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stanakin96 · 3 years

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I Shall Believe - QuiObi

Obi-Wan keeps seeing Qui-Gon's ghost, and it reminds him of their life together - the glimmering, shining memories. From the beginning, to the end.

kind of angsty so not for the lighthearted

Jedi did not grieve.

They were permitted time by the council, R&R they called it. If a master or a padawan died they were provided two weeks to rest their mind and then it was back to work, onto the next mission. Obi-Wan ran his hand through his hair, stopping at the place where his padawan braid once sat. He’d cut it himself, alone, in the fresher once shared by him and Qui-Gon. He gripped the sides of the sink to keep himself standing upright, doing his best to stop the shaking and compose himself.

Those few moments were all the R&R he’d receive, all the grief he was permitted.

There was nobody he could present his braid to, nobody to steady his tremoring shoulders. And he wouldn’t dare let Anakin see him like this – after all – the boy had just left his mother, everything he knew. He couldn’t allow Qui-Gon’s death to hinder him as a master. Suddenly, he felt a warm, soft air brush by his ears and neck. He jerked his head up and looked in the mirror, meeting Qui-Gon Jinn’s gaze in the corner. Clear as day, unwounded and hair brushed.

“Master!” Obi-Wan called out as he turned around.

But there was nothing there.

Obi-Wan threw the long, beaded braid into the bin next to him, watching as it sank away with the rest of the discarded things.

It wasn’t long before Anakin picked up on his training – he was smart, athletic and gleamed in the force more than any jedi Obi-Wan had ever met. For a youngling of his age he far surpassed his peers, which provided Obi-Wan with a sufficient challenge as his master. A few months or so into his training, Obi-Wan only thought of Qui-Gon once or twice a day, doing his best to focus all his attentions onto his padawan.

When Obi-Wan sensed a training bond between them, likely accelerated by their experience on Tatooine, he remembered his bond with Qui-Gon.

“Why do we mediate so much?” Anakin asked, opening his right eye and looking at Obi-Wan.

“It connects us to the force – shut your eyes,” Obi-Wan said.

But he could still feel Anakin’s confusion, his palpable yearn to understand.

“You know, I hated meditating when I was your age,” Obi-Wan said.

“Liar-” Anakin responded, Obi-Wan thought he even saw a smile. “Why do you do it so much now, then?”

“My master forced me to do it once every couple hours, you’re lucky I don’t make you do that,” Obi-Wan replied.

He watched as Anakin brought his hand to his chin in contemplation, a habit he’d obviously picked up from Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan felt his chest tighten – it was a practice he’d observed and stolen from Qui-Gon over the years.

“I dunno, my master makes me do it a lot too,” Anakin replied, shutting his eyes and bringing his hands back to his folded knees. It was the first time Obi-Wan laughed in months.

Obi-Wan jerked out of his mediation at a feeling of shock that his padawan sent shooting through their bond. He could practically feel the force beating around them, swirling and building up in the small room.

“Is everything alright?” Obi-Wan said, deciding that mediation practice was done for the day.

“Did you see him?” Anakin asked, his voice small.

Obi-Wan didn’t need to ask who he was referring to – because there he was. In the corner of the room, glowing and illuminated in the force. Qui-Gon, in the robes Obi-Wan had buried him in, with his eyes fixed on him and his arms outstretched, as though to say something. Obi-Wan blinked and he was gone – before Obi-Wan could reach back, before he got a good look at him. He turned back to Anakin.

“I told you mediation was important,” Obi-Wan replied, though he could barely breathe.

He listened for the sound of Anakin’s laughter to focus intently on the things that lived and breathed. For he feared that if he didn’t, he’d go chasing after what no longer existed.

“Do you remember Queen Fanry?” Qui-Gon asked.

“Of Pijal?” Said Obi-Wan, standing up off the sofa and meeting Qui-Gon in the kitchen. Rarely was he allowed downtime in Qui-Gon’s quarters, and it felt odd to sit. “How could I forget?”

