively reached for him, finishing Logan off for the first time that night with a few unceremonious strokes as well. A breathless chuckle on his lips, Scott sank back on the mattress, wiping his hand clean discreetly on the towel he'd spread there earlier to not make a complete mess of the sheets. "Well, that takes care of the mission Feeding Logan, I guess."

"Shut up," his lover rumbled, still sounding quite breathless but finally back to his full energy and very sated, before curling up by his side with a tired moan, with his head heavy on Scott's chest.

And just like that, for the first time since the disastrous first mission at Alkali Lake almost a year ago, Scott felt happy again.

*******************************************************************************

@whumptober | @whumptober-archive

@scoganbingo

[discordapples]

PT. 6 Forbidden

Word count: 2k (8 mins read)

Characters: Sebastian Sallow, Livia Novik, Imelda Reyes, Grimes Ashwood.

Summary

During the duel, Livia unleashes Confringo on Imelda Reyes, and causes even more damage to her already fragile reputation. Sebastian comforts her the only way he knows how, and Livia learns he has been after the Promissum Mortis as well. It's time for her to learn how to be a team player.

Read the sixth chapter below.

Livia | Hogwarts, Late August 1893.

Forbidden

Livia

Hogwarts, Late August, 1893.

Livia can taste the electricity in the air. Next to her, Sebastian Sallow’s muscles prime with anticipation. In the care of adrenaline, she can see each hair raise on his arm, his veins swelling with blood, his jaw cording.

Before them, Grimes Ashwood and Imelda Reyes are taut with apprehension, shoulders vaulted, pupils wide. The crowd thrums. The sound is staticky in Livia’s ears, setting her senses alight.

A curly-haired Gryffindor boy cleaves through the throng, then roots himself between the contenders. With a twist of his wand, the massive clock tower pendulum freezes to a stop. His stare glides over each of them, hooking on Livia. 

“Rules are simple,” he clarions, and the hum shies. “No physical contact and, obviously, no Unforgivable Curses.” He looks at the crowd. “The rest is fair play. If you surrender, you’re out. If you faint, you’re out. If you bleed, you’re out. Oh, and,” his lips writhe upwards, “if you’re on fire, you’re out too. You got ten minutes.” 

He retreats to the circle of students and looses his spell on the pendulum that resumes its course in a sonorous thud. 

A lash of green zips between Livia and Sebastian, burning a dent in the stone pillar behind them. 

“Can’t wank straight, Ashwood,” Sebastian mocks him, but the smirk on Grimes’ lips has nothing reassuring. 

Time stutters forward and no one moves. 

The pendulum whooshes loudly.

Then it’s Imelda’s turn to test the waters, sending a paralysis spell at Livia.

It bounces off Livia’s shield and ricochets on the wall, maiming a piece of stone along with it. 

It takes nothing more for the two men to unleash a tempest of magic, and the air surges with a heady nitrous scent. 

Imelda is on Livia like a disease, cankering closer to her through a pattern of Expelliarmus, Diffindo and Depulso, but Livia deflects them all. It takes little time for the Ravenclaw to find the flaw in Imelda’s style, and hurl a Depulso of her own, sending the Slytherin girl straight onto her back. As she worms on the ground in pain, Livia’s head whip to Sebastian and Grimes in time to dodge a stray charm that zooms to her left. 

The room glows with fury as Sebastian increases the pressure on his rival. The air bristles with a metallic tang when Grimes lands an Incendio that sears a skid mark through the sleeve of Sebastian’s dress shirt.

“You little shit,” Sebastian grits out in response. “That’s Ominis’ shirt, you fuckwad!”

Livia has little time to watch him cross the room slinging more spells at Grimes, for Imelda is back on her feet, wand in hand.

“Depulso!” she yells as Livia scrambles to shield up. “Depulso! Depulso! Depulso!”

Each blow pushes against Livia’s barrier, wearing her energy out, and forcing her down on her knees. If she does nothing, Imelda will wear her tattered. 

It will also burn away the illusion Livia cast on herself to hide her scars. 

Already, Livia’s bulwark simmers against her shoulders, shrinking closer to her frame, the heat more akin to this of a raging inferno than a faltering ward. 

