#what if he sounded like corpse husband when he sung | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

qqueenofhades · 3 years ago

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Modern AU Heartrender Husbands gives me the vibes of like they'll watch eurovision bc Fedyor wanted to and Ivan only begrudgingly agreed but in the end it's him who's standing really close to the TV with a bottle of beer loudly criticising the jury vote

Anon, your Mind. As 100% ever, I am so very easy to enable. As before, this is set in Phantom!Verse, and serves as a sequel of sorts to this (and as a further prequel to PEL).

Brighton Beach, 2014

It’s their first spring in their new home – they arrived in America in August 2013 and got this place, fittingly, right around Orthodox Christmas in January 2014 – and that means many things to them. Their apartment is in a formerly rent-controlled brownstone tenement right off the boardwalk, but prior to their arrival, it was occupied for fifty years by an old bat from Krasnodar Krai who apparently never, ever, threw anything away. (Fedyor is too scared to ask if she actually died in this apartment and her mummified corpse is lurking at the bottom of all the junk.) That is why he and Ivan were able to afford it, at least, but now that the weather is warmer, they have been spending all day cleaning, hauling boxes of crap to the dumpster, and trying in vain to get the smell of pickled cabbage out of the kitchen. It looks exactly like your Great Aunt Masha’s house, the one that traumatized you as a child and has never left your nightmares since. Home sweet home.

The upside is that the location is great, the apartment is surprisingly spacious and lovely – a big bedroom, a bathroom with two sinks and a deep claw-footed tub, a living room with high windows that let in lots of light, original crown molding and hardwood floors – and if it was located in the really chic parts of Brooklyn and inhabited by a tech-startup hipster rather than a Russian émigré spinster with definite hoarding tendencies, it would rent for some astronomical monthly sum. Fedyor has a three-ring binder full of paint swatches, sketches, furniture samples, and other plans to give it a total overhaul (he’s thinking a nice pale green for the living room?) But the one thing that spring definitely means is Eurovision, and it is just the ticket to relax from their grueling schedule of throwing boxes of junk away and hoping they don’t stumble upon a withered hand in a glass jar. He likes America and he’s excited for their new life, for all that they had no choice but to leave Russia in a hurry, but Eurovision is Eurovision.

Actually watching it, of course, is easier said than done. For one thing, Fedyor can’t find a blasted station that is airing it, when he could have just switched on the TV and found it right away back home. For another, Ivan is deeply dubious of the whole endeavor, having watched five minutes of it once when he was eighteen and turning it off in disgust, never to return. Fedyor spends a lot of time wheedling him to give it another chance. “Come on, Vanya. It’s fun!”

“It is a lot of homosexuals gyrating in leather to very bad music,” Ivan snaps. “They look ridiculous. And sound even worse.”

Fedyor glances at them – the fact that they’re sitting on the couch, he’s on Ivan’s lap with his legs draped over Ivan’s thigh, and Ivan’s arms wrapped around his waist – and coughs. “I’m not sure how to break this to you, darling,” he says, “but you are also a homosexual.”

“Maybe, but you would never catch me dead up there.”

“Of course not.” Fedyor rolls his eyes. “You might actually have to smile.”

Ivan makes a scoffing noise. Then he notices the full-on puppy-dog face that Fedyor is now giving him, and says, “Oh no. Oh no, Fedya. Do not look at me like that.”

“Why not?” Fedyor shamelessly snuggles closer. “Is it working?”

The predictable outcome is that Ivan grudgingly agrees to watch it with him, though they’re on American time now and Eurovision Song Contest 2014, held in Copenhagen, Denmark, is six hours ahead of them. Ivan thinks that it’s stupid to sit down and watch a lot of gyrating homosexuals in the middle of the day, when there’s still so much work to do, and tries to demand that they just watch the recording later. Fedyor says this is nonsense, you simply cannot watch a recording of Eurovision, and after a lot of investigation, finds the online streaming channel on his laptop and hooks it up to the TV so they can watch it there. Then he prepares his popcorn, his alcoholic beverages, and his glitter glasses, corrals his recalcitrant husband, and readies himself to experience pure joy. No wonder Ivan doesn’t get it.

However, the effect is both swift and remarkable. By the end of the first semi-final, Ivan is put out about the fact that Russia came seventh in the popular vote but was knocked down to eleven by the jury (this is evidence of an anti-Russian conspiracy, according to him) and when only Moldova, a tiny no-name non-EU former Soviet state, deigns to award them the full twelve points, he is openly incredulous. “Moldova?! That is all we get?! MOLDOVA?!”

“Well,” Fedyor says delicately. “There is that little situation in Ukraine, so I’m afraid we are not that popular right now.”

“That is bullshit,” Ivan grouses. “This is a song contest. The Tolmachevy Sisters are not Vladimir Putin. I am sure they have worked very hard to be here.”

Fedyor glances at him and wisely decides not to say anything. He is likewise a little peeved when the Russian contestants get booed by the Danish audience, but Ivan looks like he’s about to leap through the screen and throttle every single one of them. He thrusts out a hand. “Give me a drink, Fedya. I need it to suffer this indignity.”

Fedyor cracks the lid off a cold one and hands it over – there is the Brighton Bazaar just a few blocks away, stocked with Russian goods, so they are spared the ordeal of drinking Yankee beer – and Ivan takes a long slug. He thinks they can skip watching the second semi-final two nights later, since Russia isn’t in it, but Fedyor puts it on anyway. They both like Austria and “Rise Like a Phoenix,” sung by the bearded drag queen Conchita Wurst (there have been a few dumb comments about her from the usual suspects), but Ivan hits a fist on the arm of the sofa. “She was not better than the Russian girls,” he says loyally. “I still think that they should be the ones to win.”

“Right, well,” Fedyor says. “I think the only ones less likely to win are the Brits, and they never win, so we might be waiting a while.”

The grand finale, on May tenth, is an inadvertently hysterical exercise. They get up early and put on the pregame show, like the Americans do with their bewildering fixation on the Super Bowl, and Ivan gets even more furious when the Tolmachevy Sisters are booed again. “Are they not supposed to love everyone at this glitter bacchanalia? So much for the Scandinavians being tolerant and accepting people! The song is nice! They are nice girls! What is wrong with them?!”

“Come over here and give me a cuddle, Vanya,” Fedyor suggests. “Otherwise you will blow a blood vessel long before the show starts.”

Ivan growls like an escaped tiger from the zoo, but consents to sit down next to Fedyor. They both drink copiously once the festivities get underway, singing along loudly (and not that melodiously) to the various entries, Fedyor’s arm draped around Ivan’s neck as he sits on his lap and critically judges the acts before the official results pop up. Once again, the only twelve-point awards Russia gets are from former Soviet countries (Azerbaijan and Belarus) and Ivan looks like he’s going to have a conniption before Fedyor kisses him and he gets distracted for the next three minutes. “This is disgraceful,” he mutters, when they break away. “Not you, Fedya. Just the horrible way they have clearly rigged this show against us.”

“You know,” Fedyor says. “That’s Eurovision. You declare war on your neighbors when they don’t give you twelve points. Now they have the EU, they’re not supposed to fight anymore, this is the only way they can get all those old rivalries out. Just be glad that Australia isn’t in this year. You might have really blown a gasket.”

“Australia?!” Ivan shifts Fedyor to a more comfortable position on his lap and grabs for his third bottle of beer. “AUSTRALIA IS NOT IN EUROPE! It is not even anywhere NEAR Europe! WHY DOES AUSTRALIA GET TO BE IN EUROVISION!?!”

Fedyor laughs out loud. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” Ivan says. “But this is still the stupidest thing I have ever seen.”

“Shh.” Fedyor nuzzles him. “Just give in, Vanya. Just give in.”

Ivan consents to turn his grumbling down to a simmer, and is somewhat mollified that Russia comes in sixth overall, which is better than even Fedyor thought they were going to do. Austria takes the champion’s crown, they can both agree that Conchita Wurst deserves it, and get up and dance around their still-junk-cluttered living room as she gives her bravissima performance. A few things have been thrown during the judging, but they can’t add much to the existing mess, and in Brighton Beach, “damage caused to the apartment because Russia got shafted during Eurovision finals” might actually be a legitimate excuse. As he leans against Ivan’s chest and grins into his neck, Fedyor has to admit that this place may just feel like home yet.

#ivan x fedyor #heartrender husbands #fivan #pel asks #henchmen deserve happiness too okay #anonymous #ask #fivan ff

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dakotafinely · 4 years ago

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How would all the turts feel about a s/o with a corpse husband like voice/ has GERD

hhhhhhhhhhhhhHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-

Sorry, just- I love corpses voice, like, bruh, it’s so good. I love his songs too (tho I’ve only heard about 3 of ‘em, but still)

So, uh, baseline, for all the guys. Your appearance (aside from hygiene and basic grooming) are never something they’ve cared about, I mean they’re literal turtle mutants so I can’t imagine them caring too much about it. As long as your a good person and accept them for who they are, they will likely fall for you.

And, because I don’t know much about GERD. As Corpse is literal the only person I’ve ever known with that, and I don’t even know him personally, I will only be focusing on the guys reactions toward your voice. So that way I don’t make any misinterpretations or offend anyone with GERD. More power to you people who have it and deal with it everyday.

Now that I’ve gotten all that out the way, here’s your handy dandy head-cannons!

Raph:

Bro your voice is like, bro-

He thought his soul voice was deep, but yours-

Wow

He honestly zones out and just listens to your voice if you talk for to long, he has no idea what you said but that voice has him hooked

If he has a bad day, hearing you whisper sweet nothings to him makes him feel better in a hot second bro

If he ever overhears someone make fun of your voice, HANDS WILL BE THROWN

If loves you for more than your voice obviously, but you literal speaking makes him putty in your hands

Leo:

“Start and ASMR”

“What? Why?”

“PLEASE, you’ll be so famous babe”

“I’m not starting an ASMR”

“WHY NOT????”

“Because I don’t even like ASMR Leo”

This conversation happens basically everyday, and you saying his name basically ends it

Like, you rarely say his name because he goes all weak in the knees every time you do

Even if you did say his name constantly, it’d still have the same effect

You said his full name once after he’d told you it

He fainted, just, straight up fainted

So you usually stick to nicknames for him, usually “blue” and “dork” are your go to’s

You called him “Champ” once just to try a new nickname

Bro, bro you might as well have killed him, he’s gone, bro-

Donnie:

He has full audio logs of your voice ripped from conversation audio logs

Just so he can hear your voice when your not around

You can’t compliment him without him needing to sit down and compose himself

He’s very sensitive to noises, and when April had first introduced you two (having told you this) you’d thought he wouldn’t like your voice at all

But he finds it very soothing, like the sound of waves on a warm beach night

Or the comforting hum of his heating lamp as he falls asleep

You often send him audio whenever he tells you he’s feeling stressed and your not there to talk to him directly

Usually it’s about nothing, nothing important, about your day, where your at, what game your thinking of buying

But every now and again it’s just you telling him how much he means to you

And those ones, those are more valuable to him then anything he’s every made

Mikey:

He calls you everyday just to hear your voice

“Were you even listening?” “How could I not?”

Annnnnd, now you’re dead, thanks Mikey

Granted, you could probably tell him to jump off a cliff, and with that voice, he’d probably listen

Anytime you express dislike of your voice, he gives you a thousand reasons why he loves it

I mean, he loves all of you, but he’s very vocal about your voice (see- see what I- okay I’ll stop)

For his birthday, you got one of those birthday cards that records what you say, and you sung him happy birthday

He was basically dead when he heard it

Your voice is just- oh *chef’s kiss*

So! I hope ya’ll liked this one! I didn’t wanna make it seem like your voice was the only reason the guys liked you (cause I’m sure there’s plenty a reason why!) but I also wanted to focus on your voice. So I hope I did well!

#rottmnt #rot tmnt #rise of the tmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rottmnt headcannons #rottmnt raph #rottmnt donnie #rottmnt leo #rottmnt mikey #rise mikey #rise leo #rise donnie #rise raph #rottmnt ask #ask #ask response #thanks for the ask!

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iusuallydontwritebutido · 5 years ago

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Here and Alive

Imagine comforting Kíli by placing his head on your chest so he can hear your heartbeat and petting his head softly (Imagine)

Where were you, you weren’t by his side. He had to find you, now.

A scream rung through the battlefield, high above the heads of the thousands of orcs that sought to slay all of them. He recognized that voice. He knew that voice and he ran as it echoed through his ears. That scream would haunt his dreams.

Then he saw you, held by your neck over a cliff, your feet dangling in the air as you gasped for breath. Kíli’s brown eyes watched your silhouette closely as he rushed forward, hoping to be able to save you from the grasp of that horrid creature. He was almost there, you were almost within reach and then you stilled, you stopped moving completely. There was a blade sticking out from your back. He could hear you trying to force air into your lungs that no longer accepted it as the foul being pulled you back over the edge and threw you to the ground. You didn’t rise again.

He had reached you now. You were lying on your side and the orc had his blade to your throat this time. You met his eyes, your own were almost shut. He shouted your name as he hurried forward to get rid of the grotesque creature behind you. Your blood coated the ground and Kíli’s heart leapt into his throat as he watched your eyes slowly fall shut, almost shut, while he stood frozen in fear for your life. The orcish blade suddenly moved, and so did Kíli, he parried and attacked, but more orcs came in to fight him off from the one that held you in his grasp.

The disgusting creature smiled evilly as he brought your chin up to stare at him. You were weak now, Kíli could tell. Your laboured breathing was getting weaker, you couldn’t open your eyes properly anymore. And so the orc stabbed you straight through your heart and your life drained faster than it ever should have had the possibility to do.

The orc took it’s misshaped hand and cut open your chest, only to grab the somehow still faintly beating heart in its grasp and ripped it out. And you were gone. You were dead.

Forever.

Anger gripped him and he fought his way to your corpse as the foul being had its way with what used to be you. There wasn’t much left of you once it was done, once Kíli reached your mutilated body. When he finally did, after beheading several orcs in his way, he fell to his knees beside you, weeping openly. He barely noticed another orc coming up behind him and with a short flash of pain, everything went black.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

He was thrashing in his sleep when you woke, mumbling something under his breath. You knew that he still had nightmares from the battle a couple of months back. You waited a couple of minutes and after a short while Kíli jerked up into a sitting position, gasping for air and calling out your name.

You knew better than to touch him just after he had woken, so you simply sat there while he checked your side of the bed and looked you over for wounds.

“Are you alright, Kíli?” you spoke softly, refusing to startle your husband more than he already was afraid of what he had dreamed of. The usually happy and cheerful dwarrow had tears rolling down his cheeks which you reached forward to brush away. As you did so, he leant into your touch, seeking more of it.

“I watched you die in the battle,” his voice cracked slightly, “I watched as an orc tore you apart. I could not do anything.” More tears spilled from his eyes now and you pulled him into you for a hug. “It’s alright,” you whispered to him as his breathing began to slow from the hyperventilating gasping to a more stable level, “I’m right here, I’m alive and I am not hurt. Shall I make you some tea? To help calm your mind?” Your husband nodded slowly, it would help taking his mind off of the nightmare that he had suffered from several times in the months after the battle.

And so you put a kettle of water over the fire, waiting for it to warm up while fixing the tea leaves and putting them in two cups. “Is it the same nightmare, Kíli?” you asked. It was routine by now. You would ask, and he would answer.

“Y-yes. It’s always the same one, the one where I am unable to protect you properly. Where I am unable to do what I am supposed to do. I am supposed to keep you safe, and yet you die, over and over and over again.” He looked like he was going to cry again, not that he ever would admit it to anyone except for you, of course, and you would tell anyone about it either.

“Maybe you should see Óin for something to help you sleep?” you had brought up the suggestion several times before, and he would always reject it. Often saying that it was temporary, that it would pass in due time. But it had yet to pass, and you were starting to grow worried now. “No,” came his sleep roughened voice, “It would not help.” He still hadn’t calmed down. Not really, you could see it in the way that his eyes were still wandering over to you every so often, to see if you really were there.

“I’m here Kíli, I am here, alive and well,” you spoke slowly as you put the steaming teacup in his hands. They were shaking, his hands, trembling just enough for you to be able to see it. And so you grasped the cup, just as he was about to drink the by far too hot liquid and set both his and yours aside before leaning against the headboard, grabbing his hand and pulling him closer. “The tea is still too warm Kíli, we can not have you burn your tongue, can we?” He knew what you were doing of course, what you were going to do as your hands rose to his face and gently tugged him downwards, only for him to end up leaning his head against your chest.

“Do you hear that, Kíli? Listen to it for a while,” you hummed as he finally started to properly relax, “Take it as proof. That sound is proof that I’m alive, that you succeeded in keeping me alive. I’m here thanks to you, and you know that, do you not?” You gained a soft sigh in response. He was starting to calm down now, so you stopped speaking and simply raised your hand to his hair, lacing your fingers in the unruly strands that never really did what they were supposed to. He sighed again and with a little grunt settled against you, lying in between your legs and leaning his head against your chest, his ear pressed closely to your skin, listening to the rhythmic beating of your heart.

Petting his hair had always calmed him down, so now he was close to drifting off again as you started humming on a well known melody, one that you had sung to him many times before and the very same that all the dwarrows, including yourself, had sung in Bilbo’s home the first night of the quest. Here it was, completed, and with all the members miraculously alive and well.

And so, with a mumbled ‘thank you’, Kíli fell back asleep, resting in your lap and listening to your heartbeat. He was not plagued by more nightmares that night, for you were right there with him.

Tags:

@clementinejones

#kíli #kili x reader #kili the dwarf #the hobbit #hobbit fanfiction #this is my first fic #be nice #please?#mild angst #but mostly fluffy angst?#please tell me what you think

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mail-me-a-snail · 4 years ago

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Stardust of a Song II

Chapter 2: Midnight Blue Chapter 1 Tag list: @starl1ght-child @toto19-the-exo-hunter @shy911 (it won’t let me tag you) tw: graphic descriptions of injury and blood, swearing

Yor had learned that summer day in Spinam Gorge one thing he had never known about Exos--they bleed. The blood in their bodies doesn’t share the same four components as human blood. In fact, it doesn’t even share the same color. Hemosynth (the correct term for Exo blood, as Avidan had taught him) is a deep, midnight blue color. It flows throughout their body, serving as fuel. For Guardian Exos, however, its use is deemed pointless and serves as nothing more than an indication of damage, to tie together the human-like package that is an Exo.

Yor is not a man with many wishes or prayers. He doesn’t believe much in a higher power, much less the paracausal Traveler. Now, however, he wishes more than anything that the blood on his hands is just that: pointless.

He has never seen so much blue until now.

Avidan falls backwards, his white dress shirt now drenched. The Exo splutters, struggling to speak--there is nothing coming out but choppy barks of static and hemosynth. It gushes from his neck and bleeds into his suit, though it camouflages perfectly. His hands scramble to his neck, grasping fruitlessly. His knees wobble.

Yor dives forward and slides onto his knees to catch him. The Exo falls into his arms, grabbing at his shirt, at his tie, leaving blue handprints everywhere, trying his best to just hold onto something.

“I’m here,” Yor whispers through gritted teeth. He presses his hand against Avidan’s neck, trying to stop the bleeding. It bubbles up through and around his fingers like ink. “I’m here, darling, I’m here, it’s okay...”

What few wires that aren’t stained with blue are singed black. They tangle, having been shot to smithereens. This blood is not pointless, no matter how much Yor wants it to be; Avidan needs it to live and he’s losing it rapidly. The shot had punctured two major fuel lines; what a human would call the carotid arteries.

“Y-Y...”Avidan coughs. Yor knows how much it hurts. Avidan’s forcing himself to talk but nothing comes out. Nothing at all. “Y...” His voice dips into a broken, static filled whimper, and he buries his head into Yor’s shoulder, body convulsing with coughs, each accompanied by a burst of static. Yor holds him close and tightly, shaking with fury.

“Medic,” Yor manages to say, through the building roar in his ears, to the pianist. He repeats it when the man looks at him blankly. “Get a medic, goddammit!” The man scurries off the stage and out the lounge doors into the rain.

The remaining band members leave their hiding place and warily gather around the two in a circle. They’re afraid--armed only with the sharp ends of broken glass bottles--but they do what they can; they protect, even though they’re not truly members of the Hive. Yor, even as his heart beats in his fingertips, takes note of their loyalty.

He looks up through their ranks and to the side where Sero stands, dazed, as if he’s only now realizing what he’s done. He drops the gun and it clatters off the stage. He composes himself, adjusting his tie, but he has since lost all his bravado. His hand shakes, just barely. In this light, he’s just a kid.

“Consider my offer, Yor,” Sero says, deadpan, “Or your beauty will never sing the same way ever again.”

“I’m going to tear you apart,” Yor spits. “Limb from fucking limb.”

Sero’s eyes travel over Avidan’s body, which has since gone still. Yor adjusts him as gently as he can into a sitting position and tries not to flinch when the entire front of his shirt is splashed with blue. Where the hell is the medic? Yor tears his gaze away from Sero and presses his forehead to Avidan’s, who’s optics absently look far up into the ceiling.