Their mission to Pijal had been the first one Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan had truly bonded on, before then all they did was disagree. Right before they’d left for the planet, Qui-Gon had been offered a seat on the council, leaving Obi-Wan to assume he would once again be abandoned. However, at the end of the week, Qui-Gon rejected the seat – in the name of learning more about the force, of connecting to its higher powers. Years had passed since the mission, and Obi-Wan was no longer seventeen – but a man of twenty-one.

“She’s invited us back for a celebration of sorts, and the council has given us permission to attend,” Qui-Gon said, averting Obi-Wan’s eyesight.

“Let me make sure I’m hearing this correctly, master,” Obi-Wan started. “You got permission from the jedi council for the two of us to go on an elective trip to a foreign planet, for a celebration?”

“Don’t act snide, padawan,” Qui-Gon replied.

“I’m not snide, I just didn’t know you were so sentimental,” Obi-Wan said, pressing into Qui-Gon’s space and smiling, Qui-Gon focused on his breathing.

“I’m only sentimental about a few things,” Qui-Gon replied.

One thing.

“Hopefully one of those are dress robes, master,” Obi-Wan said, patting Qui-Gon on the shoulder, who all but flinched at the touch.

He turned to face the door as Obi-Wan left to his own quarters, they’d stopped sharing a couple years ago. Qui-Gon reached his hand up to where Obi-Wan had touched him, and let his fingers linger there for a few moments while he watched his padawan leave. After all – how was Obi-Wan to know that Qui-Gon watched his every move?

How his feet struck the ground, how he walked, how he breathed. In all his life, Qui-Gon never thought that he would be the type of master to become so taken with his padawan, and yet, here he was. As he was in most things – Obi-Wan was the exception.

“Did you want to dance, master?” Obi-Wan asked, holding his hand outward in the middle of the Pijali ballroom, “it would be rude not to.”

Qui-Gon stared at him for a moment, looking him up and down. Obi-Wan was nothing if not beautiful, and Qui-Gon felt that a shining glimmer of light followed him everywhere he went. But there was something about tonight that was different. Obi-Wan seemed older, somehow more beautiful, if that was even possible. Qui-Gon silently took his hand as a slow, orchestral song filled the pillared halls.

“You can touch me, you know. I’m smaller than you but you won’t break me” Obi-Wan joked, Qui-Gon forced himself to laugh – as though his padawan was not in complete control of the situation.

He made his way in front of Obi-Wan and did his best to remain composed. Even though Obi-Wan slowly ran his hands up his chest and to his shoulder, even though Qui-Gon had rested his hand on the small of his back.

“Do you know why I rejected the council seat? After Pijal?” Qui-Gon asked, pushing his large hand over Obi-Wan’s clothes, the tough pads of his fingers resting on his waist.

“The force – you wished to learn more about it and the council would be a distraction -” Obi-Wan quickly replied, balancing his own hands on Qui-Gon’s shoulders.

“For you, padawan. Yes, I wished to learn more about the force, but I couldn’t bear to leave you,” Qui-Gon said, finally.

“I don’t believe you,” Obi-Wan swiftly replied, digging his fingers into Qui-Gon’s robe.

“It’s true,” Qui-Gon started, “you can ask Mace, I’m sure he sensed that my explanation was less than genuine.”

Suddenly, Qui-Gon felt Obi-Wan’s hand grip tight to his. Obi-Wan led him out of the ballroom, quickly and without turning back. Qui-Gon felt his heart sink as he felt panic surge through his bond with Obi-Wan, had he said something wrong?

“Do you mean what you say?” Obi-Wan asked once he led Qui-Gon out into an empty corridor, where only a few guards stood watch. “That you can’t bear to be without me?”

“Of course, padawan, I’m only sorry that I didn’t make it obvious sooner,” Qui-Gon said.

“Call me Obi-Wan,” he said, stepping close once more, “I’m hardly a boy anymore.”