With the much too familiar sensation, come memories of the most poisonous kind: smoke squeezing its way through the cracks in the window; Laurence’s fingertips peeling from the bone; the stench of her own charred flesh filling her throat in acrid smoke.

She lifts her wand as Imelda hones in on her, cheeks flustered, then utters: “Confringo!”

The tip of Livia’s wand booms with a fiery bolt, and the Slytherin girl is propelled meters away, flames engulfing her in a ravenous siss.

Imelda’s anguished screech hacks through the roar of the crowd as the brazier grows with each gust of oxygen the pendulum fans into the room.

Gasps turn into screams as panic swells through the body of students until a loud voice thunders above them all. “Finite!” 

Imelda’s limbs steam with residual magic, her face burgundy as if gravely sunburnt. The flames ate holes into her cloak. 

Sebastian is on Livia in seconds, propping her up. His eyes are oily with concern. “Are you okay?”

But she has no time to answer, for the Gryffindor ringleader singles out from the crowd and walks up to her. “What the fuck was that?” Livia shakes her head, her heart pounding against her ribs. “What do they teach you in the Winter College?”

For once, she doesn’t know what to say and stammers: “I-I… What do you mean?”

Three neat lines appear on his forehead. “I mean, this spell is definitely getting added to the list of bans…”

“Sorry,” she mutters, a feverish embarrassment flaring behind her cheeks.

Hundreds of gazes coalesce to her. Too many eyes. A murmur shivers through the crowd. Words that, despite being inaudible, nail their infamy into her brain.

Obnoxious. The anathema sits in her stomach like a gulp of poison.

What will they call her tomorrow?

Murderous? Sadist?

Livia’s energy is so low now, she fears she cannot keep the illusion up, so she strides out of the room. 

Sebastian runs behind her. “Livia, it’s fine… Come back.”

“No,” she grits out. “I’ve done enough damage for tonight.”

He catches up in a few strides, his fingers closing around her forearm. “Hey, you’ve done nothing wrong. It was a duel. Reyes knew the risks.”

Livia stops and shakes out of his hold. “It’s fine, really. I’m just exhausted. I think it’s better if I get back to my dorm.”

Rooting himself before her, Sebastian gives her an encouraging smile. Strands of damp hair stick to his forehead, and there is a strange glow about him. “Come,” he says. “I promised I’d treat you to the best view Hogwarts has to offer.”

She scoffs glumly. “You said worst-case scenario. Have I spoiled our evening this much?”

Undeterred, he sheds a laugh. “Quite the contrary, in fact. I couldn’t imagine a more satisfying climax.” His eyes burn a trail right through her as he extends an arm. “Are you hungry? Dueling makes me ravenous…”

The attempt lacks elegance, but the allure of setting her mind on something else than her blunder wins Livia over. 

“I’m starving,” she confesses, taking the arm offered. 

“Then I have just the right thing to satiate you…”

*  *  *

The honey cake is divine, but the view of the lake from the owlery is better. Birds drowse in their alcoves, others flutter about, offended to share their peace with two intruders. 

Sebastian’s hip touches hers, his warmth fusing through her, keeping her from the chill that breathes alive with the conquering night.

His perfume is there, albeit faint under the briny smell of cooling sweat. There is something comforting about it—a form of permanence Livia craves. 

In the wake of the brazier and her brother’s death, the ground keeps shifting underfoot, as if the bones in the earth were disturbed by Laurence’s passing; an insidious tectonic only Livia can perceive. 

Or maybe that’s what grief does to you.

“Where did you learn Confringo?” Sebastian asks her, his voice devoid of any form of reprobation. 

She weighs what she is willing to tell him. “I taught myself. I figured it would come in handy one day. I guess it backfired—No pun intended.”

He chuckles. “Don’t fret. The others will forget about it soon enough. They’re like vultures: they only care about a corpse until a fatter one is dropped into their lap. As far as rules are concerned, I’m of the opinion no spell should be forbidden. With all its rules, I feel this world is giving you a hunk of meat asking you to use a spoon to cut through it.”