“Stay with me,” he whispers, praying to whatever deity is listening that Avidan will be okay, “Help is on the way.” Avidan’s optics flit to him, for just a moment, before gripping his hand tightly. There is hemosynth on his ring. There has to be something to keep him awake. Yor clears his throat, then sings, softly, “Sometimes I-I wonder how I spend t-the lonely night dreaming of a song...” He winces at the croak of his voice. He hasn’t sung in a long time. He wishes it had been under better circumstances. “the melody haunts my r...reverie. And I am once again with you.”

“When our love was new...” Sero continues for him as he walks away and the very action makes Yor’s blood boil. If Avidan dies, Yor swears to the Traveler, to the Hive, to whatever force may be out there, that he will deliver the same pain unto Sero, bit by prideful, arrogant bit.

The doors swing open once more. Sero leaves; the pianist, accompanied by a medic in clinical white garb rolling a stretcher along, come in, trailing water behind them. The puddles swallow the blood like its ink. The bassist puts a hand on Yor’s shoulder.

“Should we go after him?” She says.

He looks at the door, which is still swinging slightly, buffeted by the heavy winds of the storm outside. He looks back to Avidan; the Exo’s grip on his hand has loosened. Yor grabs it again, holding it tightly, even as it doesn’t reciprocate the action, as though the Dredgen’s touch could bring him back from the brink.

“No,” Yor breathes shakily, “you’ll never find him in the rain. Sero Maaviks will have to die another day.”

The bassist’s brows crease in worry and she opens her mouth to say something, but the medic comes barreling through the band. It takes a few moments for Yor to let go--adrenaline is pounding in his veins. The pianist and Yor lift Avidan onto the stretcher.

“I’ll need towels,” the medic says to the band, “as many as you have. Clean, preferably. Cloths will do as well.” The trombone player goes behind the bar to the cabinet with all the cleaning supplies and the bassist goes to the bathroom for the hand towels.

As soon as his head hits the cushion, Avidan’s lights go out. His jaw hangs loosely, a gaping maw. Yor’s breath catches in his throat. “Is he--?” Yor begins, but the medic cuts him off.

“He’s still alive,” She confirms, and his heart slows down a few beats. She snaps on latex gloves and puts her dark hair up in a ponytail. “but just so. Do you have any Exo agents, Dredgen? We’ll need just the one; I can stop the bleeding, but it’s just a matter of getting your friend here the hemosynth he needs to survive. Wheel him into the kitchen.”

Normally, he wouldn’t take orders from anyone, but Avidan’s life is in her hands. He, along with the pianist, rush the stretcher to the kitchen. The medic runs after them. They park the stretcher by the sink, as per the doctor’s instructions. Easier and cleaner that way. Yor mutters his wholehearted, if not hasty, thanks to the pianist. The pianist leaves with a shaken glance towards Yor and without a word

The medic undoes Avidan’s tie, tossing it onto a counter. She unbuttons his shirt next, only one or two, enough to assess the damage to his neck. She’s completely calm and careful, working quickly but not hastily; Yor has no doubt it’s not the worst wound she’s seen, being a medic in the eternal war of the alleyways. Yor watches her work. Her hands don’t even shake; they move with surgical precision as she cuts away wires that are otherwise useless now with a pair of scissors.

Avidan’s lights remain off. Yor’s feet are rooted to the tiles. Not like this. It can’t end like this for Avidan, not when his last thoughts will be of choking on his own silence and blood. He pads over to the Exo’s side, taking his hand in both of his. It’s cold--the lack of hemosynth is causing his temperature to drop. He thumbs Avidan’s ring, now more blue than silver. He leans his forehead on the bundle of their hands.

“Stay with me,” he pleads, barely above a whisper, “I’m not going to lose you, too.”

He feels the medic’s gaze on him. Her pity hits him in waves. She waits a moment, then speaks. “Dredgen,” she coaxes, “we need that agent of yours. Now.” When he hesitates, her tone shifts to urgency. “Without that transfusion, he’ll die. I can save your friend; you have to let me work.”

“Husband,” he corrects her automatically. “That’s...what he is.” She’s silent for a moment. “Of course.”

He pauses, then nods. He lets go. Avidan’s hand falls to his side and the medic returns to her surgery. She sops up the remaining hemosynth. More and more towels are drenched in blue and tossed into the sink. He walks backwards out of the kitchen, stomach dropping as the doors swing shut and Avidan disappears from his sight.

Yor goes to the phone in his office, stepping over the two bloody corpses and broken glass, and dials a number. Three rings, four. Yor taps his foot rapidly. Why is no one answering? Six rings; he paces. It’s about ten rings when someone answers. He breathes a sigh of relief.

“Hello?” The Exo on the other end says, sounding exhausted. “Boss? What d’you need?” Yor had taught all his agents to be ready for his call at any time of night or day.

“Romulus,” he says, all too fast, “get over here now.”

Thankfully, the Exo doesn’t ask for an elaboration. “Alright. I’ll be there in ten.”

“Five. It’s...it’s Avidan.” He doesn’t say anything more. The silence on the other end is deafening.

“Shit. What happened?”

“I’ll explain when you get here. Get to walking.” Yor growls then hangs up. He holds the phone against his chest, his heart beating in sync to the dial tone. He notices now that his hands, which are usually steady with an aim that has been perfected over years of battle, are trembling. He can barely hold them straight. He balls them into fists so tight the skin around his knuckles turns white.

The Dredgen leaves his office and just as he comes back out into the main room Romulus, a stocky red Exo with a black bar painted around his yellow optics, comes rushing towards him, sopping wet, in hastily put on clothes. Before either of them can say anything, the medic bursts out of the kitchen and drags the both of them inside.

The medic had opened a panel on Avidan’s arm. A transparent tube runs from his forearm up to under the plates of his bicep. She explains it’s one of several “veins.” The glass is stained blue, lacking the hemosynth it usually transports. A few drops fall into it here and there, but otherwise it’s dry. A plastic tube is inserted into the glass, the opposite end of it hanging outside.

“Here, here.” The medic ushers Romulus onto a stool and wastes no time popping open the same panel on his arm, too.

“I’m no doctor,” Romulus says, fidgeting, “but isn’t it unsafe to just go replacin’ blood like this without some kinda test?”

“No time,” Yor says gruffly.

“You’re thinking of humans,” the medic waves him away, “Dredgen Yor is right; no time. It’s not like you’re going to transmit any sort of virus to him through your blood.” She slips the other end of the plastic tube into Romulus’ arm. “Now, I’m going to need you to pace.”

“...What?” Romulus looks at her incredulously. Even Yor is confused. She looks between the two of them and sighs in frustration.

“Hemosynth is generated through motion,” she explains quickly, “because you Exos were engineered to be soldiers, so you’re always on the move. See, here?” She points to the few drops of hemosynth in Avidan’s arm. “Because Avidan’s chest is moving as he’s breathing, his system is generating small droplets of hemosynth, but it’s not the correct amount of motion we require. If you walk, you’ll be able to produce enough hemosynth for your system to push the excess out--”

“--and into Avidan’s.” Yor raises his brows. The astonishment in his voice is plain. He had known about the hemosynth, but not the way it’s generated. “That’s...not a treatment I’ve heard of before.”

“Neither have I.” Romulus gets up. The tube is long enough for him to walk around the small kitchen, so long as he doesn’t snag it around any table legs.

“You’re an Exo!” the medic exclaims, “How do you not know how your own system works?” Romulus doesn’t answer as he starts his lap. A minute after, blood starts flowing into the tube and into Avidan’s arm. Yor’s tense shoulders relax somewhat.

Yor grips Avidan’s hand. He watches the tube fill up with blue. Slowly, his temperature begins to rise. The digits intertwined with his are warm to the touch. He helps the medic take off the Exo’s jacket, then his shirt. Watching her dissect Avidan and put aside whole panels of his chest to monitor the blood flow and the hemosynth pump (his heart) turns Yor’s stomach over. He’s seen Avidan do this himself a few times before--taking off panels to assess the damage underneath--but never this expertly.

Romulus walks for an hour and fifteen minutes. During that time, no one says a word--the room is tense, just waiting for something to go wrong. All Yor hears is Romulus’ footsteps and the snip snip of the medic’s scissors as she works on Avidan’s throat. Yor has to stop himself from pacing, too. He gives into his nervous tic of tugging at his hair.

After five more minutes, the medic tells Romulus to stop. She removes the plastic tube and puts Avidan back together again. “Stable condition,” she murmurs, “He’s going to live.”

Yor nearly cries with relief, but he keeps himself composed. He’s coming down from the adrenaline and as a result, his head is beginning to hurt. Romulus takes a seat, on standby in case any more is needed from him.

The medic waves Yor over. He fixes his gaze on Avidan’s neck, a horrible patchwork of wires; he grits his teeth to keep himself from averting his gaze. “I managed to get the bullet out,” she tells him, showing him the grimy bullet in a metal pan, “and I saved as many of the cranial nerves as I could.” She points out a few color coded wires on Avidan’s nape. “He’ll still be able to see, hear, feel, and taste. But...”

His stomach drops. “Nothing good ever comes after that word, doctor,” Yor mutters, “But what?’”

She takes what appears to be a lump of coal from the metal pan. It flakes in her hands. “This,” she explains, “is Avidan’s voicebox. As you can see, it was...fried by the bullet. The gun was charged with Solar energy.”

He gapes at it. It’s completely destroyed. Ashes rub the doctor’s gloves black, turning it into a mosaic of dark colors. “There’s nothing more I can do for it,” She continues through his silence, “I’m sorry, Dredgen.”

“Boss, I’ll do it,” Romulus says as he stands, sounding as grim as Yor feels. “He can have mine.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Yor hisses, but softens his tone when he realizes how much Romulus wants to do this. “Your loyalty is appreciated, Romulus, but it’s not what Avidan would’ve wanted.” The Exo looks downcast and sits back down. The Dredgen turns to the doctor. “Shouldn’t a medic such as yourself, especially around these parts, have backup parts? Or, at least, blueprints?”

“With half the population of the Exos in the Last City being Guardians,” she replies, “there’s no demand for the parts. Sure, there are blueprints, but they’re kept under lock and key by the Foundries. I...suppose you could find a viable voicebox on the black market.”

The black market has everything. Organs, robotic and otherwise, guns, machinery, body parts--you name any vile object you can think of and it will be there with a price tag of a few more extra zeroes than its worth. It’s not entirely out of the question.

“I’ve got connections in the black market, boss,” Romulus supplies, “I can ask around tomorrow mornin’.”

“The best thing you can do for him tonight is to take him home. Let him rest; his body will have to readjust itself. His lights will come back on in a day or so. If they don’t, you know where to find me.”

“...Thank you. Both of you.” He means it from the very bottom of his heart. The words surprise Romulus, who has, for years, seen how cruel he can be, but not the doctor. She gives him a tired smile. “You’ll want to be paid, I imagine, doctor...?” An amount of Glimmer with about four or five zeroes tacked on should do it nicely.

She takes off her gloves and tosses them into the trash bin. She takes a card from her breast pocket and hands it to him. “Rembrandt,” she says, as does the neat, minimalist font on the card. “Dr. Rembrandt. We can talk about the details later. Bring him home. Lay low for a few days and help him recuperate. He’s going to need the support when he realizes he can’t talk.”

Romulus stands again and sheds his coat, holding it out to Yor. “Avidan’s not gonna take my voice box,” he says, mouth glowing a dandelion yellow, “so he can take my coat instead. ‘s a little damp, but it’s better than what he had on.” He gestures to the bloody dress shirt and suit jacket folded neatly on the kitchen counter.

When Yor opens his mouth to decline, he shakes his head. “No, seriously, boss. You’re not gonna want to bring him home in clothes like that. Vanguard’s patrolling around this time. They’ll think the wrong thing and the doc’s time will’ve been wasted.”

The Dredgen takes the coat. It is a little wet from the rain, but it’ll be inconspicuous enough for them to pass by the Vanguard unnoticed. “Thank you,” he says again, and he realizes he’s been thanking quite a lot of people tonight. It unnerves him greatly. He wonders what Avidan will say when he tells him about--oh. Right. He tries to offset his worries by thinking about Sero.

“Romulus, besides scavenging through the market, I want you to take Diego and Nadir and ask around about Sero Maaviks. He’s the conniving bastard who did this. Find out where he’s hiding. He’s not getting away with this.”

“You got it, boss. I’ll stay here and close up the place.”

“Good man.” He gives Romulus a firm pat on the shoulder, an awkward motion he isn’t used to. Avidan should be the one doing all of this; praising his henchmen, thanking them, and even just talking to them. Yor does talk to them but more often than not it’s in the form of an order.

With Romulus’ help, Yor moves Avidan to a sitting position and puts the coat around his shoulders. It easily swamps him, with Romulus being so much bigger and more Titan-like than Avidan’s lithe and lanky build. He picks Avidan up in his arms, the Exo’s head lolling and coming to rest against his shoulder. He says goodbye, shoulders open the door, and leaves Luna.

It’s drizzling. The storm has calmed. The car is parked out back; as he walks, little droplets hit Yor’s shoulders. He puts Avidan in the passenger seat, buckling him up, then gets into the driver’s seat. They drive off with a low rumble. Every stoplight, Yor cannot help but glance at Avidan, who remains unconscious. They don’t encounter any patrols.

Thirty minutes pass, and they’re home. One of the many apartment complexes in the City, which is nice enough to be considered part of the rich district, but just that much grimy to be on the outskirts. If you live there, you have money, but not enough. He parks. He carries Avidan to the elevator and up they ride. Yor has a bit of trouble unlocking the door, but he manages to get it. It swings open to their apartment; like his office, it’s lived in, but professional. There are photos of him and Avidan on the walls. A few are from the wedding. He locks the door behind him.

He heads straight for their bedroom. He takes the Exo’s coat off, depositing it on the rack, and puts a shirt on him. He buttons every button, except the one on the collar. He tucks him in, drawing the covers up over his chest, which still rises and falls with breath. It’s a motion that fills Yor with so much relief he lets a tear fall from his eye. Just the one.

“Goodnight,” he whispers, voice breaking. The knot in his throat hurts too much to speak properly. The reality of almost losing Avidan--his one nightmare that has haunted him ever since they met--hits him hard. He presses a kiss to the Exo’s forehead and settles at his bedside. “Goodnight.”

In his dreams--nightmares, maybe--it is entirely silent. Mute.

All he sees is blue.

I hope y’all can see why this chapter took so long :)

#destiny 2 #destiny 2: shadowkeep #fanfiction #rezyl azzir #writing #dredgen yor #stardust of a song #mine #my writing

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dragonrajafanfiction · 4 years ago

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Dragon Dancer III: The Kabuki

Nono flipped her hair over her shoulder, applied her lipstick, and put on the final touch of her ensemble, a half face mask. She looked every bit like a medieval lady, save for the shortened skirt at the front of her dress that showed off how shapely her legs were in her dark red pumps.

She looked over at the exhausted and distraught Carli who’d scarcely been able to perform at Takamagahara and ended up dropping clients out of anxiety. Those boys were really putting her through the wringer.

She smiled at the irony of it.

“Where are you going?” Carli asked her.

“I’ve actually got a date.”

Carli sat up in confusion. “Oh... have... I met him?”

“Yes, and no... anyway. Don’t wait up for me. I’ll be gone all night.” She grabbed her purse, ignoring Carli’s open mouthed expression.

Okay, maybe she liked messing with people just a little bit. The girl’s imagination was probably running wild. The recently bereaved Nono already moved on to the point of spending the night with a man in Tokyo?

The answer to that question, of course, was yes. But Carli could never imagine what the reality was. Things were never what they appeared when it came to her. She stepped into the back of the taxi to be driven to the historic Kabuki Theater.

Kabuki was usually the relic of the previous generations and the occasional tourist or school field trip. But not tonight. Tonight the audience was mostly women though some men were in attendance. The common denominator was that they were all under thirty like her.

When she presented her ticket and card to the doorman, he held up a hand. “Please wait here, Miss.” And then dialed a number. Another man came, wearing a black suit and a pin displaying the Chinese character for ‘ghost’ invited her inside.

Together, they walked up to a special box seat right next to the stage. There were refreshments and wine. She took her seat.

The ticket had come with an envelope and a calling card. It was made of heavy embossed cardstock and smelled of chrysanthemum. Black flowing inked lines sketched out a simple, yet beautiful drawing of a chrysanthemum on the front and on the back were written the characters ‘Ruri Kazama.’ It bore all the hallmarks of something personal and handmade.

The ticket provided the remainder of the invitation. There was no number, no other message.

She smiled. How different he was from Caesar.

The lights went down over the audience who immediately hushed. The title of the play was “An Ancient Tale, Retold.”

She’d never seen a Kabuki. She’d been to an opera so she had some idea about the old arts. She didn’t have anything against them. The music, the costumes and the stories were all very compelling. It was the atmosphere she found stifling. People spent hundreds of dollars to sit around and say they went to the opera. Most wouldn’t be able to even tell you who was on stage, what the songs were about, or their lyrics. Nono had no patience for such pretentiousness.

That’s why she was a little apprehensive. She wouldn’t be able to understand the Japanese and no matter how expert the performance, she wouldn’t be able to appreciate it.

Someone tapped her on the shoulder. “Miss.”

One of the black suited Ghost Waiters handed her a small tablet. “As the lyrics are sung, the translation will appear here as well as any cultural references.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh! Thank you!”

He walked away and she sat up and looked over her shoulder. That man spoke perfect English! She leaned back in her chair, smiling and chuckling. “Okay, Mr. Kazama. You have my attention.”

A sound of a drum broke the silence. The curtain rose and a woman in white face make up stood head bowed, center stage.

She looked down at the lyrics

All happiness in the world is a flash in the shadow of the moon;

Loneliness and pain are often the only companions in the depths of hell.

The woman sang and slowly raised her head. She opened eyes that were painted red at the corners.

Much to Nono’s surprise, the information on the tablet said that this woman was actually Ruri Kazama. The performance was the tale of Izanagi and Izanami, a brother and sister who got married and created the Japanese pantheon of gods..

But Izanami would perish giving birth to the god of Volcanos and the heartbroken Izanagi would journey to the underworld to save her. She could return with him, but only if he promised not to look upon her underworld form. Unfortunately, he couldn’t keep that promise and lit a torch. He saw that she was a living corpse, eaten up by maggots.

The man fled without his wife. Ever since then, Izanami was an evil vengeful goddess who killed a thousand people every day, but Izanagi made sure that 1,500 babies were conceived every day.

Nono raised an eyebrow to that.

The next scene, Izanagi appeared to sing the praises of his three children: Amaterasu, Susano-O and Tsukiyomi. He ordered them to rule over the Kingdom of the Gods, Takamagahara.

While Izanagi sang and danced with his children, Izanami was behind a thin curtain on the stage, wailing in loneliness and abandonment, remembering how beautiful her life used to be and how her and her former husband first met and how beautiful things could have been.

“Okay...” Nono didn’t remember that being part of the tale. She leaned forward.

Ruri, as Izanami, danced and sang surrounded by the corpses of the dead while wearing a kimono typical of dead person at a funeral, according to the tablet. He was a tragic figure and sure enough, some of the people in the audience were openly weeping.

There was an intermission but no one got up and left the theater. They were all discussing what they had seen. This tale was old, and yet few had tried to perform it from the point of view of the dead Izanami.

The second half was the lively story of Susano-O in killing the 8-headed serpent Yamata-no-Orochi. A family of 8 daughters was left with only one after the snake had eaten one of their daughters every year. So Susano-O offered to kill it in exchange for their last remaining daught-.

Nono sighed. “Well, ... okay.”

So he turns her into a comb for safekeeping in his hair. He makes eight barrels of sake which the serpent drinks. After it’s drunk and asleep, he cuts off all the snake’s heads.

But Ruri doesn’t play the hero in this scene, either, he plays the eight headed dragon, resplendent in a scaly looking sequined robe. “If only Carli were here.”

Carli didn’t realize it, but Nono was at the performance of her ballet the night of her recruitment. She would love this.

But Nono was the only one enjoying this part of the performance. A strange murmuring had broken out in the crowd. The Battle was supposed to be epic and loud, but all the audience saw were women and children on stage.

Susano-O did his hero thing and dramatically cut into the ‘dragon’, red dye illustrating the flow of blood. In the end, Ruri Kazama fell to center stage as the dragon died.

It seemed that this would be the end of the tale, but it wasn’t. Susano-O knelt next to the fallen serpent and after a moment of silence, what appeared to be bright wings with sharpened feathers lifted from Ruri’s back and pierced the hero through the heart!

The audience gasped as fireworks sparked up from the stage! Susano-O tore off the robe of Ruri Kazama revealing a new blood red outfit underneath. as he quietly lay in the center stage.

Off stage a voice was singing.

“Weary, oh... Weary, oh

King of Ghostly Bone

The path ahead is indistinct

Looking back is useless

Broken, drenched in a sea of mercury

Face each other over the lonely city wall

As if to remember the heavy debt of gratitude of years past.

The hairs rose on Nono’s arms and her eyes widened. “Ruri... what is this?”