“Obi-Wan, I-” Qui-Gon started, stopping in the middle of his sentence in exasperation. Obi-Wan had backed himself into a corner, and his own large body towered over his apprentice’s. Qui-Gon balanced a hand on the wall behind Obi-Wan’s head.

I long for you, I want you.

“Kiss me, master,” Obi-Wan asked, his voice almost at a whisper as he hooked his hands around Qui-Gon’s neck.

“Call me Qui-Gon,” he asked, pressing his fingers to Obi-Wan’s chin and bottom lip, feeling how soft he was there, unable to believe that he wasn’t dreaming.

“Kiss me, Qui-Gon-” Obi-Wan asked, though he could barely finish his request before Qui-Gon had pressed his lips against his and melded their bodies together.

Never before had Qui-Gon felt the force as strong as he did in that moment, with Obi-Wan pawing at his chest and pushing into him, the two of them breathing as one. Qui-Gon allowed his hand to move to Obi-Wan’s hair, tugging lightly at his padawan braid, when he heard a light moan pepper off Obi-Wan’s mouth and into his. Qui-Gon pressed harder, deeper into his lips, before lifting Obi-Wan up from his feet and onto his hips, where his padawan knew instinctively what to do, straddling his legs around his waist.

Qui-Gon let the force guide him back to his private quarters at the Pijali palace, knowing that if he separated himself from Obi-Wan for even one moment, he’d fall to his knees for him– happy to submit to even an ounce of his light.

Obi-Wan woke in a frenzy, his hair and skin slick with sweat. He pressed his hand to his neck to feel his pulse, how it rapidly beat against him – as though his will to live was a sign of defiance. He fell back onto the soaked pillow of his bed, running his hands over his face and sighing. Obi-Wan hoped that Anakin couldn’t feel his distress through their bond, and that he hadn’t woken his padawan with what felt like the never-ending nightmare.

It always went the same – he was on Tatooine.

He faced a mysterious Sith lord who had been chasing him and Qui-Gon. And he was forced to watch, over and over again, as he pierced Qui-Gon through the gut. He could feel the scream build up in his throat, chasing down the terrible feeling of his bond to Qui-Gon being severed in half. The pain of it burned Obi-Wan, singed him to a crisp, followed him no matter where he ran.

He pushed away hot, drying tears from his face when he felt a presence at the end of his bed. Obi-Wan shot up – knowing that strong, whimsical force signature anywhere.

“Qui-Gon?” Obi-Wan asked, his voice cracking as he faced his old master, sitting on top of his knees at the foot of the bed they once shared.

“Dear one,” Qui-Gon started, his face and body luminous, as though he was there but not really, “I don’t have much time.”

Obi-Wan reached his hand forward to where Qui-Gon’s chest was, but his hand went straight through the figment of him. He felt his heart seize and tense as fresh tears built in his eyes.

“I can’t even touch you,” Obi-Wan said, “it’s not fair.”

“Obi-Wan, I only have a few moments,” Qui-Gon pushed.

“Then leave me!” Obi-Wan shouted, “do not curse me to this world where I can see you but not touch you.”

Without another moment, Qui-Gon was gone. But on Obi-Wan’s side table was a note, scribbled in Qui-Gon’s illegible handwriting -

– believe.

Qui-Gon dragged his fingers over Obi-Wan’s bare shoulder, grazing lightly into the crook that met his neck. He pressed a light kiss to that space, breathing in the scent of Obi-Wan and wishing he could stay there all night.

“Mmm, sleep, master,” Obi-Wan whispered.

“I can’t sleep,” Qui-Gon replied, tracing a circle with his finger at the nape of Obi-Wan’s neck, “too distracted, padawan.”

“What’re you thinking about?” Obi-Wan sleepily asked.

Qui-Gon sighed, debating whether or not to admit to Obi-Wan the whole truth of what was on his mind. He’d had a vision, a feeling, recently. That he should prepare Obi-Wan for a world where they were separated, even if it was truly by the thin veil of the living and the dead. It was just a feeling – a nudge from the force – but Qui-Gon had listened to less.