Livia cannot help but smile. “Interesting analogy, Sebastian Sallow. I take it you’re still hungry?”

He laughs. “Am I that easy to figure out?”

“No,” she concedes. “I think your persona is easy to make up, but what lays beneath your mask is another matter entirely.”

He angles his face to her, perplexed. “Why do you say I wear a mask?”

“The people that speak the loudest always do. Smoke and mirrors. To keep people’s attention away from who they truly are.”

“You really are obnoxious,” he teases her. “But also despicably clever. We’re alike, Livia Novik.”

“Did you just shamelessly throw flowers at yourself?”

“Nothing escapes you.”

Silence cotters between them as Sebastian scans the vista, lost in his thoughts. 

There is something sheltering in the way they are huddled under the arch, their legs dangling in the vast emptiness below. 

Knots of mist form between the trees surrounding the castle. A coy breeze needles through the shrubbery. Noiselessly, a flock of European Nightjars wings before the moon. 

At last, Sebastian turns to her. “I have a twin sister that lives in Feldcroft.” His voice is soft. Injured. “She used to attend Hogwarts, but when we were in fourth years, she was cursed.”

“Cursed?”

A shadow crawls over his traits. “Yeah. With debilitating pains… A ritual that backfired. One of mine, of course.”

“What were you trying to do?”

 “Find a way to bring our parents back after they died… I was greedy, though. Now Anne is paying the price for my cupidity.”

Livia’s heart squeezes. She thinks of Laurence and her own quest, and fear slithers into her throat like an adder.

Is she likewise doomed to fail?

Is Sebastian’s story a cautionary tale spun for her?

She gnaws at her inner cheeks, asking Sebastian: “Why are you telling me this?”

He shrugs. “To shed the mask. I don’t know why, but it bothers me that you think I hide who I really am.”

“Everyone dons a mask, Sebastian.”

“I know, but still.”

Silence again. This time, pressing around Livia. She chews on her lip. “I had a younger brother. Laurence. He died in a fire a year ago. I can talk to his ghost. But his connection to this world is fading a little more each day.” Her eyes set on the still waters of the lake. “That’s why I came to Hogwarts… Not to study, but to find something that might help me bring him back before it’s too late. Something I can only find here.”

Two neat lines run through Sebastian’s forehead. “What is it you’re looking for?”

She wrestles with the thought of parting with yet another of her secrets, but Sebastian’s words come back to her. 

I know this castle like the back of my hand—the places known, the ones forbidden. Maybe I can help you find what you want.

Perhaps she does need his help.

Maybe Laurence was right telling her she couldn’t do it alone.

“I’m looking for the Room of Requirement,” she says. “I think it can help me conjure a relic called the Promissum Mortis.”

His eyes rim with white. “The Promissum Mortis?”

“Death’s promise,” she explains. “The relic is compelled to grant a dying person’s last wish.”

“You’ll die in the process,” Sebastian points out. 

“Yes, but there are ways to outplay death.”

His eyes shine with an unconstrained interest. “Like what?”

“The tears of a poltergeist, for one. A thing I already acquired. You know, this relic might give you a chance at curing your sister…”

He smiles faintly. “I know… I’ve been looking for the Promissum Mortis all summer. Well, it’s more like I’ve been reading on how to beckon the Room of Requirement to appear, but didn’t really find anything conclusive.”

“Well…” Livia gets up, smoothing the pleats in her skirt. “I hope you’re an early riser, Sebastian Sallow.”

He lifts his eyes to her. “Why do ask?”

“Because we have to get to work. I know what it takes to call on the Room of Requirement and I remember you boasting to me that you knew the forbidden places like the back of your hand… Was that true?”

A smirk quirks his lips. “I never boast unless I can back it up with words, Livia Novik. Where do you need to sneak into?”

“The headmaster’s quarters.”

“The headmaster’s quarters?”

Livia crosses her arms before her. “Can you manage that?”

He stands, then leans in close, his heat ghosting over her lips. “I can manage a lot more than you think, new girl.”

Author's Notes:

I am taking a 3-day vacation, so I won't be able to post until Thursday, but in the meantime, I hope you enjoy this sixth part!