The audience was in ecstasy. The interpretation read out on the tablet. Turned out that the eight headed serpent was the goddess Izanami, returned from the underworld to exact her revenge for being abandoned by her husband.

The whole play was sympathetic to her plight, so that when, in the end, the dragon kills the ‘hero of the story’ everyone is happy. The audience bought it, hook-line-and-sinker. Flowers were being thrown up on stage. People were congratulating him on his performance.

Nono put the tablet down.

“Ma’am?”

On a platter offered by the waiter was an envelope. Inside was an invitation to meet him backstage.

#Nono #Ruri Kazama

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spinningwebsandtales · 5 years ago

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A Vampire’s Bride (A Vampire John Wick AU)

Imagine living in a village where girls are sent up to appease a cruel bloodthirsty vampire every ten years and you’re the next victim.

Title: A Vampire’s Bride

Tags: Horror, Fluff, John Wick AU

Warnings: Intense descriptions, mentions of blood, death, and mentions of staking of the heart

Word Count: 5,059

(A/N:) Good morning minions and Happy Halloween!! I thought I’d surprise you this Halloween with the ultimate fic on Halloween for Halloween. What was supposed to be a small imagine blown up into a full fanfic! I’m quite proud of myself on this one and I just finished editing it last night, so I finished it and not a moment too soon to post it today. I woke a up a little earlier than normal so I could post it, cause I didn’t know if I was going to have time later. Ehehehe. Without any further ado welcome to my nightmare! Stay safe and may your Halloween bring you frights, treats, and wonderful horrors! Love Countess.

Your village was a quaint quiet place, where everyone knew their neighbor and always lent a helping hand. While your family wasn’t the richest in the village you weren’t the poorest. You lived an easy life and were quite the favorite amongst the young men of the village, only you were off limits. It wasn’t due to an overprotective father nor did you have any crippling disease that made you unwanted it was due to you being chosen as a young age to be married off. High above the village a castle stood watching and always waiting. Castle Continental didn’t take in visitors nor did anyone make the trek to see the owner who lived inside. In Castle Continental lived Count Jonathan Wick, a vampire who could only be appeased by having a young bride sent to him every ten years. You were chosen after the last girl went, everyone knew what happened to these girls but to keep the vampire upon the mountain appeased it was a sacrifice the village was willing to make. Tonight was the night you were going to be sent and your heart sank knowing that you were going to die. As you sat in a chair looking at your unmoving reflection in the vanity mirror you were primped and pampered for the Count like a doll.

“You look lovely,” one of the women complimented. Her statement went through one ear and out the other. You had no desire to be lovely, a corpse never cared if they were pretty, ugly, or anything of the like. You just knew that your cold corpse would be sent back the next evening, drained of blood, before buried in a coffin with a stake drove through your still heart.

“A lovely bride for a handsome count,” another piped in not wanting to be removed from any part of the one-sided conversation. Still you remained silent, looking beyond the mirror. Your once vibrant eyes were glazed over, like a doll’s. One last tweak of the hair and you were ready, and not a moment too soon as the sun was beginning to set. A carriage remained outside the building waiting for your arrival, the trek up to the top where Castle Continental would end around nightfall later in the evening. A perfect time to deliver a bride to the vampiric monster within. You breathed as much as your corset would allow you as you seated yourself on the plush cushions of the carriage. You remained alone inside the cab as the carriage driver sat outside guiding the horses to the destination.

No conversations were started, no jokes were told, nor any songs sung on the way to your doom. You were hoping at least the driver would ease the journey, but he was more concerned about the destination instead of the journey. So you sat in uncomfortable silence your heart hammering inside your chest in both fear and nervousness. A vampire bride, what a cruel hand fate had dealt you. Despite the situation you couldn’t bring yourself to cry, you cried enough the night you were chosen for the rest of your days. Your mother had weeped openly and she couldn’t be consoled, your father fought for another to be chosen only for him to lose. You sighed looking out the window at the dark skeletal remains of trees that had long ago shed their colorful leaves. You shivered in your bridal gown the feeling of being watched coming over you. The sun was holding on for just a moment longer until it moved over to let the moon shine upon the Earth. Wheels met cobblestone as your journey came to a close. The driver remained silent but the carriage creaked as he made his way down. Soles of his boots clacked on the stones and the door handle clicked. You couldn’t see his face as you stepped from the carriage, he bowed his head unable to look at you. He felt ashamed delivering you to death itself.

“Good luck m’lady,” he mumbled the first word he had spoke the whole journey. Closing the carriage door he left you alone to look up at the castle, the windows were darkened and the sky seemed to weigh down upon your shoulders.

Everything was quiet you almost felt like no one was home until you stepped forwards and the doors swung upon on squeaky hinges of it’s own accord. Fighting back the scream you held your head high and stepped across the threshold. You thought it funny you carried yourself over the threshold instead of your husband, but your marriage wasn’t going to be a happy one you knew, nor was it going to last very long. You almost spoke out trying to find any sort of presence that lived within the castle. Before one syllable could be uttered a man emerged standing above you on the steps.

“Good evening,” he spoke gently his dark skin shining in the candle light that seemed to emerge from no where. “I am guessing you are the new bride for my master?”

You nodded.

“Follow me please,” he nodded at you waiting until you conquered the flight of stairs. You felt eyes all around you and a presence you couldn’t quite place. It was as if the house was sizing you up, probably deciding how you were going to be killed. “I am the butler of this fine household, my name is Charon and the household manager is Winston. You will meet him very soon. He makes sure every detail is taken care of so the master doesn’t have to trouble himself. Wherefore I make sure guests are satisfied and the staff is doing their part in upkeep.”

“I see,” you spoke your voice cracking from your long silence.

“She speaks,” Charon teased stopping at a door. The door was large and took up the entire height of the wall, Charon knocked and just like the front doors this one seemed to open of it’s own accord as well. A large desk took up the middle of the room as two chairs sat unused by the fireplace. Paintings and animal trophies littered the walls, but the most impressive thing about the room was the floor to ceiling bookcases that took up both side walls. A silver haired man sat at the desk quill pen scratching at several papers before him. Charon cleared his throat and bowed in greeting.

“May I be of service,” the man who was clearly Winson spoke.

“The master’s new bride has arrived and I have come for your orders.”

Winston looked up from his paperwork. Removing his glasses his folded them and placed them neatly before him on the desk. “Place her in the same exact room as the other’s have been before her, have the maids bathe her, and dress her in crimson for master’s arrival.”

“But,” you stepped forward slippered foot barely making a sound over the lush carpet, “I’m already dressed and cleaned.”

Winston folded his hands, “I’m going to put this nicely, your perfume is appalling and master likes crimson.” The older gentleman smiled revealing pearly fangs. “As a vampire our sense of smell is sensitive and the women in your village bathed you in perfumes. We are doing no different than the last girls we acquired.”

“Okay,” you relented stepping back trying to hide yourself behind Charon. Charon bowed to Winston ready to do as he was ordered. Charon kept the door open to let you through when Winston cleared his throat as he still sat at his desk.

“I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name.”

“(Y/N),” you bowed.

“Miss (Y/N),” Winston smiled warmly once again showing the fangs behind pale lips, “enjoy your stay for as long as you will be with us.” Chills ran up your spin at his words hearing the threat within that you wouldn’t be staying long.

“Thank you.” You bowed as well in farewell.

Charon closed the door behind you without another word, you knew that following him was expected of you.

Walking through the hall you noticed how Charon seemed to glide across the floor, his visage was pale and his presence bled strength. Instead of thinking about being in a castle surrounded by vampires you moved your attention to the decorations upon the walls. Oil paintings were placed strategically against the dark red colored walls, as thick drapes covered every window. The sunlight didn’t have a chance to bleed through any part of the windows. Lost in thought you didn’t notice Charon stop in front of a large decorative door until you ran into his back. He didn’t move an inch but you fell back holding your throbbing nose.

“Sorry,” you mumbled.

Charon chuckled holding out a hand, “That’s okay. This place can be quite impressive, it’s hard to take everything in so quickly. If there’s time I wouldn’t mind giving you the whole tour. It just depends upon the master.”

“I understand. I’d like the full tour though, if I live that long.”

Charon nodded opening the door like it weighed nothing. Stepping back he gave you plenty of room to walk into your new bedroom. As the door closed behind you the room took your breath away. With a luxurious bed pushed up against the opposite wall, a balcony with curtains covering the window pane doors, plush carpets silenced your footsteps, and the atmosphere was calming thanks to incense burning in it’s holder. You allowed yourself for the first time to feel some sort of elation, running across the room you jumped landing upon the large bed with a bounce. Giggling quietly you touched the gown that had been laid across the blankets. A velvet dress of a deep blood red with black trim you couldn’t help but love the way it looked and felt. You ripped your hand from the material when gentle knocks rapped against the door.

“Come in,” you answered. Without a word the door opened and three pale young women stepped in.

“Excuse us,” they said in unison bowing to you. “We have come to help you with your bath.” One woman held a towel, another different soaps, and the last held a hairbrush and different hair pins. Without another word you let yourself be lead away. The bathroom down the hall was lit with lights and several candles, you were stripped of the white gown and placed into the tub. The water was still so warm it seeped into your aching muscles. With a sigh you leaned back wetting your hair and shoulders. The relaxation didn’t last long when one of the female vampires dumped water over you. You sputtered and they set to scrubbing. Before you knew it your hair was cleaned and you insisted that you could clean your body yourself. Leaving you for just a few moments of peace you soaked in the water trying to ignore everything that was set before you. A tear slipped down your cheek, despite all the lovely things that had been happening you were still terrified. What was this Count Jonathan going to be like? His workers seemed lovely though everyone you had met was vampires.

You stayed until the water turned cold, you were enjoying the quiet but you couldn’t lie to yourself that you were trying to buy time. The maids heard you exit the tub so they stepped in to wrap you in a towel and guide you to the vanity. You couldn’t help but feel deja vu creeping upon you as you had set before a vanity just this morning while the women of the village primped you. Unlike the towns women these three maids knew exactly what their master wanted and what he liked. Your hair was curled to fall in waves around your face, they painted your lips a ruby red, adding a little eyeshadow to make your eyes glow, lastly they helped you into the velvet gown. All laced up they stepped back from their work before the youngest looking maid stepped forward to pin a rose into your hair.

“Perfect,” her fanged smile caused you a sliver of fear but she backed away leaving you trembling slightly. Once again a knock was heard, one of the maids answered the door to reveal Charon.

“I hope your task has been completed because the master has asked for his bride. I do want to keep him happy.”

The remaining two maids moved aside revealing you to the butler who nodded in approval. Charon held out his hand to which you took. You couldn’t argue nor could you run as your heart pounded in both anticipation and fear. Charon kept holding your hand as he lead you down the hall to a chamber with a powerful aurora seeping through the door frame. You shivered holding your arms tightly around your body.

“Whatever happens,” Charon soothed, “it’ll be quick that I can promise.”

You couldn’t answer but tears were swimming in your eyes. Charon turned around leaving you at the closed door. You almost begged him not to leave but like a ghost he had disappeared, there you stood alone and frightened. Despite the fear standing before your husband-to-be’s bedroom door it was becoming quite awkward until the door slowly creaked open. Not seeing someone behind the opening of the door you became even more frightened.

“Enter,” a deep voiced echoed within. Despite your better judgment you entered into the darkened room as if in a trance. Halfway into the room the door closed leaving you in pitch darkness.

Your breathing quickened, terror gripping you in it’s tight hold. Hyperventilating you fell to the floor trying to crawl into yourself or the blackness around you. You wanted to disappear but despite the feeling you couldn’t. A presence made your skin crawl and when a hand touched your shoulder you leapt up with a cry. Scrambling away you hit your head upon a piece of furniture.

“St-stay away,” you screeched. Eyes darting around the room you cursed them for not getting used to the dark. The sound of a match being struck met your ears and illuminated a hand before the flame touched the wick of a candle illuminating the owner of that hand. Despite knowing what he was you thought how gorgeous he was. Black strands of hair brushed his broad shoulders, red eyes that seemed to penetrate deep down within you, he was tall, well built, and dressed all in black.

“No need to fear,” he cooed. His voice warm and smooth like honey, it had an effect upon you that you stood up from the floor. “I know you know of the fate of the other girls that has been sent to me. I do not deny what all I’ve done, but like any man I’ve have become quite lonely over the years. My existence is a sad one. Never dying always lonely.”

“You have others in this castle, that’s no reason to keep taking girls from my village.”

“That was to appease me, to slate my thirst every ten years. Do you know how many would have died if it wasn’t for the girls’ sacrifice?”

“Enough to appease you Count?” You shrank away at the look he gave you, the anger in your tone annoyed him.

“Most likely not.”

“And I the unwilling lamb brought to slaughter is now your next victim. Go ahead drain me! Get it over with I have been in misery since chosen for this homicidal deed. I can’t stop you,” you lifted your head exposing your soft throat. “Take my blood, toss me off the mountain. So I can be staked to my coffin and rot in the earth like all those other hapless girls did before me.”

He sighed his head dropping down in defeat. “I’m a monster, that I cannot deny. I thirst for blood, especially yours. Please hide your throat from me or I shall not be able to finish our conversation. Your very wish to be drained and tossed aside may come true if you keep enticing me.”

You lowered your head, tired of being afraid you stood before him in defiance.

“I tire of having one night with new company only to be overcome with thirst. You’ve lasted the longest of the girls that I have been sent. I long for companionship and I pray that you can give me what I long for most.”

“So you wish to keep me for several meals? I rather you take the one and let me die quickly,” you cross your arms still unwilling to budge. If you were to die you wanted it on your terms. Gone was the frightened young woman, your stubborn and argumentative side was rearing it’s head in the face of death causing the count to become flustered. The Count was upon you in an instant an inhuman scream ripping from his throat. With clawed hands gripping your upper arms he shook you. His elongated fangs dripped with saliva inching nearer to your throat. You screeched trying to break free. But his supernatural strength kept you in place.

“Is this what you so long for,” he growled lowly like a unholy creature of Hades. “To be killed by the beast within me? For a face of horror to be your last? What I offer is not several meals until I take your very life but to stay by my side for eternity. I long for a Countess to sit at my side to stay and keep me. I long for a family. But I would not simply make this decision for you,” he released you. “This will be your choice. And yours alone. Choose wisely.”

You trembled any fight you had left you, back was the terror you had felt at first. This was no ordinary man you faced, you knew that before but after seeing that display of power and monstrosity you regretted ever challenging him.

“I do not have an answer. May I think it over for awhile,” you fought to keep your voice from shaking.

Jonathan nodded, “Of course.”

“My name is (Y/N) by the way I suppose that I needed to introduce myself properly.”

John laughed. “It’s a pleasure (Y/N). As you already know I’m Count Jonathan Wick, but you can call me John. May we converse? I’d like to get to know you better.”

“As long as you don’t bite,” you teased still trying to calm your racing heart.

“Only if you ask me too.”

Lighting more candles John brought another chair close to the one he enjoyed sitting in. He called for tea to be brought up, the kitchen had stocked up for your arrival, which another maid you hadn’t meet brought to the bedroom. Jonathan took the tray like a gentleman and sat it before you. Instead of making you pour your own tea he set about filling the teacup before asking what you enjoyed in your tea. Answering every question calmly you took the cup from him before enjoying the first warm sip. You sighed seeming to melt in the chair. You hadn’t felt this comfortable since your bath. You felt his eyes upon you, clearing your throat you sat up straight blushing in embarrassment. How your mother would faint if she saw how you were acting in front of a man, though he was a vampire. You both discussed things, he told you of his past, you discussed books and told him your favorites, and conversed over various topics. Jonathan was very knowledgeable of topics that you enjoyed. Despite of still being wary of him you found yourself enjoying yourself. With amusement he watched you yawn and fight sleep. Dawn would be creeping upon the castle in just a few hours, he was surprised you lasted this long.

“Darling do you need to end our night now,” he asked.

You stifled a yawn again, “Oh no I’m very much enjoying it. I’d hate to end it now.”

“As you wish.” He agreed only because he knew that you were going to expire at any moment. Starting back into the conversation of the history of Castle Continental did you finally give up. You were asleep in no time soft snores leaving your lips. His shoulders shook in a silent laugh before scooping you from the chair. The door to his bedroom once again opened by itself, as did your bedroom door. Charon wished to take you from his master. He felt like he needn't bother with you but John wouldn’t hear of it. He wished to have you as his bride to stay with him forever he felt the need to watch out for you. Laying you upon the soft blankets he covered you before touching your warm cheek. He’d forgotten such warmth it felt like bliss to him. Kissing your forehead he left you to sleep.

You slept until mid afternoon, the sun was high above the castle and everything was silent. You were used to the bustle of the village that the silence seemed a little eerie. Though you felt silly, you were in a vampire’s castle. Moving your blankets your stomach growled. Down the stairs you went looking for the kitchen, you hated that you didn’t get that full tour Charon offered. Exploring seemed to be on your agenda with the goal in mind to find the kitchen. You roamed the halls finding a library, a restroom, living area, until finally about an hour later you found the holy grail of kitchens. Of course no one was around thanks to their vampiric nature, but you were not a helpless girl. You knew how to cook and clean. If anyone said anything about you cooking you’d just have to remind them that unlike them you were human and needed several meals. Despite it being around the hour for lunch you made breakfast. With your stomach full you were still quite curious about the rest of the castle. You decided to explore but quietly so not to disturb the workers or anger the Count in any way. Color rose to your cheeks as you remembered last night. Staying up late alone with him and to fall asleep in a chair in his bedroom. Hitting your cheeks you tried to rid yourself of such thoughts, you had things to look at and a decision to make. Who knew vampires could become lonely? You sure didn’t. You were fully aware you were sent here to be John’s next meal. Everyone was probably planning your funeral down at the village, your body was supposed to be returned tonight. What would everyone think when you weren’t returned dead or alive? Eternity was a long time and the choice of being turned was a scary one. Being a Count’s bride would have it’s perks especially seeing how gentlemanly he could be, plus handsome to boot. You couldn’t help but feel like a school girl when you looked upon him. If you decided to stay forever you wouldn’t have to fear anymore, after last night he didn’t seem so scary. Walking back up the stairs you began to go through the rooms upstairs. You did avoid Winston’s wing though, he seemed like the kind of vampire who did not liked to be disturbed. Though you figured every vampire frowned upon being woken during the sunny hours of the day. Upstairs there was several more libraries which you vowed to check out later, a sun room (which seemed silly in a vampire’s castle), with lots of bedrooms that varied in sizes. Going back to the library that was closest to your room you chose a couple books to take back into your room for reading. It would pass the time and though you didn’t have permission to use the library you figured this was a ‘better to ask for forgiveness than permission’ situation.

With a book the hours seemed to pass in seconds and before you knew it you were halfway through one book and evening had come upon Castle Continental once more. A light tap took your attention off the words.

“Come in,” you closed the book putting it on the bedside table. Johnathan glided through the door holding a platter with a dome on top.

“Good evening,” he spoke placing the platter on a table in the middle of the room. “Hungry?”

With reading taking your attention you hadn’t noticed how hungry you had gotten until John asked. That time your stomach decided to growl which caused him to laugh.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” As you sat down he took a seat across from you. “Did you sleep well?”

“Oh yes thank you.” You wolfed down the food and licked your fingers of any traces. Despite not knowing him long you felt comfortable around John. You could sense he felt the same though he did seem a little anxious and you figured you knew why.

“If I may ask did you think any more on my proposal?”

Scooting the table between you both out of the way you slid your chair closer to where your knees touched together. Knowing what he was asking and it being brought upon you so quickly it was a decision you couldn’t make lightly. Though you didn’t have many options. You could say yes and become a vampire. You’d never be abandoned and you couldn’t see the downside of having John as a husband. Secondly you thought about just returning home where you would be shunned. They thought you were dead by now and if you returned alive and well they would run you out of town. You’d be labeled a plague upon the people and the wrath of John would be upon them in minutes until a replacement could be found. Or you could do as you were sent to do. Sacrifice your life just like others had did. Johnathan waited in patient silence, though he was nervous. He knew he put you in a tough position, he just couldn’t take the suffocating loneliness no longer. What he hadn’t been planning on was a village girl be sent to him this year to be what he had wanted for so long. Taking your hands his red eyes seemed to plead.

“I’ve decided to stay. I’ll be what I can to you I just ask you protect me and you treat me like I deserve, and I promise to do the same for you.” You finally answered before your nerves got the better of you. John pulled you into his chest, if his heart beat he was sure it would beat out of his chest. Pulling you back he looked at you with love before pulling you into a kiss. Despite the coolness of his lips the kiss felt heated. You clung to his clothes before he trailed his lips down to your chin. His tongue grazed down your throat before resting above your jugular. Your grip tightened on him before his teeth punctured the skin. You yelped and he held you tighter, rubbing small circles upon your back. Your chest heaved as he drank deeply with his tongue resting against your skin it flicked back and forth. Pulling back from you with lips stained red he brought his wrist to his mouth. Ripping his flesh open he held it up to your lips as you swayed from the loss of blood. Lapping at the crimson liquid you drank your fill before John carried you back to your bed. Laying you down he laid next to you holding you tightly.