“I have half a mind to believe that if I died, my soul would return to the world just to be near you, padawan” Qui-Gon said, feeling Obi-Wan immediately jerk awake from his half-sleep.

“Why would you say that?” Obi-Wan said.

“Dear one,” Qui-Gon said, reaching out his hand and softly cupping Obi-Wan’s face, “don’t panic.”

Obi-Wan quickly grabbed onto Qui-Gon’s hand and brought it to his chest, digging his fingers deep into the flesh of his skin.

“What am I supposed to do, then?” Obi-Wan asked, exasperated and upset.

“Promise that if the day passes where I am gone, you shall look for me,” Qui-Gon brought Obi-Wan’s fist to his lips, “that you shall believe.”

Qui-Gon ran his fingers up Obi-Wan’s thighs as his padawan crawled into his lap, wrapping his legs around his waist. Obi-Wan pressed his lips against Qui-Gon’s, slowly, so that when he deepened the kiss it was all the better. Obi-Wan pulled away for just a moment, leaving Qui-Gon with a shimmer of his taste.

“I shall believe,” Obi-Wan said, believing every word.

There is an oasis at the center of Tatooine, as there would be for any desert.

And in it is a body of water, though only locals confirm its existence. Obi-Wan would have doubted himself had he not seen it personally, and had Anakin not told him about it countless times.

It was the only place he could think of going when he’d finally grown tired of the weight of it all, the pain of universe. Anakin was gone – replaced by a black cloak and mask – as though Obi-Wan had not lost enough. Where there was once powerful, inexplicable beauty was nothing. Losing his padawan wasn’t unlike losing his master, the well of grief buried a hole in Obi-Wan that could never be filled.

Obi-Wan stepped off his ship, slowly, he was older – now. His body moved slower. He’d used the remainder of his life force chasing around a blond-haired child who reminded him of the best parts of Anakin – his shimmering eyes, his boyish hope. Obi-Wan felt only light and warmth at the thought of Luke.

The old jedi master waded into the water, watching as his cloak and robes rose to the surface. He ran his hands over the clear lake, pressing his hands into the thin, enveloping nature of it as he sank deeper. The water was up to Obi-Wan’s chest when he felt it – the force – wrapping and circling around him in a never-ending spiral.

He looked ahead of him, reaching out his wrinkled hands and feeling a warm, strong grasp wrap around his fingers. With streaks of grey painting his long, soft hair and clean, tan robes – he hardly looked any different. It was visceral, it was magical and unlike anything else in the world. Obi-Wan laughed.

It was Qui-Gon.

reblog/like if you liked it :) ty for reading

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32346730

#quiobi #qui gon x obi wan #obi wan x qui gon #quiobi fic #my writing #master & apprentice

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silkling · 3 years

Note

Au prompts

No rush, just throwin some thoughts out

I really like your falsely accused au, any more of that would be consumed as if it were the finest chocolate

(More g1 ish) Prowl is SpecOps in some way not just a strat-tac mech (love me some BAMF Prowl)

Prowl has a secret identity, and his pseudonym is that of a reknown orchestral composer. Meanwhile Jazz thinks Prowl knows jack sh*t about music....maybe Prowl writes him a symphony as a surprise anniversary (could be bonding or maybe a post war milestone) gift? (This is indulgent fluff of mine that i think about but never actually write XD)

No worries, friend! The falsely accused AU will return soon! I’m debating whether I should make a long fic for the next reveal or keep it short like I did the first one. I plan to have things in this AU change the canon at large, so prepare for that. :P

As for your other prompts, how about I mash ‘em together? :D

———————————————————————————————————

Prowl hadn’t always been involved in battle tactics. When he’d come online, he had realized that his tac-net was good for organizing and structuring and controlling anything large and complicated. Most bots assumed that meant a battlefield, or something else to that degree. It was why he’d initially joined the Praxus Enforcer Corps. He had excelled there, and his tac-net had helped him cut crime rates down to a tiny fraction of what they’d once been. But…after he’d done that, and his programs and procedures were in place and settled, things had calmed and he’d had nothing to do. He had hated it. So, in an effort to break up the monotony, he’d gone to view an orchestra performance. After that, he’d been hooked. He’d watched the conductor control and guide the flow of the music and the musicians, and his processor had roared to life.