Love you all.

[lafcadiosadventures]

Can we take a moment to appreciate Balzac’s teenage Romantic and Hugolâtre protagonist Modeste Mignon? (Based on Balzac’s correspondance with Hanska and Goethe’s and Bettina Brentano’s, she’s an aspiring writer and a lover of the darker romantics -a bit like the heroine of Northanger Abbey perhaps-) this is how her very sensible and bourgeois chaperone introduces her ward, it’s a long quote but it’s fun:

“Modeste,” she said, “is a young girl of very exalted ideas; she works herself into enthusiasm for the poetry of one writer or the prose of another. You have only to judge by the impression made upon her by that scaffold symphony, ‘The Last Hours of a Convict’” (the saying was Butscha’s, who supplied wit to his benefactress with a lavish hand); “she seemed to me all but crazy with admiration for that Monsieur Hugo. I’m sure I don’t know where such people” (Victor Hugo, Lamartine, Byron being such people to the Madame Latournelles of the bourgeoisie) “get their ideas. Modeste kept talking to me of Childe Harold, and as I did not wish to get the worst of the argument I was silly enough to try to read the thing. Perhaps it was the fault of the translator, but it actually turned my stomach; I was dazed; I couldn’t possibly finish it. Why, the man talks about comparisons that howl, rocks that faint, and waves of war! However, he is only a travelling Englishman, and we must expect absurdities,—though his are really inexcusable. He takes you to Spain, and sets you in the clouds above the Alps, and makes the torrents talk, and the stars; and he says there are too many virgins! Did you ever hear the like? Then, after Napoleon’s campaigns, the lines are full of sonorous brass and flaming cannon-balls, rolling along from page to page. Modeste tells me that all that bathos is put in by the translator, and that I ought to read the book in English. But I certainly sha’n’t learn English to read Lord Byron when I didn’t learn it to teach Exupere. I much prefer the novels of Ducray-Dumenil to all these English romances. I’m too good a Norman to fall in love with foreign things,—above all when they come from England.”

Balzac goes on about her tastes a bit more here, and it’s Romantically Inclined Teen 101-excuse Balzac’s remarks about “girlish” heads and souls-:

“(…)Modeste fed her soul on the modern masterpieces of three literatures, English, French, and German. Lord Byron, Goethe, Schiller, Walter Scott, Hugo, Lamartine, Crabbe, Moore, the great works of the 17th and 18th centuries, history, drama, and fiction, from Astraea to Manon Lescaut, from Montaigne’s Essays to Diderot, from the Fabliaux to the Nouvelle Heloise,—in short, the thought of three lands crowded with confused images that girlish head, august in its cold guilelessness, its native chastity, but from which there sprang full-armed, brilliant, sincere, and strong, an overwhelming admiration for genius. To Modeste a new book was an event; a masterpiece that would have horrified Madame Latournelle made her happy,—equally unhappy if the great work did not play havoc with her heart. A lyric instinct bubbled in that girlish soul, so full of the beautiful illusions of its youth. But of this radiant existence not a gleam reached the surface of daily life; it escaped the ken of Dumay and his wife and the Latournelles; the ears of the blind mother alone caught the crackling of its flame.”

Finally, here’s Canalis’ portrait, he’s a bit of a poser, faux Romantic author, who has fashioned his looks after many of Modeste’s idols (i had read Canalis was based on Hugo, but given that Hugo exists in this universe, I am not that sure about that :p)

“In this instance Canalis, sketched in a Byronic pose, was offering to public admiration his dark locks floating in the breeze, a bare throat, and the unfathomable brow which every bard ought to possess. Victor Hugo’s forehead will make more persons shave their heads than the number of incipient marshals ever killed by the glory of Napoleon. This portrait of Canalis (poetic through mercantile necessity) caught Modeste’s eye. The day on which it caught her eye one of Arthez’s best books happened to be published. We are compelled to admit, though it may be to Modeste’s injury, that she hesitated long between the illustrious poet and the illustrious prose-writer. Which of these celebrated men was free?—that was the question.”