“Thank you,” he sighed stirring the hairs on your head. You couldn’t speak your mouth wouldn’t work and you were so far away. You fought to stay awake but lost the battle as everything went dark and you knew no more.

You didn’t know where you were at nor did you know who you were for a moment, and you couldn’t place the weight beside you. Hands moved up and down your body in a comforting gesture.

“How are you,” a voice said. You were still a little confused and your body felt weird. You felt more aware and a sense that had never been there before. Your throat was dry and there was a slight pain in your teeth. You touched your gums only to nick your finger on a sharp canine tooth. You watched blood well from the wound, licking the bead away you were amazed to see no cut remained.

“I feel a little odd,” you finally replied finding your voice.

“That’s normal with the change you just went through. But I’ve never been happier in my life.” You looked back, memories finally flooding back. You touched your neck to find that the puncture wounds that John left were gone and there was no trace to what had happened.

“You don’t regret it do you,” he asked a little fear bleeding in his voice.

“Regret my choice? Never. Regret that I decided to do it for you? Possibly.”

He seemed very hurt until he figured out you were joking around. “Now I’m regretting choosing you.”

“Too bad your stuck with me. So does this make me Countess Wick?”

He kissed you deeply pinning you down with his weight, though it didn’t hurt and you felt like you could pick him up with no problem.

“Of course,” he replied between kisses. You pulled him back down not wanting him far away from you. This new life was going to take some getting used to that was for sure. Though you looked forward to every moment.

After sending you up the mountain, no other girl was sent to appease the great Count Jonathan Wick. Rumors and stories traveled throughout the world about the young human woman who tamed a vampire. Girls didn’t fear coming of age no longer, everyone enjoyed peace.The lonely vampire who just wanted companionship finally gotten what he had longed for, for so long. You became one of the most powerful vampires in existence and you beared powerful pure-blooded vampire children. Your little family grew throughout the years and you never regretted once deciding to be with Jonathan. Nor did he ever think he chose unwisely. Everyone enjoyed peace and no one complained, especially you and John.

#John Wick / Reader #John Wick X Reader #Vampire John Wick / Reader #Vampire John Wick X Reader #John Wick #John Wick AU #Vampire AU #John Wick Imagine #Imagine #Baba Yaga #Not My Gif #My Writing #Happy Halloween

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vesperione · 4 years ago

Text

It Started With A Whisper

https://archiveofourown.org/works/24901156

Wordcount: 3,060

Relationship: Xander Lee/John McNamara

Tags: The Apotheosis, transition from non infected to infected, songfic, phone call, angst, crying, last words, flashback.

Full fic below

A flash of golden hair and two hands slamming down on the table, the face of pure rage over the bustling in the room. “I said SILENCE!” He roared, and his agents seemed to get the idea. They silenced themselves and looked down to their table, except one, who was a physicist and remained looking up. The general didn’t stop. “We are in a situation where the spores could spread to become a pandemic worldwide, ending humanity as we know it! We know thanks to Lieutenant Lee that the origin of these mutating spores came from the meteor that crashed into The Starlight Theatre last night during the touring production of Mamma Mia! We know these spores in particular alter DNA to mimic someone in a musical, but once you get infected, you’re dead. We must not panic and remain safe!” He said and glared at each individual soldier, his eyes lingering on the Lieutenant’s face beside him. It was worried, sad, fearful. He looked away first, and the general took a breath.

“Any remaining survivors must be shot dead, once in the head, once in the heart. We don’t know who is infected. The plan after is that we incinerate the corpses of the dead, destroy any last spores with fire and blow the meteor to shreds. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.” A chorus of voices rang from around the table.

“I wish for Lieutenant Lee to stay behind and as for the rest of you? You are required to head straight to your stations and do not move once you are there! PEIP will be in lockdown once everyone is in the correct position. Dismissed.”

With that, the shuffle of chairs against faded carpet, the soldiers left, aside from two. The Lieutenant remained sitting down, his hands putting his head in their hold, while John, pull a chair beside him, placing his hand on his shoulder.

“Dear, a lot of people have died, and it is our duty to make a clean sweep of the island. We can’t allow any others to die today.”

“But if you go out there, there’s a higher possibility that you will die. You can’t go out; you won’t make it back.”

“Xander, listen.” John looked down to his husband, his hands placed in a firm clasp. “We are strong. We are McNamara’s.”

“No, you’re a McNamara, we got married illegally.”

“Regardless, you’re my husband, and you’re the strongest man I know. The McNamara’s are the strongest family in Hatchetfield, we’ll be fine.”

“No, we won’t. Things are indefinitely gonna change whether you make it back or not.” John looked to the Lieutenant, just in time to see a tear drop on to the glass table. He bit his lip and placed his hand on his shoulder.

“I’ll make it back.”

“Stop lying to yourself, John.�� Xander said, his voice shaking as tears continued to fall down his face. “If you go, you’re gonna die. You know that, deep down.” He looked up to face his husband. “The agents we’ve already sent out have died, you know that, I know that, Ben knows that, and you’re gonna send yourself into the epicentre?”

“Xander, you know it’s not like that.” John looked at him, trying to reason, but he shook his head.

“Speaking from a Lieutenant’s point of view, if our general dies, the entire precinct goes down with it. I’m aware Colonel Schaffer is prepared to take over PEIP at any sudden chance you go, but PEIP will never be the same. It won’t be General McNamara’s precinct anymore. Sure, you’ll get your place on the PEIP Hall of Commemoration, but there’ll be a new leader, new rules.”

“I know but-“

“And as your husband, who the fuck am I going to come home to every night aside from the cats?” He looked up at John and took in the slight grey thunderbolt streaks that clashed with his stormy blue skies of irises, creating the picture-perfect storm on what could have been a blank canvas. It was a while before John broke his eyes away and stood up. “No, John! You tell me! You can’t run from this! You can’t run from the pain you’re gonna cause others if you step out that door!”

“It’s hard enough as it is for me to have to leave you, but as the general of this god-forsaken branch, it’s my duty to protect the remaining agents while they stay in the precinct and calculate a cure! You will be one of those to go into your lab and get working!”

“Yet I can’t go with you?!”

“You don’t have the current training!”

“Stop trying to fucking protect me, John! I’ve been here since 2007 and you treat me like a Private most of the time! I’m a 35-year-old Lieutenant with a degree in theoretical physics and I’m fully trained as a medic! I have the training, so why are you sacrificing your life instead of mine?!”

“Because if I have to watch you die, then what’s the point of trying to go on, Xander?! I’d be alive, yes, but I’d only be surviving! If I had to watch you die, then I wouldn’t be able to call myself a married man and the person who kept me alive wouldn’t be there to comfort me. I’d be down, I’d be so down, and I’d end up dead anyway! I’d prefer it if you stayed here, under my orders, and for you to stop being so damn stubborn with me!”

“Me? Stubborn?!” Xander laughed tearfully and looked at him. “You’re the stubborn one! You run from your problems instead of solving them, you bask in your insecurities instead of delving upon them, you-“ But he was cut off by the familiar feeling of John’s semi-chapped lips against his own. John’s hands were cupping his face, and John was standing on his toes to kiss him better. Xander couldn’t help but hold his waist as he kissed him back. He didn’t want to be the one to pull away, and he didn’t think John would want to be the person either, so he could feel the kiss deepening. Eventually, John’s face left his, but his forehead was pressed to the physicist’s. The soft thumb attached to John’s hand wiped away the bead of salt that threatened to roll down Xander’s face.

“Hey, baby,” John started, his eyes closed and his voice quiet. “I’ll be home by ten. I love you.”

“I love you too.” Xander said, a soft whisper in his voice as John moved away from his husband, not before he dropped his wedding and engagement rings in Xander’s fist. Before Xander could process it, he was gone.

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

(a JEIP is a peip officiated jeep)

John started up the JEIP, hearing Xander’s music playing through the speaker. He immediately switched it off. He’d rather not be reminded of his husband as he accepted his fate.

His husband, his smart, incredible, the pure definition of ‘tall, dark and handsome,’ Xander James Lee. His mind was like no others, and John had hired him on the spot. They started dating within a year and got married two years after. They’d both cried when they’d gotten home that night. It had been illegal, and they both knew that, but they had each other. He was John’s new addiction, aside from the cigarettes, and Xander became the only thing he thought about ever. When Xander spoke, sometimes it sounded like what John was being given was fiction, but it was only because John’s mind was struggling to piece together the creative aspects of Xander and the complicated phrases he uttered. It didn’t matter. John was a sorry sucker for the smart, and he found that this kind of thing happened all the time. He was an easy target to gain a crush on someone, but he rarely acted upon it. If Xander hadn’t kissed John in his office to begin with, he wouldn’t be married to the smartest guy in town.

He shook his head. Thinking of Xander would make everyone worse. He started driving deeper into the centre of Hatchetfield to reach Hatchetfield High, the school where he suspected there’d be a few survivors, if any. The grey haze around him soon became a paler blue. He locked his doors and windows, but he feared it was too late.

It started with a whisper. It was only the smallest thing, but it was in the back of John’s mind, and he knew he was gone.

He doesn’t love you.

“ No, John, ignore it.”

And you don’t love him.

“ Of course you do, you’re married to him, don’t cave in.”

That was why you kissed her when you were drunk.

“John, you only kissed her when you were seventeen, it was internalised homophobia and we didn’t know Xander back then.”

But you liked the way she felt against your lips.

“No. I didn’t.”

And then she made your lips hurt.

“Shut up.” The voice was getting louder, and it was being sung to him.

But we can hear the chit chat, so take us to your love shack-

He hit the breaks and he jerked forward, panting at the memory. It was internalised homophobia, and nothing came out of it. He was left in silence until he heard the voice sing again.

Mama’s always gotta back track, when everybody talks back.

He growled and got out the car, lighting a cigarette. He was in Hatchetfield High, or near enough to it. He held his gun in his hand. He had to go and find any survivors and eliminate them.

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

Eventually he did. He found a tall, flimsy man with brunette hair who looked a lot like Xander aside from the pale skin. John grabbed a chair as the man became conscious, groaning with pain. The voice had gone away, and the general was having an internal debate as to whether he was truly infected, or whether his mind was convincing him he was. Either way, he was beginning to get scared. He’d broken his promise to his husband, he’d lost the fight.

“Sorry for the knock in the head, son. What’s your name?”

“Uh, Paul…Matthews.” The guy said, and John smiled reassuringly.

“Good evening, Paul. My name is General John McNamara of the United States Military, special unit P-E-I-P, we call it PEIP.” He said as he took a seat, facing the taller man.

“PEIP? I’ve never heard of you guys.” It was clear he was confused, which was the correct tactic. No citizen outside of PEIP should know what the army base was. Even if a member had a husband or wife or kids who didn’t work there, they were strictly forbidden from knowing what PEIP was. If information got leaked, it would traumatise a lot of people. They had to be careful who they hired and had to ensure they remained to have top secrecy 24:7. It wasn’t fair on the innocent citizens for them to be placed in a situation like that, and immediately begin to panic. He’d watched it happen when his mentor, Wilbur Cross, was unintentionally too loud when discussing a case they had to work on. Needless to say, that woman lost her life that day before she could spread rumours.

John shook his head at the faint memory, quick to come up with a joke to make the situation more light-hearted and less threatening as he’d been taught during his training.

“And you never will, not a peep.” He grinned, but Paul’s fearful, brown eyes remained wide and dilated. John sighed and took another drag on the cigarette. “That was a joke, son.” Only then did the song begin to start up again.

Hey, honey, you could be my drug. You could be my new prescription.

John froze as Paul started asking questions about the scene. The song was back, and he was losing hope about himself. John answered the questions the best he could, explaining how they dealt with crises of a certain nature and such. Then he bought up the helicopter, and Paul perked up. When John stood up with Paul’s phone in his hand, he went to throw it until he heard the song again.

Too much could be an overdose, all this trash talk make me itchin’.

John swallowed and decided to only throw it a short distance, beginning to get scared. Him and Paul continued to make short conversation about his crush, Emma, and where to go. Once Paul ran out the building, John headed back over to the phone. The lock screen was nothing special, and he didn’t know the passcode, but he was able to swipe on to the emergency phone call section. He had Xander’s phone number memorised, so he typed it in, sitting against a mat on the floor, leaning against the wall as the song continued in his head.

Oh my, my. Everybody talks, everybody talks. Everybody talks, too much.

John felt tears prick his eyes, grateful when he heard the static of the other end picking up.

“Xander Lee, theoretical physicist speaking, how may I help?”

“Hey, baby.” John said, unable to stop a smile from forming as it always did when he heard Xander’s voice.

“John! Shit! Is everything okay?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine, I swear.” That was a lie. The song was getting stronger and he was starting to feel a faint rhythm in his veins. He was getting scared. Maybe he wasn’t making it home…

“You sound panicked.”

“I’m ringing to ensure everything’s running smoothly back at HQ. Is it?”

“As smooth as it can be.” Xander’s sigh was heavy, pulling his entire weight down with him. John found himself sinking further down into the ground at the sound. “But I’m okay. I’m in my lab and I haven’t let anybody in. I’m quarantined.”

“Good.” John said, moving his beret more over his hair. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”

“I understand. You’re doing what you have to do. You’re the general, I should have trusted you before-“

“Hey, sweetheart, don’t play the blame game now. It’s okay and I’ve forgiven you, understand?”

“Understood, John.”

“Good.” John said, clutching the edge of the mat as the beat began to become something similar to an annoying itch. He began to tap out the beat on to the carpet beside him with his other hand, trying to keep fighting the virus that consumed him. “I love you.”

“I love you too. And I can’t wait for you to come home, I know you’ll be able to do it.”

That seemed to trigger something inside of John, and something slipped out of his mouth that wasn’t supposed to. “I never thought I’d live to see the day, when everybody’s words got in the way.” He was still speaking, but the beat was as clear as day. Luckily, he heard Xander laugh over the phone. His soft laugh that was rare to hear. John was the only one who heard it lately.

“You’re still annoyed at me for trying to stop you from leaving earlier, aren’t you?” Another laugh followed. “I knew you would, I’m not surprised.”

John couldn’t hold back any longer. He had to tell Xander the truth. He was gone, and he was falling quicker. He had to say goodbye while he still could. “Hey sugar, show me all your love. All you’re giving me is friction.”

“John?” The question was meek and scared, the tone of the call immediately fading. John never used that pet name. Something was wrong. He knew John wouldn’t have rang otherwise.

“Hey, sugar, what you gotta say?” Another way to reveal John wasn’t himself anymore. He hardly abbreviated his words and was unable to keep himself fighting the infection. He felt weak, and he knew he was. He fought back for consciousness as tears formed more in his eyes. What was worse was Xander’s panicked voice.

“John, what’s going on?!” The frantic clicking of keys on the other end of the line signalled to John that Xander was trying to access John’s medical information stored in John’s watch. He took a breath. He had to admit to Xander the truth.

“I’m sorry, Xander. But it started with a whisper…” He was quiet himself, trying to prevent sobs.

“No! Don’t you dare, John! Don’t you dare!”

“And it felt like the first time I kissed you, when you made my lips hurt.”

“You are staying alive! I’m working on a cure, I nearly have it finished! I’ll get you back!”

“And suddenly, I could hear a conjoined group of voices in Hatchetfield all singing in one harmony…there was a lot of chit chat regarding a situation that turned into a song… and I’m sorry.”

“John! You’re lying!”

“Take me to your love shack.” He slipped up and heard a sob come from the other line, or maybe it was a scream. “I’m sorry, Xander, I’m trying to fight but it’s heard when everybody talks back, everybody talks, everybody talks-“

“John, keep fighting-“

“Everybody talks, everybody talks.”

“I’ve almost gotten the cure!”

“Everybody talks, everybody talks back….I’m sorry, I love you.”

“John, fucking fight!”

“Say it back, Xander! I love you!”

“I-I love you too!”

The phone hung up and John threw it until it smashed on the ground, letting the warmth fill his body as his own thoughts became clouded with the hives own.

“It started with a whisper, and that was when I kissed him.” A smirk formed on John’s face as he looked to the damaged glass he’d left on the floor. He pulled himself up, like a puppet controlled by a master. “Everybody talks, everybody talks back.” He took a final glance at the room before he walked in the same beat as the new song beginning to form. It was close enough to eleven o’clock at night. There was a guy with a moustache he didn’t recognise, but he was talking about the military and his American pride. John would have scoffed, but this wasn’t John. He drew his gun and shot him, grabbing the man’s shoulder. Xander didn’t exist to the hive. Xander was weak. Xander could be thrown away. John couldn’t. His smile was stained blue as he looked to the bleeding man.

“I don’t know what you’ve been told, but American’s should fit a mould…”

#mcnamander #john mcnamara #xander lee #general john mcnamara #fanfic #ao3 #peiphq shenanigans #the apotheosis

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antarez4307-blog · 5 years ago

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First Short Story (Lullaby)

They ran through the meadow, laughing all the way. Father had gone to the city for work and would be gone until dusk. Mommy had woken her up with a breakfast of fruits and cheese, and then combed and curled her hair. She was even allowed to wear her favorite dress because today was special. Today was the day that marked five years since Mommy and Father had taken her in after her parents died in the war. She’d been so little that she couldn’t remember them except as vague bits of warmth in her life. Mommy and Father took care of her now and loved her so. Father would be back in time to celebrate at evening meal. Mommy planned to take her into the village to get a present. But that would come later. Now they were running and playing in the field as the birds sang sweetly in the light.

They walked past the neighbor’s barn, hearing cows moo as they were milked at midday. A woman shouted out, “Erienne! Erienne, wait a breath!” Mommy tisked and turned towards the woman they called Old Gran with a smile. “What is ever the matter, Old Gran?”, she asked sweetly. The old woman walked up to her, and put a hand on her face, forcing her to lean down for a better look. “Ach, fer a start, ye should get sum sun, child. Yer skin’s pale as a ghost. If’n I didn’ know better, I’d call ye a wraith. Were it not for the Autumn breeze, I’d worry ye were catchin’ a chill. Ne’ermind that. Be wary on the way to town. Folk’s been talkin’ ‘bout a blood drinker ‘ereabouts. Pigs’ been cropping up dead of late. One torn ter pieces, others with their throats slashed and drained o’ blood.” Mommy looked scared, then asked “Aye, but what should we do? Isen won’t be back ‘till dusk.” Old Gran looked at Mommy kindly, “Oh, tis naught but a simple thing, dear. A line o’ salt ‘neath yer doors an’ windows will keep fiends, wraiths, and bloodsuckers out. None o’em can walk over it. Do it while the sun’s still out, and ye’ll be fine. Oh, and wear yer moonstone necklace! Fright’ns the basterds away.” Mommy looked happy, and hugged Old Gran. She thanked her for the advice and said we should be off so we’d not be late.

A few hours later, Mommy and her daughter walked through the town market. Mommy had promised to let her make a wish at the well before they went home. Now they were looking through the stalls for a gift for her. “Minishka, come see this! You’ll love it.”, shouted Mommy. The girl ran over to her mother, and saw a necklace of wound red silk with a shiny green stone. She squealed happily, and asked “Mommy, can I have it? It’s so pretty.” Mommy smiled, and gently told her “Of course dear. Today is special. And it goes so well with your hair and eyes. Come, we’ll buy it together.” They walked over to the merchant, the little girl happily holding her present. The merchant looked at them both, and asked “And how might I help ye?” Mommy and the merchant haggled for a bit over the price. After agreeing, he remarked, “It does suit the child.” He turned to her, “You’ll look quite pretty with this necklace. Would you like me to tie it on?” The child nodded with all the enthusiasm an eight year old girl could muster. After it was tied on, she was shown how she looked in a glass. “Mommy, I look near as pretty as you! It even hides my scar.” The girl skipped away happily, staying within a few feet of the jeweler’s stall where mother was speaking.

“Ye plan to be in yer house by nightfall, neh? There’s been talk o’ a blood drinker in the town. Killed a city guard few nights ago. If armed guards aren’ safe to wander at night, I’d not fancy the chances o’ tha likes o’ you an’ me.”, the merchant told Mother. The woman nodded, “Aye, you’ve got the right of it good man. My neighbor told me of what she’d heard when she last came to market. We’d planned to go to the well for my daughter to make her birthday’s wish, then head right back home. My husband will be along to home shortly, and he’s always made sure of the salt on our doors and windows. He even draws a line afore the hearth! No fiend will enter our house see if they don’t!” The merchant nodded understandingly. “Good, good. Glad to hear ye be a sensible lass. Rare in one so young as ye. Ye’ve a good eye too. That necklace be perfect for yer lass, and covers her ghastly scar. I was sure the poor girl would see me turn pale when I saw it.” The woman looked quite sad at the mention of her daughter’s scar. “Yes. . . She had an accident in the woods playing one day. Fell to the ground, and was bit by a viper. T’was all the pellar could do to keep her alive once the wound mortified. The scar. . . he said she’d carry it all her life.” Tears rolled down her high cheekbones as she spoke. The man looked mortified with what he’d done, “Apologies m’lady. Ne’er meant to stir up bad memories. Even with that scar, she’ll grow into a properly beautiful lass. How not, with a mother like ye? Aye, but Ah’ve spoken too much. I’ll leave ye be on yer way. Gods be with ye all, m’lady.”