The next day, he’d handed in his formal resignation from the Enforcers, and had been allowed to leave with full honors. His Chief knew he hadn’t been happy, knew he’d been stagnating. Highwire had only wished him luck before she’d sent him off. Then, Prowl had devoted himself to music. He learned all he could, and slowly, agonizingly slowly, he’d managed to work his way from a music writer, to a small time musician, to a small time conductor. And then he had had his first show as a proper orchestra conductor, small and non-essential as it was, and his tac-net had settled and quieted, it’s systems purring as it allowed him to direct the flow of the orchestra with perfect precision. He hadn’t known at the time, but his show had been watched by one of the most well-known and oldest conductors on Cybertron. After his show, Treble had approached him and introduced himself, and offered to take Prowl on as a protege.

He had agreed, and his next show had been bigger. He’d written the music himself, the orchestra he was conducting was much larger, and Treble had used his vast influence to promote it. That was the first time he’s taken to the stage as Baton. He had decided shortly after he’d begun training under Treble that he didn’t want to use his real name when on stage. He enjoyed his privacy, and if all of Cybertron knew Prowl as a conductor he wouldn’t get much peace. So, on stage, he was Baton, and as Baton he also used a temporary paint to change his colors and used some fabric to drape over shoulders and hips. It was enough to disguise him.

And to his delight, his first show had been a massive hit. His tac-net had enjoyed this even more, the larger scale giving him more to work with, more to control and direct, and he reveled in it. Then, after the show, Treble had revealed to the audience that Baton had written all the music that had been played that night, and with that single performance his career was set. Over the following vorns, he’d grown more and more popular, and he’d eventually finished his tutelage under Treble. As time passed, he’d quickly become the most well known conductor on Cybertron. His orchestra had grown too, and had become known as the largest on the planet. Prowl, or rather Baton, led a orchestra of over a thousand mechs and femmes through songs he himself wrote. He had loved every minute of it.

Prowl wasn’t an emotional mech. In fact, emotion was something he struggled with. He thrived on order and structure, and emotions were not organized or structured, but music…music was. And music was also emotional. Through music, he had been able to give his emotions the order and structure he desperately needed in order to express them properly. Prowl had loved his life as Baton. It wasn’t grand, and he didn’t serve much of a higher purpose, but he brought joy to his orchestra, and to his audience, and for him that was enough.

But then…the whispers started. Now, Prowl wasn’t a fool. Most mechs who hadn’t been involved in the inner workings of Cybertron would claim that Megatron had risen from practically nothing and started the war on on his own. He knew that wasn’t true. Megatron had risen from a well-established foundation, a foundation that had built itself long before he gunmetal warlord had even given thought to revolution and war. No, the war had started millennia before the rise of the Decepticons. It had started on the quiet whispers among the lower castes, it had started on the stirrings of the beaten down and the starving. It had started at the rising tide of outrage and horror in face of the Senate’s cruel and extreme punishments for any tiny hit to their authority. It had started in the discontent at the tighter and tighter stranglehold the Senate had began to employ as they grabbed for and more power for themselves, and more and more of the mechs in lower society suffered and died. No, the war didn’t start with Megatron. Megatron was merely the catalyst. If he hadn’t come along and done what he had, Prowl had no doubts that a full scale revolt would have occurred. The fuel for the war had already soaked into the roots of Cybertron. Megatron had only been the spark that lit the blaze,