[stormvanari]

captain sonore’s render is to be revised in the future

[beedreamscape]

The post-Blight encounter shortly rewritten and fluffed up with Loquaerryn angst and well... fluff.

Laerryn's head pounding hard enough that she doesn't hear them walking in.

She feels sick to the point of throwing up — which she did already, nothing but the bile of her empty stomach — which comes with a hunger she has successfully ignored up until now. Wetness on her nape and chattering teeth accuse a high fever, even in the stale cold of the labyrinth, sucking all of her energy, but damn it if she isn't gonna drag her burning and exhausted body to try and do something to stop the city she- they love from damnation.

She looks through notes, maps, prototypes, and manuals with blurry wet eyes looking not for answers — not even the most deranged minds could've predicted a situation such as theirs — but for a flick of inspiration that'd guide her through the pitch darkness she finds herself in. She's trying her best to recall what the betrayer god had said, but all her thoughts are stained with the image of Loquatius' body at the foot of the tree laid over a pool of his blood. Tries to focus on something anything other than the guilt of leaving him behind, other than the emptiness she felt the second he truly died, other than this excruciating pain.

She doesn't have much time left so from the suffering and the remnants of her sense of duty she harvests motivation. She's doing it for him, for her own heart, for his heart.

Just once, Laerryn, don't fuck up, she cries to herself. This one time try and do it right.

Extremely hazed out in grief and heat, she doesn't even budge at the soft-spoken "Darling" that comes from behind her, quite certain her mind's playing tricks on her.

It's only when Patia's clear and sonorous voice calls for her that she believes this isn't just an illusion. She turns at once, aware of all of them on the peripheries of her vision but laser-focused on Loquatius and his grey-white glow.

She barely breathes as she runs into his arms, can barely maintain her knees straight as their mouths meet in a soft kiss.

She holds his face, the distinguishable silky softness of his skin against her palm. "You're alive..."

A half-smile appears under his glittering tears. "I guess."

She steps back to see that, not only is he still as naked and barefoot as when the tree exploded, his blood's still leaking from hundreds of paper-thin cuts, now equally smeared all over her. The sight doesn't horrify her as much as imagining his pain does, and as much as it makes her shiver, the deeply metallic smell of it keeps her grounded in reality. He's alive, barely but nonetheless.

Her sobs return in full force. "I'm sorry. What have I done? Then I left, I left again! I'm so sorry."

He holds her face, making her look into the deep blank of his eyes. "Shush, no, no! You had no idea! I don't know how— I don't know what happened..."

Patia's voice is gloomy when she speaks again. "Zerxus brought us back."

Laerrynn feel out of sorts when she turns to see them, yes, Patia and Nydas are both covered in their own blood, thick dark red blotch on the side of his stomach and half of her arm missing magically stitched together at the elbow, but it's Zerxus in the pristine of his armor and the thick curled horns on his head that make her wrathful.

There are punches thrown and discussions that steal her attention for those precious minutes, but nothing she can't participate in while minimally tending to Loquatius.

She removes her deep purple wrapping cape and helps him cover himself, careful with his cuts, then searches her drawers for a vial of healing potion, nothing potent, just enough to rescue her in a minor emergency, and turns it into his mouth — all the while fervently discussing with Zerxus. It'd be funny if it wasn't tragic, somehow the scenario feels familiar from a few in happier days when her dear friend was still around.

///

She's used to holding the world up on her shoulders, yet at this moment the world is burning against her back and thoughts are darting left and right in her head, ramifications of possibilities branching out to all sides in an entanglement she's trying to undo as the prophecy is spoken and ideas emerge and die down again.

She's facing the waterwall where Zerxus claims to have seen the Lord of Hells earlier that day when she feels Loquatius' hands massaging her shoulders. "I don't mean to put any pressure on you, dearest, but you're the heart and brain of this city, and if you don't... I'm sorry, that didn't come out very encouragingly."

"It did, it did." She inhales deeply.

"You're burning," he says in her ear, massaging her harder.

"I'll be fine in no time. Losing you all did an instant number on me."

His breath smells sweet and coppery. "Are you hurt?"

"You died, Lo-"

"Are you hurt?"

"I got knocked back but nothing I can't handle."