They walked away from the stall to the village well. Mommy pulled her daughter to the edge of the well and told her to make her wish. “I, Elaine, vow to the gods that today I am theirs. I ask them to bless me, and grant me this wish: that I live with my wonderful Mommy and Father for all time.” As Mommy let her down, she turned around and hugged her as hard as she could. “I love you, Mommy.” She felt her mother’s arms around her, holding her tight as she kissed her cheek and whispered “I love you, Minishka” back.

Father returned from the city just before dusk, bringing her favorite sweet tart with him. They all sang the traditional birthday song to Elaine, and played games after the evening meal until sundown. As Mommy carried her back to her room, Father checked the salt underneath each of the windows and doors to make sure it was still where it should be. Mommy lay her down in her bed, and smoothed out her hair. “Minishka, would you like a lullaby to sleep?” She looked up to Mommy’s smiling face and nodded. Mommy leaned close, and sang

The winds-did howl, as daylight fled. All the dear children went, to bed. But thoughts most foul, did fill her head. Dear little Lilith, awake-with dread. She whimpered quietly, into the night, Each moment that passed, growing her fright. Tears came down, in ghastly flood. As she waited for it-to drink, her blood. And so she lay, awake in bed. Fearing in darkness, the monstrous dead. As night wore on, she fell asleep. To horrid slumber, dark and deep. Yet morning came, with wan sunlight. She woke to her mother’s smile, so bright. She thanked her gods, she was not dead. On her neck was a pale, red kiss, instead.

She sang the lullaby twice more at Elaine’s request. “Mommy, you sing so pretty! I hope I can sing like you when I grow up.”, Elaine spoke tiredly. The woman smiled and put her hand on the child’s cheek. “Minishka, someday you will sing far more beautifully than I can. I’ll teach you how.” The little girl lay her head into her mother’s hand, and smiled. “Mommy, can you sing it again? I love to hear your voice.” The woman smiled, and replied “Minishka, I’ve sung three times for you. It’s time to rest. Sleep and dream kind things, we’ll sing more tomorrow.”

The child put a petulant face on, and said stubbornly, “I want to hear you sing again.” The woman’s face changed in a second. Gone was the kind smile of Mommy; in her place was a sharp featured woman with eyes like gray rocks and none of the warmth of stone. “Sleep, child. We’ll sing on the morrow.” Elaine nodded hurriedly. It was never good to anger Mommy. As fast as it came, the scary face was gone. Gentle, sweet Mommy was back, smiling as ever. Mommy kissed her forehead, and blew out the candle. “Good night, Minishka.”

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

Erienne let down her hair as she walked out of her daughter’s room. The house was almost pitch black, only a deep red glow coming from the embers of the hearth. Isenrill’s breathing sounded clear across the house, a soft and rhythmic whisper as he slept. He must be tired from working so hard. I’ll let him sleep on the morrow. She smiled thinking of how excited he’d been lately to have a day off to spend with Elaine. She sipped from a small bottle full of dark liquid that lay on the top of the shelf and walked out of the house into the moonlit night, thinking to herself that it was in these quiet moments she felt most at peace. She’d grabbed the bottle as she walked out. Now it nested comfortably at her waist. She spied a toy of her daughter’s in the yard, and went to pick it up. Whispering quietly the words of her lullaby as she walked around their woods.

A soft whisper of wings came to her ears, and she froze. She focused on the sound. A bat seemed to be hunting. A whispered crunch, barely audible from so far away, accompanied its success. A cloud moved just then, and moonlight shone. Her skin seemed paler than the necklace of silver around her neck. Her dark hair and eyes seemed black in the night, the latter sunken into the recesses of her face that would leave an observer the impression of empty sockets. Anyone who saw her now would be frightened half to death thinking the corpse of a young woman had risen.

She kept walking along their territory, listening to the woods and enjoying its sounds. Slowly, silence began to descend around her. Gently crunching, leaves gave away the approach of people before their breathing. The ragged smell of sweat and alcohol came off the men in waves that offended her nose. She heard them pause and begin to whisper of what to do. They resolved themselves and approached her. “Oi! You there! What’re you doin’ ‘ere?”, the man demanded too loudly for comfort. Erienne looked at him with a sweetly innocent face, and replied “I am merely walking through my lands, good man. Might I ask you why it is you are here?” He stomped closer to her, hand on an axe. “We be lookin’ fer the bloodsuckin’ freak that’s been prowlin’ round the village lately. One o’ the men claims he saw it flying this way.” He leaned in close, his appalling smell coming off in waves. The two men with him circling behind her. Erienne did her best to appear frightened, and told them, “Oh, that is so dreadful, that a vampire is lurking nearby. I shall run home at once, and have my husband draw lines of salt beneath our windows and doors.” She looked for all the world like a flustered young girl then.

One of them men looked at her, and recognized who she was. “Yer Isen’s lass, ain’t ye? What the devil ye be doin’ out here? Didn’t he tell ye about the monster?!” Erienne simply shook her head. The man grabbed her hand, more roughly than he might have had he been sober, and pulled her along to her house. As he did so, the bottle at her waist fell and broke. The men stopped and looked at it. One of them leaned down to it, and then bolted upright. “That’s blood! What the devil ye be doin’ with a bottle o’ BLOOD o’ all things?!” The man’s face was contorted in terror, his fear coming off him in ragged waves along with the foul odors he had been emanating earlier. The first man to speak to her caught on, and looking deadly serious spoke, “Yer the blood sucker. . . YER the fiend! By the gods, how many YEARS ye been hurtin’ us kind folk?!” She looked at him in shock, “How can you say that? I’ve never done ANYTHING to hurt the village. I took in a CHILD, by the gods. How can you accuse me of being such a fiend?!” The men grabbed their weapons, and moved to surround her at a distance. Their leader spoke, “Tis no use, FREAK! We’ll carve ye up, shove stakes into yer heart, and burn the pieces. Ye’ll die for all you’ve done, I swear it!”

Sick of the playacting, Erienne dropped the scared girl act. “It used to be that men knew their place, you know.” She dropped the cloak from around her shoulders. “Cowards and bastards like you would never have dared come after one of mine in decades past.” Her nails began to extend, turning into claws. “And the audacity! To think yourselves better than me. Two wife beaters and a whoremonger. How hypocritical.” -One of the men spoke up, “wha’ I do wit me cock ain’t none o’ yer business, BITCH!”- Erienne’s voice deepened several octaves, “You should have stopped at ‘freak’, imbecile. Not just a hypocrite and a monstrous person, but a moron as well. Humans should thank me for removing you from the breeding pool.” The men began to circle closer to her, their weapons trembling from fear or adrenaline. Her fangs began to lengthen and sharpen while her eyes expanded until they had no whites. She looked around, and said “On your heads be it.”

None of them expected how fast she would move. The first one had half his neck torn out by a swipe of her talons while he was lifting his axe. The second one swung down at her with both hands. She pirouetted quickly inside of his arms, and lifted up her hands. As his arms slowly, to her, descended into her palms, she squeezed. The pieces of the arms were barely falling when she locked her fangs around his throat, and threw him into the last of the men. As they landed sprawled, Erienne landed atop him and slammed her palm into the third man’s head. As she lifted her palm from the remains, she gently passed her tongue along it. Her first thought was, Blech, that tastes like rutting boar. The second was simply, I’m going to need something stronger than this swill.

The corpses had been taken care of; the dogs had eaten quite well. She had her bloody dress in a sackcloth. Come morning, she’d dye it burgundy. Isen kept saying the color looked wonderful on her, so he’d not be suspicious. She walked into their room, looking at her husband tenderly. In a few hours the sun would rise, but for now she simply enjoyed the darkened room and listening to his breathing. . . his pulse. She caressed his face gently, then turned to her daughter’s room. The impulse she felt brought up a mix of guilt, sadness, and fear bubbling up from a place deep within her. I’ll be careful this time. Elaine won’t get another scar from me. As she stood up to walk to her dear daughter’s room, she thought, I need a drink.”

#shortstory #lullaby #vampire

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crazy-grrrl-on-the-computer · 5 years ago

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Love Never Dies is not the fix-it fic I was expecting

Recently, I found out there was a sequel movie to that 2004 Phantom of the Opera movie with Gerard Butler in it. And since I’ve been on a Phantom kick... I watched it.

It's called Love Never Dies and it basically reads like someone's "fix-it fic" where Raoul turns out to be an abusive gambling drunk and Christine actually DID have sex with the Phantom once and WHOOPS the son Raoul thinks is his own is ACTUALLY the Phantom's son and in the end she fucking dies, so her dying wish is for Phantom to raise the boy.... and I guess kiss her corpse one last time because That Happened....

ALSO ABOUT 30 MINUTES INTO THE MOVIE PHANTOM AND CHRISTINE START SINGING ABOUT HAVING SEX, SO I JUST WANT YOU TO KNOW AND BE PREPARED FOR THAT BECAUSE IT IS BOTH HILARIOUS AND EXTREMELY AWKWARD.

Seriously, I had to keep pausing the movie to laugh because I swear they started having sex with their voices by the end of the duet. My major question after all that is... when did they actually HAVE time to do the devil's tango during the first movie? Like... at what point exactly did this take place? What did I miss? XD

Bearing all that in mind, I’m going to take anyone interested in this on a little adventure through the highlights of this movie. Because I already essentially live blogged this to several people as I was going through it and I feel like it’s worth sharing.

There is a plot twist at the end of this “fix-it” - trust me it’s worth it, please keep reading you’re in for a treat~

~.~

WELL ANYWAY THIS IS THE LOOK ON PHANTOM'S FACE WHEN HE REALIZES FOR THE FIRST TIME THAT CHRISTINE HAS A SON

This, mind you, is directly after the scene in which they've just sung a duet about how they bonked each other way back when.....

Like... they literally transition from "GRAPHIC VOICE FUCKING" to "Sing for me again, Christine! I'll pay you double what you were offered by that Hammerstein fellow!" to "OH HEY LOOK A CHILD!" asdhklf

That's not the face of a man who's like "OH SHIT I HAVE A SON"

That is the face of a man who's like "OH SHIT MY RIVAL GOT MY CRUSH PREGNANT, NOW I HAVE TO KILL THE BOY" because he hasn't fucking figured it out yet and I'm cackling this is awful.

Flash forward a few short scenes and

THIS!!! THIS IS THE FACE OF A MAN WHO JUST REALIZED "OH SHIT THIS IS MY SON!"

"this boy... this music... he plays... just like me" he figured it out... because... the kid plays piano.... I just

Breaking News: latent piano talent is hereditary Amazing XD

Meanwhile, the kid’s just:

"uh, dude? you okay over there?"

Also, I feel like I have to mention that Phantom's hair is all sleek and black and full right up until he discovers he has a son, decides to test him to see if this boy could truly be his.... and then takes off his mask to the sound of his son SCREECHING BLOODY MURDER BECAUSE APPARENTLY ACTUAL DEFORMED HUMANS IN GLASS CAGES ARE BEAUTIFUL BUT A BUBBLE SUNBURN SCAR FACE IS THE MOST HIDEOUS THING THIS CHILD HAS EVER SEEN WITH HIS 10-YEAR-OLD EYES.... and that's evidently enough to make Phantom's hair go thin and grey and start falling out of his head because he looks like he's Been Through Some Shit right after that.

Poor dude can only take so much rejection, it seems. That child aged him by at least 50 years all in the span of a few minutes.

Meanwhile, I'm still vexxed by the fact that the Phantom in this movie is somehow still convinced his non-birth deformity couldn't possibly NOT be genetically passed on to his child.... because it's... you know... not a genetic deformity in the Phantom cinematic universe of these two movies unlike in the original source material...

His bubble sunburn scar face was obtained through abuse he received while being caged for a freak show since his childhood... so why is he somehow convinced that it's impossible for his offspring to be born without a deformity? I mean, I get what the movie is trying to go for with his initial denial that he could produce something so beautiful... considering he has internalized the idea that his outward appearance is ugly, he could never be beautiful, and it's the reason for his loneliness... but I'm just too distracted by this discrepancy.

I mean...

Movie Phantom: *is surprised non-genetic deformity isn't hereditary* Also Movie Phantom: *thinks latent musical talent/interest is hereditary*

Aah, yes. It all makes sense now. Everything is genetic but actual genetics itself. How foolish of me. XD

~.~

And then the second half of this movie is really something.....

16 minutes in to the second act and Raoul has gambled his wife away because he was drunk and Phantom saw the perfect opportunity to swoop in and hit him in his "manly pride spot"

Phantom, out here in full fuckboy mode: "Alright, Raoul, let's settle this once and for all, you drunken bastard. How about we take a gamble?"

Raoul: "Dammit, you know I can't resist a gamble!"

Phantom: "If Christine does the singing gig she's being paid to do, it means she loves me and you have to disappear forever! But if she decides to drop her career for some reason, it means she loves you and I'll leave you alone."

Raoul: "Sounds perfectly reasonable to me! So, I'm going to charge right into her dressing room 10 minutes before she's due to sing and then beg her to drop her entire career for me without informing her of this stupid bet we've just made! That'll totally win her heart and not come back to bite me in a classic misunderstanding at all!"

Phantom: "Excellent, you stupid boy! You go do that!"

Phantom then proceeds to convince Christine that Raoul is a selfish bastard who wants to hold her back from reaching her potential like the shitty sexist husbands of the time.

Raoul:

~.~

Now it's the end of the movie, Christine is dead, their son is sadly laying in her lap.... and Raoul just arrived on the scene, so Phantom lifts his hand off the boy's head after trying to have A Moment and does THIS

I don't even know what this face is, but I fucking love it. Ben Lewis’ facial expressions make this whole movie, to be honest. XD

Phantom literally just.... doesn't know what to do with his hands. He just removes himself from the scene, hands Raoul back his dead wife like "okay, here's your family back, sorry I got involved" and then cries at the ocean for a while asdhklf

Then the son goes up to the Phantom, hugs him, takes his mask off and DOESN'T SCREAM IN TERROR THIS TIME.... because he finally accepted this man as his birth father and understands that beauty comes from within and all that jazz.

So, what I got out of this ending here..... is that Christine is dead...... and Raoul and Phantom are finally going to put aside their differences to raise their son (now that their mutual love interest is out of the picture). And now I'm kind of wondering if.... this "fix-it fic" actually had a different ship in mind the entire time and they just really needed to find a feasible way to get Phantom's DNA into the mix. XD

So, in conclusion, my only question is this: Where is the sequel to THIS movie, Andrew Lloyd Webber?! Where is my sequel where Raoul and Phantom have to share the domestic responsibilities of raising their son together???!!!?!? WHERE IS IT, YOU COWARD GIVE ME MY SEQUEL WHERE THESE TWO AWFUL MEN HAVE TO REFORM THEMSELVES AND EACH OTHER FOR THE SAKE OF THEIR CHILD AND A HEALTHIER LIFESTYLE! YOU BUTCHERED THEM, SO NOW YOU HAVE TO FIX THEM! THINK OF THE CHILDREN!

#Phantom of the Opera #Love Never Dies #random thought #if Tumblr flags this because of my swearing I really really hope someone has to sit down and read this post with their own human eyes #validate my suffering please XD #the character assassinations in this sequel were horrible they all deserved so much better than this

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tialasnow · 6 years ago

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Limits

It was hard to tell at this point weather the burn came from her weakened body, or the fact that it was just cheap whiskey bought on a whim in this crowded tavern.

Tiala sat alone, an ever growing trend for the Quel’dorei. Thalin was most likely busy maintaining his men, Allie was off with her husband, and light knows Dithaya was no where to be found not that Tiala would want to find her at this point.She was alone again, her default state.

(It’s a bit of a long one after the break)

This was common, far too common if she’d be honest. She was a fool. She set up this wall, a defense mechanism that only ended up hurting people. If asked she’d tell you she was lucky anyone even talked to her at this point. She’s hurt every friend she has, or it at least will hurt them at some point.

Another sip brought the burn again, her chest warming as the liquid rushed down her throat. Even in this crowded, loud, bustling tavern. With some man shouting something to her trying to get her attention she felt lonely. She needed to work on herself that was sure. Every attempt she had made to enter her own mind had ended with the same questions. How could she work on herself when she didn’t even really know who she was?

Her childhood really was far from normal. For as long as she could remember her mother acted strangely. On evenings, after Tiala had finished her schooling and pile of extra lessons her father insisted on giving her, her mother would sneak the young Quel’dorei off to the dark basement of the Snowdancer spire. There she would show and teach the young girl sinister and dark magic.

What was only referred to as the Gift was really a curse to Tiala. If she hadn’t been taught this her family would still be alive, she could still walk the streets of Silvermoon, she would still have Ally. Maybe even that relationship would be better. It was Tiala’s power that drove them apart after all, that twisted the mind of the innocent arcanist.

In reality Tiala knew Ally was always cheating on her. She always saw other girls the signs were there. Weather it was that troll she was close with. Or even the Sin’dorei woman that was with her the day the Quel’dorei under the orders of the Silver Covenant turned on their own kin. Tia knew that relationship was broken but at least it was stable, at least she wasn’t this lonely.

She finished off the glass finally turning to look at the rather large man that was leaning into her.

“What do you want?” She spoke flatly her eyes narrowing as she smelt the pungent alcohol on his breath.

“To speak to the pretty elf.” The man grinned “didn’t know I wus tryin to talk to a bitch though. Figures, elves are all the same.” He leaned in closer his voice lowering as he did so.

Perhaps it was the old memories, or perhaps she was just so fed up that she snapped. With a grunt she swung her fist at the man. Her whole arm flashed with a sinister dark color as shadows over took her body. Her fist impacted with more force than the woman should have been able to produce knocking the man clean onto the floor. She pulled away her mind hazy. She struck someone, she hadn’t done that in nearly a year.

Panic swept her mind as she stepped back into the bar she had previously been leaning on. A crowd began to form rushing to the man’s aid as she stood shaking. Eyes wide with terror at what she had done.

Her mind flashed back in time to her in the Wyvern’s Tail, standing above some orc who didn’t expect a right hook like that to come from the small elf. Her clenched fist trembled for just a moment before she swung down again and again. Each swing more shadows forming around the woman’s hand, growing in her arm and threatening to take over her entire body.

The orc was motionless, dead from the first punch that knocked him cold onto the table behind them and snapping his neck. But Tiala didn’t know that. She kept swinging over and over. Even as her fiancé pulled her away a terrified look on the Arcanist’s face Tiala felt nothing but anger at this corpse.

It was the first time she’d truly lost herself to the shadows that seemed to grip at her very being. The first time she’d taken a life out of a momentary lapse of control of her own body. Her breath was heavy as she felt herself return to control. She hesitated looking to the bloodied corpse before quickly rushing out of the tavern, fiancé following quickly behind.

Her memory snapped back to the present as a guard approached her. Without a word the thickly armored man wrapped an arm around her bringing her away from the scene. It wasn’t until they were outside of the tavern that she noticed her bloodied hand. She was trembling, enough to cause several strange looks from the people just trying to enjoy their evening.

The guard lead her out of the district towards the stockades without a word. His eyes were calm his face neutral as they walked in silence beside each other.

“What did he say to you?” The deep voice of the man finally broke through the silence”

“He was... he was aggressive when I turned down his advances” The bard lied, at least she thought it was lie, she couldn’t make sense of what had happened. Everything had been a blur of buried memories slowly rising to the surface. “I... I think I had too much to drink I’m struggling to remember what was happening.”

“This isn’t the first time he’s done something like this.” The man sighed through his metal helmet placing a hand on Tiala’s shoulder. “Though I think this is the first time one of his ‘victims’ knocked him out like that.” He gave a reassuring chuckle trying to calm the woman “You aren’t in any trouble, though I will be escorting you home.”

“Right th-thank you.” She nodded grasping at her own arm nervously. She felt small in this moment. Were once she’d be proud of herself for knocking someone like that out, she was worried. She was afraid of loosing herself again. She didn’t know what limit she could push her shadow magic before risking the whispers entering her mind again.

The rest of the walk was silent save for a simple goodbye and thank you as she entered her home. Locking the door behind her she wandered without a destination. It was dark, quiet, the whole house filled with the vast sounds of emptiness.

Her mind raced away once again to that day. It was beautiful. The light of the sun pouring into the curtains of the bedroom. Aelisse, Tiala’s Ally, was sprawled along the bed humming a song Tiala had sung to her once. Her red hair was lazily tied back just enough to keep it from falling in her face interrupting her from the book she was reading.

Her mind snapped back again as she entered her bedroom. Her bed empty, the sheets still messy from the last night she spent with Dithaya. She hadn’t slept in her bed since, she had hardly slept since. She stepped slowly sitting on her desk in front of the closed book of magics. At least with this she knew her limit. She sighed resting her cheek on her hand.

“I have to go back... I need to figure out just what mother wanted from me.”