Prowl had heard the whispers, the growing discontent. He’d seen how the civil unrest got worse with each passing stellar cycle. He knew it was only a matter of time before something in his life changed again. So, when Covert approached him, he hadn’t been surprised. She told him she was the head of an independent group of Special Ops bots, unaffiliated with any political group and who worked only to keep Cybertron as a whole safe and stable. They weren’t much liked by the Senate, since they were not under any mech’s control, but the Senate also couldn’t do anything about them since, apparently, the group had been operating as they had since before the Senate itself had even existed. Covert had told him she’d seen some of his shows, seen the way he directed the orchestra, and she had dug in and found his public records as Prowl. She’d read about what he’d done as an Enforcer, had read about what information there was available on his tac-net, and realized she needed him. She told him that the civil unrest was growing worse, that things were even more dire than they appeared on the surface. That she wanted him to join her, to train him as an agent and a spy, and she wanted him to use his tac-net and his other abilities to help keep Cybertron safe.

Prowl had floundered. He understood why she was doing it. His logic centers agreed that her points were sound, that it would be best for everyone’s future if he went with her. His tac-net ran probability outcomes, spitting out percentages at him of what would happen if he accepted her offer, what would happen if he didn’t, what would happen if the unrest grew to proper war and what would happen if war could not be contained or controlled. The numbers weren’t good. His logic centers had screamed even louder at him to accept. His emotional cortex had protested. He didn’t want to leave his orchestra, his music. But…he was needed. As much as he loved what he was now…he couldn’t let others suffer if he had a way to help. So, with a heavy spark, he had taken her hand.

The next day had come, and Prowl had announced to the world as Baton that he was temporarily leaving the music scene. Baton was having issues with his health, and until they were resolved he would not write music or conduct again. And so with the well-wishes of fans and his musicians alike, Baton faded into the background of Prowl’s spark, and Operative had taken his place. Once again, he had had to disguise himself. This time, he’d taken more permanent measures, a dark blue visor and a battle mask that covered the lower half of his face. A radical paint change, and even alterations to his armor itself to make him sleeker and slimmer. Covert herself had trained him, and shortly thereafter he had gone on his first mission. Prowl had found he had a natural aptitude for spy work. He was small, quick, and stealthy, and he had a knack for processing, deconstructing, and disseminating information. It didn’t take long for him to become known as one of the most accomplished SpecOps agents on the planet. It also wasn’t long before he took his first life. He still remembered that mech’s face. It haunted him, in ways his subsequent kills didn’t. After that, he had also been sent on the occasional assassination, though his work as a spy always came first.

And then, just has he had predicted…war.

It had erupted swiftly and violently, and it wasn’t long before his unit had been forced to make a choice. Most of the agents had allowed themselves to be folded into the ranks of Autobot SpecOps. Prowl, or rather Operative, had not. He had continued to act independently, knowing that if he joined the Autobots officially and his affiliation was known in the event of possible capture by Decepticons, it would make things worse, so he’d remained officially neutral. Though, most of his work had been for the benefit of Cybertron’s neutrals and civilians, with information tossed to the Autobots occasionally.

It was his acting in this way that allowed him to prevent a larger tragedy from occurring in Praxus. He had had to fight Soundwave to get to the information, and he’d taken out all the mech’s cassettes and shattered his optics in the resulting fight, and he had managed to get the information about the attack on his home city. He hadn’t been able to stop it, but he’d sent the information along with a warning ahead to the city itself and to the Autobots. It had allowed Praxus to evacuate all its Youth Centers and even a fair amount of its civilian citizens before the city was destroyed. He hadn’t been able to save his home from being razed to the ground, but his actions had saved the next generation of Praxus’s children.

It was shortly after that that Covert, now head of Autobot SpecOps, had approached him again. The head of the Autobot Tactical Division had recently been offlined, and the faction was starting to buckle and struggle in their fights. Prowl had known what he had to do. So, once more, Operative had retreated to the shadows of his spark, and Prowl had stepped forward as himself for the first time since his days as an Enforcer. Covert had taken him directly to the Prime, where she’d laid out his life story and explained the situation. Together, the three of the, had created two files for him. One, that detailed his life as Prowl and as an Enforcer, and everything he’d accomplished as one, which would be open for public access. The other, which contained the life he’d lived and the things he’d done as Operative, would only be a accessible to Prime and himself, and the head of SpecOps with previous permission from the Prowl of Optimus. Baton would not be put into any files at his request, since at the time he’d been a civilian. He wanted to keep his happiest times to himself.