He rests his head on her back. "I wish we could just... a selfish part of me wishes we could just disappear from all of this."

"But we can't... we can't..." Even if she were to take the world itself and transport it across dimensions, the demons and Betrayers would still be stuck onto them like leeches. Maybe the world didn't have to be hurled away, perhaps— "...but they can!"

She turns to him, to them. "I'm getting a really bad idea."

And in this mix of arcane inspiration, backed confidence, and perhaps a hint of arrogance, they lay out a plan or a resemblance of one. She is a capable woman, overqualified even, and her great machines still live and thrive, loaded with seven years worth of arcane energy. But she's also confident in the people surrounding her in their capacities, each crooked yet fitting each other like bizarre cogs in a well-oiled machine.

And the most indispensable piece, glowing with magic, overflowing her system with power:

Loquatius' hand never leaves her waist. "I have no clever plan to solve anything, but I do have a duty to our people, to report what's happening. I can get word down to Cathmoíra." A gleam of hope burns in his eyes. "We can save a lot of lives. If I—"

He doesn't get to finish and barely sees Laerryn coming his way before their lips are already on each other. For a few seconds, in the intensity of their kiss, in the high of her taste, he can pretend the world isn't ending, their friends aren't watching, and there's no duty to fulfill — there's just a man and his wife kissing, lithe tongues, bodies pressed together, arcane energy in a natural flow between them. Natural yet intentional, as a pleasant heat sparks within her flesh, she becomes aware of the spell he cast on her and moans into his mouth.

Zerxus clears his throat a second time which drives Laerryn to press Loquatius a little harder against herself, a mixture of laughter and a grunt comes from his lips. He's amazed at himself for wanting her at a time like this, but not enough that he perplexes himself, seeing as the desire haunts him since the first time he laid eyes upon her.

When they're done, Zerxus proceeds talking but neither of them looks.

Loquatius rests his forehead on hers. "When we're done saving Toramunda, I'll take proper care of you."

"And I'll let you."

Which would be odd an answer were they anyone else, but he understands where she comes from and smiles.

"I would appreciate that. I fell for a force of nature, foolish of me to believe I could ever tame it."

[aforerime]

UMBRELLA

a comprehensive list of scenarios | accepting

UMBRELLA :  for one muse to share their umbrella with the other on a rainy day.

Sonorous thunder slaughtered the silence of the forest. Beyond the canopy loomed bellicose cumulonimbus clouds that foretold the night's tempest. Uraume turned their ruddy eyes upward, peering through the crevices of the arbor to witness the rolling mass of clouds. Morbid curiosity occupied their mind, and they hoped for a turbulent evening, one that would compliment their lord's tumultuous presence.

The pattering of wooden clogs softened by the damp moss warranted Uraume's attention. They turned their eyes towards the source, noting Sukuna's geta avoided disturbing the flourishing moss in his controlled amble. Uraume trailed the length of his lower half until they looked towards his face, expecting to revere the features they have come to appreciate. Except, an enlarged, emerald calathea leaf blocked their view.

Sukuna continued his approach until the leaf yawned over their head. Their rosy lips parted to speak when a thick sheet of rain poured over the Mistwood. The canopy near well collapsed under the weight of the water, though Sukuna's majestic leaf prevailed under the pressure. Uraume admired Sukuna's gallant presence, despite it were merely an illusion.

"I have accomplished what I came to do," they spoke as they stood, unveiling what their body hid. A medley of summer mushrooms collected in a small basket. They plucked a spire type mushroom with bulbous heads, and their smile grew as they rose it to Sukuna's eyeline. "Enokitake, or a species that resembles the one we know. I will experiment with these to develop a strong umami flavor."

Lightning illuminated their world, and Uraume insisted they witnessed a smidgen of pride and interest gracing Sukuna's expression. They dipped their head, muffling a small noise often voiced in the presence of their lord. "Shall we return to the Hanok before we are swept away?" They veered about Sukuna, hand extended towards the stem of the leaf. Though, they noticed the ebony-clawed hand refused its position. Uraume slipped another small smile before they dipped their head.

"As you wish, Lord Sukuna."