Mentions @wildname @roses-and-arrows @alliesweetsong-wra

#writing #tiala snowdancer #Wyrmrest Accord #stormwind

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queenslasharchive · 6 years ago

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Pretender To The Throne (Chapter 1: My Fairy King (1967-1976))

Rolling Stone: “In the early 1970s, when [girlfriend Mary] Austin suggested they have a child together, Mercury allegedly responded, ‘I’d rather have a cat.’”

Some of Sky’s earliest memories were of Queen songs.

Most were off-key (read: horrible) renditions sung by his mother, but the words were still the same.

“In the land where horses born with eagle wings And honey bees have lost their stings There’s singing forever, ooh yeah… Lion’s den with fallow deer And rivers made from wine so clear Flow on and on forever…

Dragons fly like sparrows thru’ the air And baby lambs where Samson dares To go on on on on on on…”

My Fairy King was his favorite, right from the moment it came out on shiny vinyl record, when he was just six years old. He had his own copy too, played it so hard and so often that it was scratched and worn to high heaven.

But it wasn’t the same without his mother to hold him close and sing terribly in the wrong key, flubbing up the transitions and cues. She always tried, he had to give her credit. It was her favorite too.

She liked all of the songs about Rhye.

“It reminds of your Daddy, Rhys.” She would whisper to him, as they huddled together on an old futon, in their gross one-room apartment, the black mold on the ceiling grew in funny ways reminiscent of the animal crackers she would often pack away in his lunch-kit. “He was My Fairy King.” She would look away, almost wistful for a moment, before covering his tiny body in kisses that made him squeal indignantly, desperately trying to bat her hands away.

“And you're My Fairy Prince!” She would say. “So I’m going to eat you all up! Sugar and spice and everything nice!"

Making monster noises as she tickled the everliving daylights out of him. He would laugh until he was crying and breathless, watery eyes staring up at her with cheeks flushed pink.

"No, Mama!” He would protest in mock-offense. “I’m a boy! Those are for girls!”

“Ah!” She would pause as if it were some great revelation. “Snips, snails and puppy-dog tails! …Oh no, that doesn’t sound anything like my little Prince Rhye at all!"

She named him Rhye after the make-believe world that his father had created in his youth.

According to her, he used to tell stories about it to anyone who would listen and sketch out the most beautiful scenes in the margins of his notebooks. They grew closer during his last days at Isleworth Polytechnic, right before he transferred to Ealing Art College in London. He was so gifted, so smart. They only shared a few classes together in a handful of months, but it was enough to leave her smitten. He was charismatic, beautiful and almost as otherworldly as the dreams he’d had for himself.

He’d had the most lovely smile, those protruding teeth that she’d always found so adorable, but that he’d always expressly hated.

She loved how Sky had inherited that same smile.

When his adult teeth came in and the sight alone made him cry, she told him he looked positively exquisite in their distinctness. (Sky thought he looked like even more of a sideshow freak).

Of all the things in life, that were either foisted upon him or lovingly given, he actually picked the nickname Sky.

Coined it as a toddler when Rhye was too hard to say, it was a made up name anyway. Only his mother (and then Cole in later years)was allowed to call him that, or any little pet-names derived from it. Rhys. Rhy-Guy. Prince Rhye…

Rhye Halley Bulsara. Named after a pretend land, a comet and a man who didn’t even know he existed.

But that was okay.

It was okay, because he always had his mother. She was his everything. She loved him for his weird eyes (that his classmates always made fun of without fail. Until they realized he knew all his math facts and could easily prove them stupid. Or you know, use his teeny tiny fists to cave their faces in) and the bulky teeth too big for his mouth. She loved him for his sparkly tutus over his stripey tights and brightly colored wellies, (that always found their way into the biggest puddles as they walked down the crowded streets of New York City). She loved him for the little songs he would make-up as he marched all his stuffed bears across the floor and the way he scrunched up his speckled nose when he laughed.

She loved him because he was her son in every ounce, not just his father’s prodigal.

She was also the strongest woman he ever knew.

A single mother at nineteen, working two dead-end jobs just to keep them afloat, no insurance to speak of, no money for anything better, and no family to help her.

Then she woke up one morning to find her nine-month-old baby turned ashen gray, and with a fever that boiled beneath his skin like a blazing hellfire. He went from being able to crawl fervently and tug himself into standing positions on furniture, with a gummy smile, to not being able to raise his own head.

Polio.

The Crippler of Children.

Within mere hours he couldn’t breathe on his own, eyes blown wide and lips a swollen sickening gray-blue, gums a bloodless white. Already wearing the guise of a corpse.

The doctors told his mother that he wouldn’t last the night. They even asked if a baptism and last rites were something she wanted.

Nineteen years old and she realized that there was no word for a parent who loses a child. A widower loses a wife, a widow loses a husband, an orphan loses their parents, but no one was ever meant to outlive their child.

She could’ve collapsed to pieces right then and there.

She could’ve just given up on him, like all the doctors and medical personnel who already had, and simply let him go. To join the ranks of the ghost children who’d died of the same crippling disease within the same beige walls of the fever hospital. Instead, Roberta Rhodes, affectionately called Birdy by all who knew her, demanded the best care for her child.

She held him tight as they shoved a needle through the narrow slats of his spine to collect infected fluid. She sang every song she knew until her throat was raw as they bundled him up in an child-sized iron-lung to breathe for him. It was the late 60s, the heyday of polio was over, but for those few still unvaccinated, it never ended.

Sky, the tiny boy that they told her wouldn’t last the night, lived till morning.

And then he did it again and again and again.

The full-body paralysis set in after ten days of being at death’s door and the coming back was rough. It was months before he regained the use of his lungs independently. Longer still until his arms were back under his control.

He celebrated his first birthday in the hospital, looking eagerly at the fireworks that lit up the night sky, just outside his window. The next three birthdays were very much the same. Only for his third birthday: he got crutches, a hard plastic back-brace, and leg braces from his toes to his hips. Braces that had to be changed as he grew, lest they rip open his skin while he hobbled along.

He drew pictures and finger-painted across his chest plates, a million smiling sunflowers and bright hand prints adorned each and every one. The beginnings of his love for art.

By four, all he needed were the leg braces and the crutches. By six it was just the leg braces and within a few months, not even those anymore. The countless painful surgeries to release the tight bits and replace the dead tissue in his legs worked wonders. Of course they also left scars that puckered and resembled the limbs of a stitched up voodoo doll, but they worked.

He could run and jump and play, just like the rest of the children on the block.

He could bounce around in puddles with his brightly colored wellies and be a prince with a toy crown and a scepter made of cardboard and pipe-cleaners. A style he would never really grow out of… something only furthered by the fact he always got at least one toy crown or tiara for his birthday each year.

”My fairy king can see things… He rules the air and turns the tides That are not there for you and me Ooh yeah, he guides the winds… My fairy king can do right and nothing wrong…“

His eyes changed after the polio.

They had always been heterochromic, two different colors. The right, a sharp cerulean reminiscent of his namesake, the left, a rich chocolate brown like melted down Hershey’s bars. Hard and soft, all at once.

His mother had always found his eyes charming, a little piece of her and a little piece of his father. But after the polio, they changed. His pupils, the round little black discs in the center of his irises, exploded. They went from uniformly tiny circles to starbursts, with ragged edges stretched across both irises. The doctor who examined his eyes said that he’d never seen anything like it before, but that it was likely a birth defect. She just hadn’t noticed it beforehand.

That was a lie, as she had spent countless days and nights after his birth just staring at him. Trying to catalogue each and every feature. Nose? Hers. Skin tone? Hers. Cheek bones? Freddie’s. Hair? A mix of them both, her unruly curls with Freddie’s coloring. Eyelashes? Freddie’s.

Those beloved eyes had never had starbursts within them before.

But it was more than just his appearance.

It was what he could see with those eyes and do with the things he saw, that made all the difference…

The nurse had thick curly black hair like his own, big blue-gray eyes and wore a different outfit than the rest of them on the ward, hers looked older somehow, as if she’d come straight out of a sepia photograph. Wearing a strange bent flyaway cap on her head, one that did little to cover up much of anything at all. She would hum to herself quietly as she straightened up the blankets on his bed. But if he stared too long, the edges of her habit would darken and curl upwards, sparks flying and dying in front of his eyes.

He saw her a few times, but they never spoke.

Her lungs had been scorched into veritable ash by the fire that had sent the fever hospital into ruin during the early 1920s, they’d had to rebuild it from the ground up. So she wouldn’t have been able to speak to him anyway.

It was the first time he saw The Dead walk.

But it wasn’t the last.

His mother would hold him by the hand and tug him along when they walked through the city.

She had to, lest he stop to talk to those nice boys on the corner who’d died in the Revolutionary War, or the young Italian immigrant girl hovering around the flower shop, who’d lost her life in the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire, not even that little girl huddled in the gutter with her sallow skin and soiled a white dress, who’d succumbed to a turn-of-the-century Yellow Fever epidemic.

His mother never saw the spirits, but the fact that he did was enough for her to believe in them.

Birdy Rhodes, being the exhausted young woman she was, with fine yet incorrigible blonde curls that would slip from her bun after a long waitressing shift and a childhood touch of magic that never quite left her; would never make her son feel like he was a freak for any of the things he could do or any of the things he couldn’t.

She just loved him with everything she had and did her best to be everything he needed her to be. Hell, she would’ve given him the whole world if it had been hers to give. As it stood, the best she could offer was a grand old name and all the blossoming love in her heart.

Sky may not have had the greatest clothes or technology or living arrangements or even a father, but he had love. Even in those early years, he’d had love.

From his mother, the center of his whole universe.

From the young couple who ran a small records store on 7th Avenue.

They always saved copies of the latest Queen records for the small family and either sold them the vinyl at a dirt-cheap price or gave them to him and his mother for free.

Surely they saw the same very distinctive teeth on him as they did on the frontman of the British band, the same cheekbones, the same dark hair, the same fledgling face shape. They knew. They had to have known. But they never said anything about it. Never called the newspapers or prodded with uncomfortable questions. They just loved. And gave some of that burgeoning love to him and his mother.

From the spirits who sought him out for comfort.

Apparently being earthbound was a fate worse than death. It was tantamount to living in a world full of muted grays and emptiness, except for people like him. Lighthouses, one spirit told him, a boy with the glassy eyes and hoarse voice of a diphtheria death, you’re like a shining lighthouse in a storm. You come in color, all warm oranges and yellows turned gold.

So a flashlight, he surmised.

From his Cole.

Coltrane Brennan was an Irish kid turned American expat, named after the great American saxophone player and the only reason Sky learned about his real Gift at all. The seeing dead people thing was only part of it. The easier part.

As it turned out, he could give out just as much love as he got, just in a different way. Cole taught him that.

Cole was the first.

It all started: with a bully stealing Sky’s ratty sketchbook as he sat quietly on the swings, scribbling away.

It ended: with Cole holding said sketchbook aloft, blood streaming from his nose and mouth, as well as a nasty cut on his forehead near his hairline, yet with a smile alight in sweet victory.

The bully lay crumpled in the dirt.

It also ended with Cole joining him, as Sky snatched back his sketchbook and planted one leg-braced orthotic shoe on the chubby blonde’s chest. A tiny six-year-old black-haired devil child who grit his ever-prominent buck teeth and hissed with pure venom: "Don’t you ever fight my battles for me again, Coltrane Brennan. Or I’ll knock your teeth in."

"You’d know all about teeth wouldn’t you?” Cole had wheezed, all two years older and indignant, a flush high in his cheeks.

Then he uttered those few accursed words: “Are you sure you aren't an elephant? You’ve got tusks just like one!…And those weirdo eyes to match!"

By the time a flustered teacher came to drag them both to the principal’s office, Cole was bleeding even more profusely than before and Sky was smiling smugly, two fistfuls of blonde hair in his grasp and one of Cole’s front-teeth embedded in his denim jeans.

They sat outside the office in silence, with only a small hard-backed chair between them. The only interruptions to the stillness were the squeak of Sky’s braces when he swung his legs off the ground or Cole’s pathetic sniffling as he tried to staunch the flow of blood from his face. Sky was scowling, still resolute in his righteous fury and absolution. Until he realized Cole wasn’t just sniffling from the blood…

He was crying.

Instantaneous guilt burnt in Sky’s chest like he’d swallowed a lit match, and poof, all the anger and indignation was gone. A rarity for him.

"Are you crying…?” He asked, softly.

But the moment Cole realized he’d been found out, he instantly straightened up in the stiff uncomfortable seat and turned away, as if pretending it was nothing at all. He snorted and scrubbed at his face with the one hand that wasn’t full of crumpled up bloody tissues. His voice shook when he spoke, wavering and hoarse. Damning evidence of the tears that boys like them just couldn’t admit.

“I'm not crying! Only babies cry! Little crippled babies just like you!"

Sky recoiled, his scowl deepening as the red-eyed older boy carried on running his mouth. "I told them not to steal your drawing stuff, cause there’s just no point really. You're soppy and sad enough as it is, without them messing with you…” Cole only managed to button his lips when there was a familiar fist pressing just under his swollen nose, against his chapped lips.

“I swear to God I’ll knock another one out if you don’t quit it! I’m not a crip and I’m not a baby, and don’t you ever forget it.” Sky spat, his funky eyes turned caustic.

It only abated as he forced himself to apologize. Temper having run away from him once again. It was his most adamant personality trait.

“But I am sorry about earlier... Thanks for getting my sketchbook back, I guess.” He bit his bottom lip and couldn’t look the older boy in the eyes.

“…Do you wanna see what I was drawing?“

Cole paused, then nodded. Curiosity alight in his green eyes.

Sky reached for where the teacher had roughly deposited both their backpacks, probably assuming they would be either sent home or in the office for a while, his ratty sketchbook was sitting on top. Hastily flung across both sacks as if the woman had no idea who it had belonged to. He dug through the heavily lined and crinkled pages to find his most recent creation.

”Oh.“ Cole leaned over to see properly. "That’s… really good actually."

Sky quirked an eyebrow. "Were you expecting something bad?”

“No! I just…” He peered even closer, almost close enough to brush his fingers across, but he didn’t dare. “It’s like a grown-up did it. Did you copy it from someplace?"

The younger boy shook his head. Looking down at the scene he’d drawn, a fairy Queen of spring with lush curls and a smile as she sat upon a mushroom cap, her gossamer wings folded beneath her and a tiara made of tree branches and new leaves twisted in her hair. She was looking up at her King, he was dressed in wintertime clothes, snowflakes adorned his cape and the winds brought life to his frosted wings. He was cold and still, with long dark hair and piercing dark eyes. She looked like the growth of new life, he looked like the one who took it all away. But still, they reached for each other.

"It’s the king and queen of Rhye."

He whispered, knowing very well that Rhye fell to ruin.

Good things didn’t stay.

He felt something warm fall on his hand and noticed a few ruddy droplets of blood. Cole was bleeding still, the older boy quickly turned away, sniffling back into the tissues as if that were somehow going to do the trick. ”Sorry…“ He mumbled, shame and embarrassment coloring in the contours of his voice.

"How bad is it? Let me see."

Sky commanded, sounding petulant as he reached out his hands. He gently caught Cole’s chin in one, then jumped back on recoil, like he’d just been electrocuted.

The moment he’d touched Cole’s sticky skin, desperate to see how bad it was so that he could make him feel better, his hand had felt like he’d stuck it into an open lit flame. It burned like holding the sun. He even flipped over his hand to gawk at his palm, certain that there had to be some kind of acid burn there or something.

There was nothing.

"What the bleeding heck was that?!” Cole squealed, pulling the tissues back from his face. His nose and mouth had aptly stopped bleeding. Even the cut on his forehead had stopped. As if the faucet of the gaping maw had run dry.

“You burned me!"

Cole looked incredulous at the accusation. "No I didn’t! You burned me!"

"Nuh uh!"

"Yeah huh!"

Then Cole’s expression changed, it turned surprised instead of upset, as his tongue poked at the inside of his cheek. "It's gone...” He whispered, wondrously. Looking at Sky with new eyes.

“What’s gone?"

"When you punched me, I bit a whole chunk out of my cheek! It’s why my mouth was bleeding so bad!” He took hold of the right side of his mouth and tried valiantly to flip it inside-out so that Sky could see. The younger boy couldn’t see anything except for spit and pink healthy skin.

“I don't see anything…"

"That’s the point! It’s gone…” He flipped it back over with eyes wide. “Gone.” He stressed again, as if Sky had missed it the first time. “Can mouths heal that fast?” Sky just shrugged, rubbing at his palm where the burn would’ve been, it tingled and itched, fingers twitching to do something else. Though he wasn’t quite sure what.

“How should I know?” He grumbled. “I’m not a doctor, I'm six."

He swung his creaky braced legs back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, trying to drown out the world. Cole stopped him with a hand on top of his own. Green eyes met his own strange ones. "Touch me again.” Sky furrowed his brows tight.

“What?"

”Touch me again!“ Cole demanded, jutting out his bottom lip. Sky rolled his eyes and did as requested, pressing his hand against Cole’s chin again. There was nothing. No burn, no toasting warmth or electric shock. Nothing at all. Cole frowned, disappointed as he reached up to touch the gaping slit on his forehead, still as garish as before. What he needed were some stitches, or some wound glue or something. "No!" He whined. "Do it like before!”

“I did." No, he didn’t.

He covered his stupid horse teeth with his hand and closed his eyes. I want Cole to feel better. I’m sorry for hurting him. It was a mistake. I’m sorry. I want to make him feel better. I’m sorry! He slammed his other hand against Cole’s chest. So hard that the older boy gave off a slight oomph. Fire burned between them. Like lightning against a black sky, everything was illuminated for just an instant. He saw spiderwebs of light scorch themselves across the backs of his eyelids, his mouth was full of ash. His nose was full of the stench of burning rubber.

When he finally let go and released his mouthful of air, he half expected smoldering embers to come out instead.

He blinked back into reality to find Cole staring at him slack-jawed, tissues turned limp in his hand. There was dried blood on his face, sure. But no burns. No swollen nose, no bruises, no black-eye and no cut on his forehead. It was almost like they had never been there at all.

”Whoa.“ They whispered at the same time, two pairs of eyes stretched wide as saucers.

He described the whole thing to his mother that night. She sipped her gross watery diner coffee and just listened. He ate pancakes covered in sprinkles and whipped cream. Wearing his plastic toy crown and sunset orange tights under his oversized yellow bumblebee sweater and clunky braces.

When he couldn’t talk anymore, she leaned over and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

"Mama, am I a freak?"

"No, baby."

"Then why can do the things I can do?"

She paused.

"Did you know that there’s a type of plankton, little tiny bits of fish, algae and debris in the ocean, that can glow in the dark? It's bioluminescent. They’re found in the Maldives, on this tiny little island. They call it The Sea of Stars.”

She had the same far-off look in her eyes that she did when she talked about his father. “Daddy seahorses give birth instead of mommies. Baby turtles are born knowing exactly what they have to do and where they have to go. Then they go back to the same spot to start the cycle all over again.

…Sometimes fall leaves change color to orange, sometimes yellow, sometimes red and sometimes not at all.

Your father and I, managed to make a perfect little boy and now he’s sitting right in front of me."

Her hands cupped his chin and there was no scent of sulfur or burning.

"All those things are miracles." She pressed another kiss to his cheek. "There will always be magic in the world, my little Prince. So enjoy it when and where you find it."

Cole was his best-friend from that day onward.

In every one of his scenes drawn in smudgy pencil or old pastels, there was a new face. A young blonde knight, a yellow dragon, and a sword held aloft beside his own.

Three years passed quickly, even faster than those he’d spent in the sanitarium/fever hospital.

Three years of pictures with the camera Cole got for his ninth birthday.

They used up so many rolls of film that it was hilarious. They never had their pictures on time. It would be months upon months before they got around to getting a recent roll developed and by then it wasn’t so recent anymore.

Cole’s mother would give him free piano lessons every Thursday and Friday, desperate for anyone who was even remotely gifted at it. As Cole, despite his namesake’s musical prowess, was as tone-deaf as they came.

Cole’s father loved listening to the music they made together, and even insisted on imparting some special knowledge on the boys himself.

He taught them how to dance.

But not just any kind of dancing, traditional Irish dances that made him feel like his feet were flying.

Suddenly the little boy, who’d spent his childhood in heavy cumbersome leg-braces, could keep up and do even better than someone without his painful history or messed-up scarred legs. He suddenly found beauty in a part of himself that he’d always hated, and it was because of Mr. Brennan.

He promised to take them both to a Ceili in Ireland when they were older. Where they could dance with more than just him or each other.

Luckily, because of Brooklyn’s burgeoning Irish community, they were in a few tiny competitions for step-dance, usually performing together and placing high. It was a running Brennan family joke that Sky was actually more Irish than the lot of them. With his skill in the dances, his ability to pick them up so quickly, that mop-top of jet black curls and porcelain skin envied by most of the dancing girls, he looked more like a boy come fresh from the Cliffs of Moher than a mix of Scandinavian and Persian. Not to mention how quickly he picked up a working knowledge of Irish Gaelic.

But when they weren’t in lessons or at school, they were laying sprawled on their bellies in the library, flipping through old musty books and sometimes reading aloud to one another.