And then, Covert had been offlined in a mission, and her second in command had taken her place. That was when Prowl had met Jazz. Their initial meeting had been….less than stellar.

(“So, yer the head of Tactics? Gotta say, I’m surprised an Enforcer managed to do anythin’ worth much to a military group like this one. Didn’t think workin’ petty criminals on the streets would translate to bein’ able to lead proper soldiers.”

Rage, quick and burning.

“And I am surprised a mech as carefree as yourself is capable of leading a group like SpecOps. Doesn’t that require delicacy?”)

After that, their relationship had been…rocky. It didn’t help that Jazz couldn’t access Prowl’s sealed file. Not that the mech necessarily knew the file was about Prowl, he just knew it involved the tactician in some way. Still, it had taken them a few vorns before they’d been able to patch up their relationship and work things out. And after that point…things had simply grown. Prowl had come to realize that Jazz was an easy mech to get along with. He was pleasant and adaptable, and he didn’t push beyond the Praxian’s comfort zone. He was also fiercely intelligent, and Prowl had been delighted to learn that the saboteur was actually a rather brilliant tactician in his own right. In fact, because Jazz understood emotions and the inner workings of a bots’s mind better than Prowl, it wasn’t uncommon for him to go to the Polyhexian for advice on his plans if he felt it was needed. It was also why he never took it too personally if Jazz ever criticized his proposed plans in meetings.

Things had kept moving forward, and forward, until…

(“Ya look real pretty under the stars, there, Prowler.”

“I believe I told you not to call me that.”

A frame, settling next to him.

“Ain’t gonna stop me, mech.”

“No, I suppose not.”

Silence, then a breath.

“Can I kiss ya, Prowl?”

More silence. A huff, and a smile.

“I would like that very much, Jazz.”)

Their relationship had taken work. They had been friends first, which certainly helped, but they were both mechs of secrets. Jazz’s secrets were a byproduct of his work, and Prowl’s a byproduct of his life. It had taken time for them to accept and understand that some such secrets are okay. Eventually, they had worked it out, and their bond had only grown. Prowl was startled at just how easy it was to love Jazz, just how easy it was to give his spark to the other mech and not fear it being hurt. Jazz was…a soft lover. He was gentle and doting and so tender it almost made Prowl ache. One of his favorite things was curling up into Jazz’s chest, the spy’s hands smoothing over his doorwings as they simply enjoyed each other’s closeness and affection.

It was peaceful. A type of peace he hadn’t known since before Operative. Perhaps, one he’d never really known at all. They were strong together, with Prowl as the Autobot SIC and Jazz the TIC. They had the trust of their Prime, and the respect of their soldiers. The Decepticons hadn’t had the upper hand in centuries. So, their next step was only logical, given how rare joy was in these days, and how little they knew of the certainty of their own future.

(“My Spark and your spark, forever as one.”

“Bonded together, until the stars wink out and the world collapses.”

“In this life and the next, I am yours, as you are mine.”

“For all of eternity, I shall remain at your side, and you shall remain at mine.”)

They bonded. Under the eyes of Optimus and with the approval of their Prime, they bound their very sparks, tying themselves together for the rest of time. They had asked to keep the information secret. Only the Officers on Optimus’s personal team knew. And so that way they stayed, until the war forced them from their home. Prowl hadn’t ever expected to wake, after the crash. But he did. And Jazz, too. Everyone had. So, the war continued, only now it was on a small organic planet rich with energon. Prowl was only slightly surprised that the scale and brutality of the war was much, much less here.