Thus, they began the journey through the relentless sheet of rain towards their home.

[zou-labrousse]

Le programme spectacle vivant

Samedi 29 avril

Au fil de la journée 

Grande carrière Hortense Gauthier & Antoine Schmitt

Installation sonore

Le cri infini est une installation sonore qui pousse un cri infini.

En une tentative de catharsis, elle nous confronte à l'expression primale de la dimension douloureuse du sentiment de vivre.

Le cri infini est composé de manière générative à partir d'enregistrement de cris réels de participants de tous horizons.

Les horaires 

14 h 45 – RDV à l’accueil – 10 mn Carey Jeffries “The Swedish Way”

 Improvisation buto contemporain cabaret www.deepcontactdance.com

15 h – RDV à l’accueil – 1 heure Hortense Gauthier Déambulation

« DO CYBORGS DREAM TO ELECTRONIC GHOSTS ? »

Une action dansée longue durée entre silence et bruit, dans la lenteur de la déconnexion, pour faire trembler les ondes et les sons inaudibles des fréquences oubliées. 

15 h 30 – sous le cube – 10 mn Compagnie Ezika « Trompe-feuilles »

Illusion sonore

En quête d'une nouvelle vie, un.e campeur.se a élu domicile au hameau de La Brousse, loin des perturbations de la ville...Un théâtre sonore saugrenu qui se joue de notre perception du réel. De et avec Estelle Coquin et Julien Lot.

16 h  – RDV à l’accueil – 1 heure Improvox

Performance chorale

Improvisation vocale à 11 chanteurs, en résonance avec les œuvres exposées du festival.

17 h – petite carrière – 25 mn Les Papillonnantes

Performance sonore et visuelle

Sandolore Sykes et Anne Foucher se rejoignent pour improviser. 

Elles font se rencontrer la vidéo et le violon électroacoustique, créant un univers énigmatique.

17 h 30 – sous le cube – 10 mn Compagnie Ezika « Trompe-feuilles »

Illusion sonore

En quête d'une nouvelle vie, un.e campeur.se a élu domicile au hameau de La Brousse, loin des perturbations de la ville...

Un théâtre sonore saugrenu qui se joue de notre perception du réel.

De et avec Estelle Coquin et Julien Lot.

18 h – Salon de thé – 30 mn Trib'Art Music Ethnic

Musique

« ..Voyage intuitif sur instruments acoustiques... »

...De l'inspire nait l'expire, engendrant le souffle vibratoire qui s'imprime sur la toile du silence, avec Amour...

Avec et par Patricio et Nagi.

Dimanche 30 avril

Au fil de la journée 

Grande carrière Hortense Gauthier & Antoine Schmitt

Installation sonore

Le cri infini est une installation sonore qui pousse un cri infini.

En une tentative de catharsis, elle nous confronte à l'expression primale de la dimension douloureuse du sentiment de vivre.

Le cri infini est composé de manière générative à partir d'enregistrement de cris réels de participants de tous horizons.

Les horaires

11 h – RDV au salon de thé – 2 heures par beau temps Carey Jeffries

Atelier massage Ostéo Wuo Tai, Rolling Compression et Contact Improvisation dance (Pratiques somatiques et relationnelles)

Renseignements et réservation 06 33 49 36 87. Tarif 15 € - Prévoir tapis de yoga et vêtements souples. www.deepcontactdance.com

14 h 30 – sous le cube – 10 mn Compagnie Ezika « Trompe-feuilles »

Illusion sonore

En quête d'une nouvelle vie, un.e campeur.se a élu domicile au hameau de La Brousse, loin des perturbations de la ville...

Un théâtre sonore saugrenu qui se joue de notre perception du réel.

De et avec Estelle Coquin et Julien Lot.

14 h 45 – Salon de thé – 30 mn Trib'Art Music Ethnic

Musique

« ..Voyage intuitif sur instruments acoustiques... »

...De l'inspire nait l'expire, engendrant le souffle vibratoire qui s'imprime sur la toile du silence, avec Amour...

Avec et par Patricio et Nagi.