Sky’s favorites were The Scarlet Pimpernel, Little Women, The Grimm Brothers’ Fairytales, Alice in Wonderland and Hans Christian Andersen’s Fairytales and Stories.

Cole’s were Dracula, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Edgar Allen Poe’s Complete Works, Carrie and 'Salem’s Lot.

He was pretty sure half of Cole’s horror obsession was rooted in trying to understand Sky and his assorted oddities. Or his Gifts as his mother and Cole liked to call them.

One afternoon, as they were flopped on the floor next to each other, legs kicked up and resting on the shelves. Fingers intertwined where nobody else could see, behind the stacks where they were by themselves. Cole regaled him with yet another half-baked theory.

"What if you’re a witch!"

Sky couldn’t help but laugh out-loud, but because it was a library, he tried to be quiet by just snorting into his free palm.

"No, really!" Cole squawked indignantly, waving his free hand around emphatically. "What if that’s why you can heal and see dead people! Sky, you’re downright spooky! You gotta be!” He looked over eagerly, probably hoping to see a revelation dawning in his best-friend’s eyes, instead what he saw was the younger boy practically dying of his own withheld laughter.

“Rhys…” He whined, plaintively, but the boy in question could only grin impishly.

“Sorry, Cole…” He hiccuped through his muffled laughter. “That sounds groovy and everything, but this isn’t an episode of Bewitched!”

He snickered again and Cole stuck out his tongue to blow him a raspberry.

Sky wasn’t exactly sure when his feelings for Cole became more than just best-friend feelings.

He knew that Cole was a boy and that a lot of people didn’t like it when boys had feelings for other boys. But what he felt for his best-friend didn’t feel like a bad thing. It was good. It felt warm and happy and safe.

They didn’t hold hands until they were by themselves. But he was pretty sure his mother knew, she just didn’t mind it. She would look at them fondly as they played buck-buck and stickball with the neighborhood kids and spent all night talking together afterwards, flopping onto and cramming into their one mattress, like sardines in a can.

She was just happy he was loved.

Cole’s parents likely suspected something as well. But Mrs. Brennan still gave Sky free piano lessons with a genuine silky smile on her face and Mr. Brennan would still eagerly teach them both how to play soccer, as well as dance.

Then they would have weekend tournaments. Mr. Brennan would race over and sweep both of them up into his hairy arms when he wanted to score without little feet getting in the way. Sky so often shrieked with joy and childhood abandon in those days, as he was held over the stocky Irishman’s shoulder for so long that his blood whooshed loudly in his ears.

He was loved.

It didn’t matter by who, or what, it just mattered that it happened. He was loved.

Then predictably… everything all went to shit.

Rhye fell, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

“Ah, then came man to savage in the night To run like thieves and to kill like knives To take away the power from the magic hand To bring about the ruin to the promised land, aah, aah…”

Sudden. Cardiac. Death.

Those were the three words a kind-eyed grandfatherly doctor told him at the hospital. His birthday was in just two days. He was turning nine on January 1st and wanted to see the smoggy sky full of lights once again, to see the ball drop in Time Square. But what did it matter…

Now that his whole world was dead and gone?

He’d been playing with Cole out in the snow that day, New York City was beautiful in the wintertime.

While he was making snow-angels, his mother had collapsed to the thinly carpeted floor of their studio apartment. As his little hands packed together fluffy snowballs with the same kind of pressure she likely felt in her chest, her heart beat erratically. He and Cole caught snow flurries on their tongues and compared the shapes caught in their soft mittened hands, while his mother’s heart stopped. He remembered blinking up at the overcast snowy sky above and grinning a toothy smile. While his mother’s organs stopped getting oxygen and the tissues died.

By the time ash filled his mouth and hellfire blazed beneath his skin, it was too late.

He was up and running towards the apartment without even a word to Cole, who chased after him, calling his name with concern alight in those Emerald Isle eyes. Shadows were flickering in the corners of Sky’s vision, and the present ghosts were all staring at him solemnly, even the spirits he had considered his friends. Their sadness was strangling him and he could barely breathe. Their hands reached for him, sporting vast empty holes where eyes would’ve gone. For the first time, he was genuinely afraid.

Your mother, your mother, your mother, your mother…

Their whispers followed him like a burial shroud. No matter how fast he ran, he couldn’t escape them.

“Prince Rhye? Rhys? Jesus, what’s wrong?!“ Cole yelled, forgetting just how fast Sky was without the braces and crutches. The snow was far too heavy to run through. "What did you see?! Sky!” He screeched.

Sky raced up the steps of his apartment building, nearly slipping over the edge numerous times and giving Cole mini heart-attacks as he did so. He threw open his front door and then…

Everything went horribly, frighteningly, devastatingly… quiet.

“They turn the milk into sour Like the blue in the blood of my veins Why can’t you see it? Fire burning in hell with the cry of screaming pain! Son of heaven set me free and let me go…

Sea turn dry, no salt from sand, Seasons fly no helping hand, Teeth don’t shine like pearls for poor man’s eyes, aah…”

There were fireworks on his birthday. The ball dropped in Time Square.

Just like every year, no matter what happened in his life, there was always a party.

That just happened to be the morning his mother was buried.

The snow held no joy for him anymore. The sky was gray, the ground was white and his heart was somewhere beneath the frozen dirt. The only reason he got through the miserable funeral at all, was the feeling of Cole’s arms around him, Mrs. Brennan humming Für Elise under her breath, and Mr. Brennan scooping him up to carry him out of the graveyard like small child. He buried his face in the Irishman’s stubbly neck and Mr. Brennan just rubbed his back sadly, whispering the story of Tír na nÓg.

Sky had just assumed that he would be with them afterwards.

The Brennans were not rich by any means, they all lived in the poor Irish/Immigrant bit of Brooklyn, but they had more than enough to feed another mouth. They had a place in their hearts for another son. A place in their modest home. A place in their lives.

They’d already taken him in, both mentally and physically, during that first night in the hospital. When it was confirmed that Birdy Rhodes had left this world.

But it was not to be.

Social Services came a-knocking on the very night of his birthday. To inform them all of its lovely archaic practices, which dictated that it didn’t matter how much the Brennans wanted to take care of Sky. Or how much Cole didn’t want to lose his best-friend (and perhaps more).

It simply read that if there was a living parent, the care of the child had to go to their living parent. And if that parent was somehow unfit, then it would take a miracle for him to be placed with them again. A miracle that would take years to come to fruition.

What that meant was, on the day after his birthday and the burial of his mother, Sky would be torn from their lives like a misplaced postage stamp. All packaged up and put on a plane to another country, where he would then be dumped on the father he’d never met. Who didn’t even know he existed. They didn’t see any issues with that at all.

Sky, or Rhye as his social-worker insisted on calling him, who was oft a well-behaved child (Ha!) unless pressed the wrong way, screamed and wailed like a banshee as he was dragged away from the Brennans and everything he knew.

Tiny, puffy-eyed, wearing rumpled hand-me-down pajamas and his current favorite toy crown gifted to him by Cole the night before, paired with an acidic scowl.

He refused to change when prompted and buried his face in his single overfilled rucksack whenever given a command.

His caseworker tried to placate him the whole flight, giving him snacks and little crafts to do. Write down everything you want your father to know about you, sweetheart! Make him a little card! But to no avail. He’d never even left New York City, let alone been on a plane and he couldn’t even bring himself to enjoy the experience. It was horrifying. Not even drawing or the smell of a few Brennan shirts that he’d borrowed could make things any better. He was like a small boat drifting away from his moorings. Something untethered to the earth or to anything at all.

You could’ve healed her if you’d been there. His inner voice chastised him mercilessly. What’s the use of having a Gift like that if you can’t even save the ones you love? If you can’t even save yourself?

He spent the night at the American Embassy in London, sleeping on a few uncomfortable chairs pushed together to make some sort of semblance of a bed.

The officials were trying to get in contact with his father. Something made remarkably difficult by the fact that he was a celebrity and a deathly private celebrity at that. Who had body guards and people trained specifically to avoid the paparazzi and crazy fans at all costs.

He cried himself to sleep that night, jet-lagged and sick with grief. Wishing he was back in New York City, on his shitty shared mattress but still held tight in his mother’s gentle embrace. I love you, my little Prince Rhye. I love you so much.

Not even singing to himself helped. He just cried even harder.

It felt strange not to take solace in the few emotions he understood, like indignation and anger.

“Someone, someone has drained the colour from my wings… Broken my fairy circle ring And shamed the king in all his pride Changed the winds and wronged the tides…

Mother Mercury… Mercury… Look what they’ve done to me! I cannot run, I cannot hide…”

Nothing was right anymore, everything was broken into bits and no matter how hard he tried to put them back together again, it was to no avail.

It was incurably eviscerated.

His life and his heart.

All Sky could do was cry.

#fic #submission #au #freddie: parent #5-10k #series: pretender to the throne #author: brooklynbugleboy #relationship: platonic #theme: parenting #theme: death

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lennox-ainsley · 6 years ago

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II. The Words I Spoke Became Song

This episode was revealed to me one day while I studied. Only the words to the music were included. I could not hear the music proper.

"...as a melody thrills us with a new feeling when we hear it sung by the pure voice of a boyish chorister;" -George Eliot

Miguel hadn't always been so sure that he made it to Coco in time. The first seedlings of doubt had begun to sprout within him that fateful day in late August. The boy would relive it again and again: he walked into her bedroom, in one hand his guitar, in the other a tangerine. He sat down by her side, kissed her cheek and placed the family guitar on his lap.

“Abuelita told me I could go check up on you after my chores were done.”

Coco didn’t respond and her face didn’t lose its slack expression. After pressing the tangerine in her hand, the boy began with some scales, arpeggios. Slowly, by quarter notes, then in triplets, and in doing this he led into singing “Un poco loco”. After a few minutes of playing, strangely, there manifested no discernible change. Maybe she's dozing, thought Miguel hopefully. Sometimes it took a second for her to pipe up in response.

So he tried “Remember Me”. That one always worked. Even if Coco didn’t sing along with him, she always smiled at hearing the song. Sometimes she would repeat a well-known anecdote about Héctor, her eyes shimmering with nostalgia. Miguel’s favorite story probably had to be the time where Héctor had tried juggling baseballs, but one flew out of his hand and into Imelda's plate, sending young Coco into a fit of laughter. This time, however, she remained completely still, as if imprisoned in some sort of stasis. A jolt of fear electrified Miguel’s body. Is she - ?

“Mamá Coco? Mamá Coco, me puedes oír? ” Miguel began to shake her forearm. And the pobrecito would never forget what happened next . His bisabuela’s head fell back in her chair like that of a muñeca , mouth agape. Without any part of her moving a single inch, a high pitched squeal stumbled out from the back of her throat. The boy recoiled and covered his ears, wide-eyed as he began to tremble. He had never heard something more unseemly than this. Some seconds passed, and the formless shriek began to take shape as a disfigured melody. Miguel knew it immediately; it would have been absurd if he couldn’t recognize it even through this repulsive racket. It was his secret weapon to summon his bisabuela’s favorite anecdotes of Héctor, but at that moment he had no idea what demonic presence he may have unwittingly summoned . Coco’s slack, corpse-like body rang and began to quiver with the century-old lullaby. The impression was as if the melody had trouble recalling its own contours. Then suddenly, the strings of the guitar, without the boy so much as laying a finger on it, began to vibrate with the noise. It took Miguel a second to register the haunt. A little yelp escaped his throat as the instrument slid off his lap and fell to the floor with a clunk. It continued to repulsively resonate, now loosely keeping time with the shrieking.

The youth suddenly felt the room grow cooler by the second. He reactively wrapped his fingers around himself as his senses absorbed the terrible spell that had trapped his poor grandmother. He swore he was going deaf, as the cacophony kept growing louder, and louder, the guitar and the shriek delighting in their mutual bastard natures, until finally, with a loud inhale from Coco’s lungs, the shriek quieted as some invisible force re-tuned the guitar pegs back to a comfortable tonality. Her hand slacked and the tangerine slice slipped from her hand, landing on the floor with a soft thump; the ghostly melody sounded out again, now without any shriek to accompany it. As the guitar hung on the final D flat, Coco’s body suddenly deflated to half its original size, exhaling as it went, while a sourceless single phrase reverberated in the air and filled Miguel’s ears: Gracias.

Coco’s spirit had been confined deep within its torpid, corporeal prison, but, in a miracle invoked by the familiar sound of her father’s enchanted guitar, she finally left the Land of the Living at the age of 103.

Miguel stumbled out of the room, disoriented and numb. Neither his tongue nor his hands could relate what he had seen to his family, but they recoiled upon seeing his distress. The Riveras soon-after found Coco's corpse, and for another four hours he remained unusually mute, until finally he collapsed, struggling to breathe as he sobbed.

Miguel broke the little promise he made to himself, that at the very least he wouldn’t cry at his bisabuela's funeral, that he would stay strong for his family. Seeing the humble casket descend into its final resting place proved too much and he gave voice to his stifled sobs, burying his face into Tía Gloria’s chest as the rest of his family watched on. He, alone of all the people he knew, knew for certain what happened after a person died. He could console himself that she had been reunited with the rest of the Riveras, and that he would inevitably be in her presence again. Besides, just the next Sunday, Luisa bought him a crisp, pale blue guayabera and he went to church and held Socorro above the baptismal font while the priest doused her small head with water. Wave goodbye to one life, and greet another. Sorrow yesterday, joy tomorrow. Así es la vida. Yet, Coco’s absence still stung. It felt like part of him left this earth with her.

What's more, an unseen, unspeakable spectre oppressed Miguel’s spirit. With Coco’s death, the boy lost the only connection he had to his friend in the Land of the Dead. And without her, he couldn’t be so sure that he pulled in for Héctor. While this spectre rarely externalized, and the Riveras (even the shrewd Elena) noted no drastic change in his disposition as they grieved, it would so occur, occasionally, that Miguel would be going about his normal business, doing his chores, making a sale, reading, practicing, or playing with the twins that suddenly that thought crept into his mind. He quickly became mindful of it and made sure to exterminate it at the source before it could take root. Coco told so many stories of my tátarabuelo that it’s impossible he isn’t alive. It’s ridiculous to think he faded away when we talk about him so much.

That said, no matter how much he buried it, Miguel couldn’t shake the feeling that he proved a failure to his ancestor. He had so much to say to him, but feared that his words would have no audience. His uneasiness only worsened as autumn approached, and with it, Día de Muertos. If there was any way he could know definitively whether Héctor still lived, it would be then, when the corporeal and semi-corporeal worlds grew close.

The Riveras sensed that this year’s festivities would be challenging. Not only had a new death occurred for the first time in five years, they also had to figure out what food pleased Héctor the most in life. Imelda had effectively locked up any stories she had of her husband, wanting only for her memory of him to shrivel up and die. Coco, in her moments of lucidity, had been reliable for a fair deal of anecdotes surrounding the family patriarch, but even she professed to have no knowledge of his favorite food. No one could have predicted his rehabilitation on the ofrenda. An exhausted Elena resigned to cook some simple tamales for the spirit.

Suddenly, Miguel had an idea, which came to him as he whistled in the kitchen, struggling to piece together a song he heard in his dreams while helping his abuelita cook. He rushed into the workshop, saw Luisa breastfeeding Socorro, and asked his mother if she had a pen, an envelope and some paper.

“Why?” she asked.

“I’m gonna write something. It’s for Day of the Dead.”

She laughed then pursed her lips. “Ay Miguel, you don’t exactly strike me as the writer type. Is it a song?”

“Maybe!”

“Well, after you’re done, make sure to help the twins sprinkle the marigold petals to the ofrenda room.”

“Thanks! Love you!”

She lent him the materials and he rushed outside, guitar in one hand and the writing materials in the other. He found Dante sniffing through a trash can, whistled at him, then the two ran to the side yard of the house. Miguel slid down the wall cross-legged, clicked out his pen, bit his lip in concentration, and wrote:

Dear Papá Héctor,

I’m not even sure if this letter’s gonna make it to you in time, or even make it crossing the barrier into your world. If it does, Dante will for sure know where to find you. I just hope he hasn’t slobbered too much on the envelope XD.

First time crossing the bridge, eh? Excited? I know you’ll make it across just fine. We have your photo up on the ofrenda, so there’s no need to worry about it giving out under ya. From what I remember, the bridge is really soft but also kind of firm. You might wanna take off your shoes as you cross to really feel it under you.

Mamá Coco might’ve already told you this, but I played “Remember Me” for her soon as I got back, and that’s what probably saved you. Our family all saw it, and they all changed their mind, even Mamá Elena! They told me that as long as I always keep family first and help out with the family business that they’ll let me play music. I get to sing and tap my feet whenever I feel it, even when making shoes!

I’ve got a mariachi costume all ready for tonight. You’ll see me wear it. It’s red and it has a little orange thing sticking out on the neck (don’t know what it’s called but mariachis wear it). You’re going to be so proud seeing all of your descendants, just like how I’m proud to know I'm Héctor Rivera's great-great-grandson.

But you wouldn't believe, I had this crazy dream last night, where we spoke with each other, but like we were singing our conversation. Weird, right? I can't remember what it sounded like however. I remember thinking how beautiful it was. I’ve been trying to write it down and here’s what I have so far:

Here the boy crudely sketched out a treble clef, staff and half a little melody in F.

(oh I forgot I’m also in a band! My teacher, profesor Cavalli is teaching me how to read and write music! I'm still practicing tho. You might see him tonight.)

You know, I have to thank you, ‘cause without your help, I’d still be stuck as a shoemaker. Now at least I’m a musical shoemaker! XD

Un abrazo fuerte, tu tátaranieto, Miguel Rivera

P.S. Mamá Elena wants to know your favorite kind of food! For the ofrenda!

He folded the paper, put it in the envelope, licked it shut, wrote Héctor’s name on the front and asked Dante “Do you know where to find Héctor?” The dog barked the affirmative, whereupon Miguel patted the Xolo’s head and gave him the envelope. “Vete, find him and give him this. Quick!”

The dog dutifully took off into the setting sun, missive in his mouth. Miguel relaxed as he realized he could do nothing else but wait, and pray for his tatarabuelo's soul.

Right before night had blanketed Santa Cecilia in cold darkness, before the warm candlelight had barely begun to caress the revelers’ painted faces, Miguel received his answer. But it came in a way that he would have never expected.

He remembered sitting in the ofrenda room, leaning a bit against the left wall adjacent to the offering, letting the warmth of the candles’ glow bathe his face. He remembered the feel of his great-great-grandfather's guitar in his smallish hands. Up to that point, he hadn't really created This day, upon Elena's orders, was his only opportunity to use the instrument. All the other days of the year, the dreamy-eyed boy would have to leave it in the display outside with Héctor's letters. Miguel thought the guitar sounded way better than anything he could ever create. So much history had seeped within the aged woodwork of the instrument that it tinged it's sound with melancholy. It had so many tales to tell, of friendship and betrayal, of love and hatred, of comedy and tragedy.

He remembered trying and struggling to whittle away at the song he heard. Nothing he came up with sounded remotely like the ephemeral dream-music which made him quiver with delight the night before. Gritting his teeth in frustration, he set down his guitar and cast his gaze upon the ofrenda, letting his eyes climb up from Coco’s portrait all the way up, passing three generations, resting on the stern gaze of his tatarabuela and the contrasting grin of her husband. His breathing grew shallow. Where is Dante? He thought. He feared the dog would come back empty-handed...or worse, with his original letter.

Suddenly, Miguel heard the light trot of a dog approach, and his eyes widened as he saw Dante... with an envelope in his mouth. A strange looking cat sneaked followed Dante inside after the Xolo, stopping right at Miguel's side. The boy felt his heart skip a beat.

“Dante, wha-?”

The alebrije dropped the dampened envelope on the floor before him and gave Miguel an excited lick on the cheek. Wide-eyed, the boy gingerly turned it over to find his name scrawled out on the front of the envelope. The handwriting...it looked like Hector’s!

He opened it, and the letter read:

Ey chamaco!

Yes, your letter came absolutely covered in drool. But it’s pretty cool you figured out a way we can communicate. You’re always so creative, so I shouldn’t be surprised, Miguel.

My favorite food is anything having to do with chapulines. It’s been a long time since I’ve had them. They don’t have any in the Land of the Dead, which makes having them during Día de Muertos *that* more special. I hope by the time Dante reaches you, you will have enough time to prepare some. If not, don’t worry, there’s always next year, right?

I don’t have a lot of time because as I’m writing this we’re getting cleared to cross the bridge, but you’ll feel me come in, I hope. Little nervous, but your letter calmed my nerves a bit. I’ll follow your advice about walking across the bridge barefoot.

Un abrazo devuelto, Papá Héctor

P.S. that song seems pretty interesting. Maybe I can help you when I arrive?

Miguel read and reread the letter, fixating on some lines, skipping to others. Then a little gasp escaped his throat as he realized the handwriting was unmistakably Héctor’s. The musician wrote just like he did a century ago in his letters to Miguel’s bisabuela (he, out of all people should know. He had only read and reread those lyrics again and again). The boy looked at Dante and embraced him, kissing and thanking the alebrije profusely while the dog gave a few more sloppy licks to the boy’s cheeks. The cat ambled over and rubbed herself against Miguel's side as he giggled, sharing the affection between the two animals. He skimmed the letter again. Help me when he arrives? How does he figure he can do that?