15 h 15 – petite carrière – 30 mn L’Atelier IMIS

Installation vidéo et sonore

Création collective improvisée avec performances de danse, musique et vidéo, présentées au centre de l'installation par Brida Horvath et Pierre Martin et accompagnées de vidéos originales de Stéphane Pogran.

15 h 45 – RDV à l’accueil – 1 heure Hortense Gauthier

Déambulation

« DO CYBORGS DREAM TO ELECTRONIC GHOSTS ? »

Une action dansée longue durée entre silence et bruit, dans la lenteur de la déconnexion, pour faire trembler les ondes et les sons inaudibles des fréquences oubliées. 

16 h – RDV à l’accueil – 10 mn Carey Jeffries

“The Swedish Way”  Improvisation buto contemporain cabaret

www.deepcontactdance.com

16 h – ZaïZaï radio – 2 heures

Trois animateurs pour une émission en direct avec les artistes du festival…

16 h 15 - Cercle de pierre – repli sous le cube – 1 h Philippe Laval

Concert

« Chants cons sous la neige (carbonique) »

Guitarisque bruitcoleur, pouète à ses heures, Philippe Laval chante à tort, joue à travers, écoute les murs, et enfonce le clou ! Il faut bien taper sur quelque chose... 

"Et au fond de l'écriture, c'est la boiterie qui fait le rythme" (Jean Vautrin)

17 h – petite carrière – 25 mn Les Papillonnantes

Performance sonore et visuelle

Sandolore Sykes et Anne Foucher se rejoignent pour improviser. 

Elles font se rencontrer la vidéo et le violon électroacoustique, créant un univers énigmatique.

17 h 45 – sous le cube – 10 mn Compagnie Ezika « Trompe-feuilles »

Illusion sonore

En quête d'une nouvelle vie, un.e campeur.se a élu domicile au hameau de La Brousse, loin des perturbations de la ville...

Un théâtre sonore saugrenu qui se joue de notre perception du réel

De et avec Estelle Coquin et Julien Lot.

Lundi 1er mai

Au fil de la journée 

Grande carrière Hortense Gauthier & Antoine Schmitt

Installation sonore

Le cri infini est une installation sonore qui pousse un cri infini.

En une tentative de catharsis, elle nous confronte à l'expression primale de la dimension douloureuse du sentiment de vivre.

Le cri infini est composé de manière générative à partir d'enregistrement de cris réels de participants de tous horizons.

Les horaires

15 h – sous le cube – 10 mn Compagnie Ezika « Trompe-feuilles »

Illusion sonore

En quête d'une nouvelle vie, un.e campeur.se a élu domicile au hameau de La Brousse, loin des perturbations de la ville...

Un théâtre sonore saugrenu qui se joue de notre perception du réel.

De et avec Estelle Coquin et Julien Lot.

15 h 15 – petite carrière – 25 mn Les Papillonnantes

Performance sonore et visuelle

Sandolore Sykes et Anne Foucher se rejoignent pour improviser. 

Elles font se rencontrer la vidéo et le violon électroacoustique, créant un univers énigmatique.

16 h  – sous le cube – 10 mn Compagnie Ezika « Trompe-feuilles »

Illusion sonore

En quête d'une nouvelle vie, un.e campeur.se a élu domicile au hameau de La Brousse, loin des perturbations de la ville...

Un théâtre sonore saugrenu qui se joue de notre perception du réel

De et avec Estelle Coquin et Julien Lot.

16 h 15 – petite carrière – 30 mn L’Atelier IMIS

Installation vidéo et sonore

Création collective improvisée avec performances de danse, musique et vidéo, présentées au centre de l'installation par Brida Horvath et Pierre Martin et accompagnées de vidéos originales de Stéphane Pogran.

16 h 45 – Salon de thé – 30 mn Trib'Art Music Ethnic

Musique

« ..Voyage intuitif sur instruments acoustiques... »

...De l'inspire nait l'expire, engendrant le souffle vibratoire qui s'imprime sur la toile du silence, avec Amour...

Avec et par Patricio et Nagi.

17 h 15 – RDV à l’accueil – 10 mn Carey Jeffries

“The Swedish Way” Improvisation buto contemporain cabaret

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