A great and ponderous silence straightaway oppressed the room as the air grew thick and humid. A little wind stirred the trail of marigold petals that had otherwise sat fixed upon the ground, causing the cat to let out a meow. Absentmindedly slipping Héctor’s letter into his right pocket, Miguel suddenly recognized the little creature. "Pepita?" The cat sat unmoved, looking through the door outside the ofrenda room. She seemed transfixed.

Dante let out a bark, drawing the boy’s attention to the spot where the Xolo stared intently. He was looking at the trail, at the marigold petals which began to illuminate, shining bright orange with a light flicker. They lit up in little clusters, one by one, as if weighed by some footsteps that belonged to an invisible someone with a slight limp. With each loosely synchronized group of light, they closed the distance between them and the spot where Miguel sat. Soon he saw a cluster of petals linger with their radiant light, right in front of him, and Miguel stood up, fixed where he stood, tightly gripping Héctor’s guitar. As he slowly angled his head upwards, he began to feel little pinpricks of energy tickle his skin, drawing out a great big blush on his face as he realized that he was standing in Héctor Rivera's presence. But as he opened his mouth to say his tátarabuelo’s name, his vocal chords sang it instead. He covered his mouth, reeling from shock. He tried to speak Héctor’s name again, but instead he let out a two bar melisma, jubilant and proud. A wide grin spread across the boy’s face, and a glimmering sensation of euphoria consumed his body and spirit. Tears spilled passed his eyelids as he instinctively shouldered the family guitar, his fingers almost mechanically finding the right notes. And in one attempt, Miguel Rivera remembered the song he heard in his dreams, singing:

Say that I'm crazy, or call me a fool

But last night, it seemed that I dreamed about you

When I opened my mouth, what came out was a song

And you knew every word, and we all sang along…

Miguel didn't have to hear Héctor’s voice to feel it. His very being vibrated with the moment’s pure spirituality.

The boy rushed outside singing as loudly as he could to this rediscovered melody. He couldn't keep himself still as he began to dance and improvise to the once-forgotten music. Dante rushed out and barked, dancing around his feet. The Riveras rushed outside to see who was causing all the noise and they became transfixed at the wild spectacle. The song did not let one pair of eyes stay dry as Miguel guided them on a journey with his playing, leaping and twirling and laughing with Dante mirroring his movements. As soon as Miguel had finished, they all applauded.

“Miguel, that sounded...beautiful!" Enrique admitted as he wiped his eyes. Even Tío Berto wore a soft expression.

Miguel expected to sing his reply, but the euphoric sensation had already left his body. He trembled, as if he had just disembarked from the most thrilling rollercoaster ever created.

“Héctor’s here! I felt him, he's here!” These words he repeated, in more or less the same order.

Elena became instantly skeptical. “What? None of us even knew him! How can you be so sure it's him?”

“I got a letter from him! He said his favorite food was chapulines!” The boy's voice cracked with his excitement.

"Impossible..." Elena replied, shaking her head.

"No, see, take a look!" Miguel reached into his pocket to show them the letter, but his fingers grasped nothing. He turned his pocket inside out and checked the other one, which produced nothing as well. Where - ?

“Oh, Miguelito, you don't have to make up stories about any letter. But I believe you felt someone come in. Perhaps Julio?" offered Elena.

Miguel almost glared at his grandmother, his brown irises sparkling with certainty. “No, I'm not making anything up, abuelita. I received a letter from him. It...was right in my pocket. He came in to the ofrenda room and I felt so overwhelmed…I began to sing and I couldn't stop. And earlier I was all struggling with it!”

“A miracle!” interjected a convinced Luisa, to which the whole family agreed.

“Well, whatever it is," Elena said, dismissing the topic for the time-being, "we now have a song for Día de Muertos, so let's really make things festive. Get your instruments, you two, and Miguel, get your costume on and help me set the table. We'll be having guests soon."

Abel and Rosa dutifully went off, Dante following them in hopes of scoring some dinner before Elena shooed him away. As Miguel followed his cousins inside, he couldn't help but absentmindedly strum the chords to his new creation, reliving its bold melodies, submerged in a mix of giddiness and confusion.

#coco #fanfic #magical realism #miguel rivera #hector rivera #dante

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spookyspaghettisundae · 7 years ago

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Garden of the Old One

They fled through the forest. A man and a woman, panting and gasping and feeling a fire in their lungs where more air should be flowing. Running as fast as they could, away from the creature that pursued them.

Laelia’s tunic tore and frayed on the branches and brambles as the forest flew by in a blur. Cuts and bruises and scratches now littered her skin. The burning stings of dirt and grit and sweat getting into these tiny injuries paled in comparison to the fear of death that had gripped her very heart.

Severus stumbled forward, several steps ahead of her. He looked over his shoulder. As his gaze swept past Laelia, glimpsing how closely their pursuer followed on their heels, his eyes grew wide and terrified. He screamed. A flock of birds burst into motion, flying away nearby.

His scream abruptly stopped, just like he stopped in his tracks. The sounds from his throat transformed into pained gurgling, accompanied by dark red bubbles emerging from his lips. A small crimson waterfall spilled out of his mouth. Two arrows, the size of javelins, stuck out of his chest. The projectiles had nailed him against one of the trees. One of them pierced his heart. His stare turned hollow in an instant.

Frozen in terror, trembling all over, Laelia had stopped near Severus’ dead body and looked back. A ray of sunlight cut through the canopy of the woods, shedding only enough light to see its shine reflected off of huge, pitch-black eyes staring back at her from a dark spot between the trees. Those beastly eyes were framed by a handsome man’s features and two winding horns that emerged from the curly brown hair upon the monster’s head. Its face was jarring in how statuesque and indifferent it looked in light of the murder it had committed.

Laelia screamed. She tripped over a root but caught herself and continued to run for her life. Her scream went on as she ran farther, daring to look over her shoulder only every now and then. This added to her dread as she saw the humanoid-looking goat with a man’s face towering over Severus’ dead body. Three heads taller than a grown man like Severus, the creature plucked the arrows from the corpse, with chunks of flesh and bone still stuck to their barbed arrowheads and hideous squelching sounds that she believed to hear even through her labored breathing and uncontrollable screaming.

The next time she looked back, the giant heaved the body of her dead husband onto its shoulder like Severus had been rendered into nothing but a bag of meat, and those black eyes stared at her. Hundreds, thousands of paces deeper into the forest, when she looked back once more, they were gone.

Laelia dared not stop running, carrying herself deeper and deeper into the forest. Again and again she looked back but could not see the giant and finally, she slowed down. The sense of loss refused to set in just yet, but she felt lost. The chase and panic had destroyed any shred of a sense of direction she might have once had.

Rather than regaining her bearings in any way, it dawned on her that she had entered a garden of sorts. The canopy of trees opened up, not into a clearing, but an area surrounded by crumbling stone walls, overgrown with clusters of green and red ivy, patches of wild flowers that reminded her of the colors of a rainbow, and a gentle stream that passed through the middle of this artificial clearing. The vegetation here appeared lush and to be not of this world.

This place was the most beautiful thing that Laelia had ever seen in her entire life.

No birds sung, no insects chirped. Aside from the trickling sound of the stream, silence ruled this garden.

She had almost come to a full stop here, with the fear of the monster beginning to clash with the sense of wonder she felt while she beheld this mysterious place. Swiveling till she had turned full circle, the serenity of this garden lulled her into a false sense of security. This dawned on her as her gaze wandered, revealing the outlines of decaying statues of horned humans with the hindquarters and legs of goats, concealed by the thick layers of plants that had overgrown everything here.

Laelia froze completely when she finally realized that one of the figures was more than a mere statue. It breathed. The creature was here. Its black eyes shone with the reflection of daylight on them, staring at her. The goat-man’s face remained as cold and unnerving as the statues it had stood among. The monster disappeared behind one of the garden’s walls. Only the rustling of leaves and soft crack of a breaking branch heralded its next movements, as it crept around, just out of sight.

She held her breath when she felt a gust of warm, damp air hit the skin of her neck and shoulders from behind her. Her heart raced. With a painful slowness, she turned to look at the body of the giant that had come to stand still behind her, close enough for it to reach out and grab her with its gigantic claws. Her eyes wandered upwards, from hooves cushioned in moss on the garden’s grounds, over legs as thick as tree trunks, spotting the bloodstains on its clawed fingers and fur on the back of its hands, all the way up to the very human face—save for the ram-like horns and jet-black eyes.

It exhaled deeply, another gust of warm breath caressing her skin with a tenderness that confused her deeply.

“You may stay,” the creature said without moving its lips. Its voice was as calm as a still pond of water, but voluminous and imposing like thunder in a storm. It came from nowhere but filled every corner of her mind, drowning out all other thoughts.

“You will be safe here, so long as I will it.”

The sheer sound of its voice sent shivers down Laelia’s spine, curdling her blood and chilling her to the bone. Remedying this instantly, the creature placed one of its giant hands on her shoulder. The weight of it felt oppressive, but it exuded a warmth and strength that overwhelmed her senses, tempting her to lower her guard. In her mind and soul, the all too recent memories of seeing Severus die to this monster became clouded. Her lip quivered as she stared into the eyes of the beast. But the creature stared at her chest instead.

The giant reached out with its other hand. The long black claws of its fingertips crept closer to her chest, until they clamped down around the small wooden cross that hung from her neck on simple twine. Like tiny blades of infinite sharpness, those claws snipped the twine apart and drew the cross closer to the face of this Old One.

As it stared at the quaint symbol with an almost forlorn and incredulous air about it, Laelia broke free from the spell and ran again. Never turning or looking behind, she could feel the gaze of the Old One’s black eyes, burning into her back like searing-hot coals.

It remained in its garden, ceasing all pursuit, just looking beyond the crumbling walls as the woman escaped through the forest.

She ran and ran for what seemed like an eternity. Sometimes she stopped and looked back through tear-filled eyes, other times she slowed as she fought against cramps in her legs or pains in her side as she struggled to catch her breath.

Laelia made it out of the forest. Alone.

Long before sunset, an entire mob of the villagers followed her out into the woods. They were armed with scythes, sickles, pitchforks, and torches. Varius had even brought his trusted bow and arrows. Laelia dreaded the thought of how much it was dwarfed by the bow and arrows that the Old One used to kill Severus.

Varius found the trails they had left, then the blood. Then a tuft of human hair with flesh and blood still clinging to it. The garden was nearby. Yet the group never found it.

Where Laelia guided them, the garden had vanished. She swore it must have been so, but doubt began to fill their hearts. Marius accused her of lying and having fabricated this elaborate tale, of having murdered Severus. Other accusations followed.

Laelia had told the truth. They stood where she had stood in the mysterious garden. As daylight waned and twilight slowly blanketed the woods around them, they still argued. Just when Marius pushed Laelia, and she fell into the dirt on the ground, she spotted pitch-black eyes staring back at her. The Old One stood between the trees, at a distance, eerily silent despite its size and stature, lurking in the shadows just out of sight for anybody else. Its facial expression had still never changed, a mask of indifference. She pointed at it with a trembling finger and the mob’s eyes followed her direction.

But the Old One was gone.

—Submitted by Wratts

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louisfeatharry · 7 years ago

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the end of 2017 is nearing, and while one direction may have gone on hiatus two years ago, fandom participation has stayed strong, particularly in fanfiction! for those of you who are following me, you’ll know that i’ve read a lot this year, and i love rec-ing fics whenever i can. so i thought i’d share my list of my favorite fics from this past year.

and thus! here is part one of my list of my favorite fics from 2017!

note: all fics listed have been completed in 2017, although some may have started in previous years.

in alphabetical order:

Atlas At Last by louisandthealien

Be Still by thisonegoes

Black with Autumn Rain by whimsicule

Cold Little Heart by seducedbycurls

cupid’s defence by harbb

Deuxsphere by sweetlullabies

Emperor’s New Clothes by sunsetmog

got the sunshine on my shoulders by hattalove

Homegrown by casuallyhl

It Comes and Goes in Waves/It Always Does by roaroftheninth

keep the light on by renlyne

Life Was a Song, You Came Along by rainbowninja167

like a boomerang by youwilll

Like an Endless Summer by objectlesson

Looking Through You by allwaswell16

all information on the fics is under the cut.

Atlas At Last by louisandthealien [@louisandthealien] (83k) Harry/Louis, 1970s AU, road trip, ot5 friendship, strangers to friends to lovers

He doesn’t know what he had been expecting out of the road trip itself besides burping contests and too much shitty gas station food with Oli and Stan, but in the brief moment before Harry ambles up his driveway, Louis idly wonders if this is about to become some sort of Gay Coming of Age story.

Maine to California in ten days. In which Zayn’s an open-shirt hippie they meet somewhere in Ohio, Liam’s the pastor’s son running away from home, and Niall’s the number they call on the bathroom wall.

It’s 1978. Harry and Louis are just trying to get to San Fran in time for the Queen concert.

⇨ read on ao3

Be Still by thisonegoes [@this-onegoes] (150k) Zayn/Harry, murder mystery, detective AU, hurt/comfort

Zayn hears the telltale sound of stretcher wheels bouncing up over a weather strip. A tech backs out of the door first, as both Zayn and Harry turn to watch. They wheel the black body bag out and lift it down the stairs, to take her away. She's officially cleared for transport, no longer a resident of the household. She's now just a corpse wrapped in plastic.

When they finally turn back to one another, Harry blinks and then shatters into pieces.

Detective Zayn AU.

⇨ read on ao3

Black with Autumn Rain by whimsicule [@whimsicule] (93k) Harry/Louis, magical realism, thriller

“Thank you,” Geoff says, taking a sip of his tea. “What did you tell him?”

Louis has a sip as well, lets the tea burn down his throat too quickly, too hot, and he feels it all the way down to his stomach. “The truth. Essentially,” he replies after a moment, licking his lips, relishing the slightly bitter taste of the brew that’s never quite strong enough for Louis’ liking. At least it’s not decaf. “That my dog scented it. That I didn’t touch the body. That I came here first thing.”

Geoff nods pensively. “Did he believe you?”

“Probably not. There’s only so many people who can drown on dry land before it gets fishy.”

or: Harry is a journalist, Louis has lots of secrets and the moors aren't exactly the ideal place to rekindle a lost romance.

⇨ read on ao3

Cold Little Heart by seducedbycurls [@seduced-by-curls] (194k) Harry/Louis, alpha/beta/omega dynamics, werewolves, hurt/comfort

Louis is a soft omega with an abusive past and an alpha child.

A few months after getting a divorce, Louis meets Harry, an ex-military alpha wolf that offers him something -odd.

In exchange for teaching him how to cook, Harry will babysit his son, Abraham.

Louis really could use the help.

⇨ read on ao3

cupid’s defence by harbb (116k) Harry/Louis, Cupid AU, lawyer AU, fantasy & supernatural

In which Harry is Cupid, Louis and Liam own a law firm, and they're all getting sued.

⇨ read on ao3

Deuxsphere by sweetlullabies (156k) Harry/Louis, college/university AU, soulmates/soulmate-identifying marks AU, enemies to friends to lovers

The way the vines of the rose curled around the sharp straightness of the dagger was an image that was going to be forever embedded into his mind. The longer Harry craned his neck to look at it in the mirror, the more he realized—it was fucking creepy. He couldn’t for the life of him figure out why it was there, or why humans decided to make it mean something.

Harry's first year at uni is guaranteed to be a breeze as long as he stays focused, steers clear of flying footballs, and completely avoids boys who are in bands.

⇨ read on ao3

* as a note, this is my favorite fic of 2017.

Emperor’s New Clothes by sunsetmog [@magicalrocketships] (92k) Harry/Louis, famous/nonfamous AU, exes to lovers, secret relationship

The fact that Louis’s most precious belonging was a cat with a face like thunder and an uncanny ability to cover every single inch of Louis’s clothing with cat hair was something that Louis chose not to think about too much.

or: Harry’s a pop star and Louis isn’t, and there’s a non-disclosure agreement where there used to be a relationship.

⇨ read on ao3

got the sunshine on my shoulders by hattalove [@hattalove] (124k) Harry/Louis, famous/nonfamous AU, exes to lovers, Sweet Home Alabama AU

five years ago, harry styles left his tiny home town to make it big as a recording artist. he didn't have much regard for what he left behind - a life, a family, and a husband, who woke up one morning to find him gone.

now, harry has everything he could possibly want: he's rich, famous, and adored by everyone he meets, including his boyfriend. but when said boyfriend proposes to him, he's forced to face the uncomfortable facts of his past - and louis, who's spent the last five years returning every set of divorce papers harry sent him.

(or, an au based on the movie sweet home alabama.)

⇨ read on ao3

Homegrown by casuallyhl [@casuallyhl] (51k) Harry/Louis, gardens & gardening, strangers to friends to lovers

“It wasn’t an easy decision, if I’m honest,” Harry admits, shoulders sagging in on himself. “Moving is really difficult. My whole life was in Manchester. But Manchester didn’t want me. Leeds did.”

“Well, Leeds is happy to have you,” Louis says, giving Harry a kind smile.

Harry brightens a bit at that, undeniably pleased. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Louis replies, expression soft and lips curved.

Or, a gardening AU where Harry is new to town and the newest volunteer at the local gardening club, Louis is the attractive grandson of one of the members, and the nosy volunteers hatch a plan to get them together.

⇨ read on ao3

It Comes and Goes in Waves/It Always Does by roaroftheninth [@almost-a-class-act] (50k) Harry/Louis, World War II AU, post-war AU

“He says that he’s grateful for that ending, because he always wanted to imagine it like that and you were always a better storyteller than he was. But that’s not the ending that should be published, because it’s not the truth.”

Summary: It is 1953; Louis makes that nine years since they won the war (eight if you count the Americans, which he never does). His first novel, a best-seller set during wartime, is due for a sequel - but Louis doesn't want to face the ending.

⇨ read on ao3

keep the light on by renlyne [@daretomarvel] (43k) Harry/Nick Grimshaw, canon compliant, future fic, friends to lovers

but·ter·fly ef·fect noun 1. (with reference to chaos theory) the phenomenon whereby a minute localized change in a complex system can have large effects elsewhere. 2. a cumulatively large effect that a very small or seemingly insignificant natural force may produce over a period of time.

In which Harry Styles tears up over glitter, and Nick Grimshaw’s life becomes immeasurably more complicated.

Or: it’s 2020, and really, better late than never.

⇨ read on ao3

Life Was a Song, You Came Along by rainbowninja167 [@rainbowninja] (37k) Harry/Louis, Singin’ in the Rain AU, famous/nonfamous AU

It's embarrassing how long it takes Louis to recognize his own song. Niall had sung it as a bright, hopeful love song, and that’s honestly how Louis had always assumed it should sound. But this new voice, slow and rough, stripped of any backing instrument, has infused the lyrics with just the tumultuous mix of fear and defiance that Louis can remember so clearly from the night he wrote them. It’s not a comfortable thing, to feel like someone is singing all your secrets back to you.

Louis is a songwriter trapped in a lie that could ruin his best friend's career. Harry owns a record store, distrusts everyone in the music industry on principle, but loves Niall Horan's newest album. A modern retelling of Singin' in the Rain.

⇨ read on ao3

like a boomerang by youwilll (51k) Harry/Louis, college/university AU, Groundhog Day AU, pining

AU in which Harry gets trapped in a lift, Louis gets stuck in a Wednesday, and it's always February 2nd. Until it isn't.

⇨ read on ao3

Like an Endless Summer by objectlesson (87k) Harry/Louis, summer camp AU, friends to lovers

“You just wanna go fawn over Styles as soon as possible,” Zayn grumbles.

“I do not. Plus, he probably got ugly this year. Eighteen is an awkward time...I bet he’s got acne and one of those terrible fuckboy haircuts all the hipsters are getting these days, with the shaved sides? Just watch, the first year we’re gonna get any time together is gonna be the first year I don’t have a stupid crush on him.”

---

Or, Louis is a riding instructor at a summer camp, and Harry is a fellow counselor who he’s been successfully managing his crush on for the last two summers. That is, until Harry shows up this year leveled up and lethal, and all Louis’s formerly perfected veneer of nonchalance melts like a popsicle in the sun.

⇨ read on ao3

Looking Through You by allwaswell16 [@allwaswell16] (41k) Harry/Louis, famous/nonfamous AU, roommates, friends to lovers

Just as Louis and Liam were starting out in the music industry, writing and producing for up and coming artists, a fateful meeting with new pop singer Harry Styles changes everything. Four years later, just as Harry is set to embark on his next world tour, a drunken confession causes a rift between once inseparable friends. As Harry tries to make sense of his feelings for Louis, he begins writing his next album to express them as it may be the only way to break through the walls that Louis has built between them.

⇨ read on ao3

and that’s it for part one! part two will be coming out soon! x

credits for resources in banner: saturnthms (gradient), resourcescollection (galaxy texture), & kaeveeoh-art (speech bubble animation)

#favefics2017 #fic rec list

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