But then….things went wrong. They had been on Earth for several of the planet’s years when the DJD had come. Apparently, they were only there to drop off a traitor for Megatron to deal with. But then Tarn had decided he wanted to do his Lord one more favor, and…Jazz’s team had been captured on a supply run. The rest of the base quickly gave up hope. No one wanted to fight the DJD, and even if they did no one was sure there was even anything left of their comrades to rescue. Prowl knew, though. He still felt the echo of Jazz’s spark brushing his.

So, for the first time in mega-cycles…Operative roared to the forefront. Prowl returned to the room he shared with Jazz, opening the secret compartment behind his desk that not even Jazz had been aware off. In it, was everything he needed to become Operative again, as well as anything he had kept that had to do with Operative as a whole. He removed the visor from its case, clicking it onto his face, and his battle mask slid out in three pieces from the armor at his chin and cheeks to cover his mouth and nose. He grabbed the pain from the small compartment, covering his current colors in quick, sure movements. Then, he put everything back and retreated to the shadows, leaving the base and driving off.

He knew where the DJD’s ship was. He knew how they operated. They wouldn’t take Jazz’s team to Megatron until they had worthwhile information to go along with it. He also knew that Tarn was the only one who was on board, having done preliminary probing earlier that day. Now, it was time to act. He drove in silence, until he finally arrived at his location. It didn’t take him long to find a way into the ship. It was one of the external vents, usually used for pumping contaminated air out of the ship. If he was careful, he could force it open and sneak in.

Once he had entered the ship, he stuck to corners and shadows, doorwings angled upwards and sensors dialed up to their max in order to pick up the minute charge that signaled where any cameras were. Using that, the was able to avoid detection, until he got to the brig. He saw the team there, but more importantly, Jazz was there. They were all a little roughed up, and he knew he had to hurry. He had already sent a short message back to base informing them of his mission and telling them to come for retrieval. He knew he’d get into some trouble for his rogue actions, but at the moment he didn’t care.

Looking over the team, he realized his initial plan wouldn’t work. He had hoped to sneak them back through the ship, but they were all injured in some manner or another and he could tell they wouldn’t be able to pull their processors together enough to be as stealthy as they needed to be. Which left Plan B. Explosives. He pulled one of his favorite explosive disks from his subspace, setting the timer and sticking it to the far wall of the brig. He activated it, then hurried to open the cell door. At his reveal, three sets of tired optics locked onto him. Immediately, recognition flickered. They knew Operative from the stories, even if none of them had ever met him in person. He was a SpecOps legend, after all.

He gestured quickly, making a motion to where the explosive was ticking, and hurried in to help Jazz up. He was the most injured of the three, and Mirage quickly moved to his other side to help keep the saboteur steady. The four mech group hurried as fast as they were able out of the cell, and the explosive went off. It took out the ship wall, and then they were dragging themselves to freedom. The impact with the ground was rough, and he knew their time was limited. Tarn would be coming to investigate soon, and he had to buy time until the retrieval team arrived. He managed to get the three SpecOps mechs settled against a large boulder, just as he heard heavy pede steps approaching behind him.

He straightened, turning around and lifting his gaze to meet Tarn optics-to-visor.

“So,” Tarn hummed, tilting his head. “The fabled Operative makes his return. You know, it was always assumed you’d perished before the war left Cybertron.” He said smoothly.

He said nothing, expression unreadable behind mask and visor. His posture gave nothing away, either. Under the light of the sun, his deep blue and burnt copper colors seemed to absorb the light. His wings were held at a neutral angle, though they were tilted just so to pick up any signals or changes in the air. His hands were folded behind his back, and he merely stared at the larger mech in front of him.

There was a long beat of silence, and then it was broken by the sound of approaching engines.

Neither mech looked away.

He heard the sound of transformation behind him, and heard Ironhide’s gruff voice speaking to the three downed Autobots. It was as he heard movement indicating they were being pulled away that Tarn finally shifted. It drew the attention of the retrieval team, who up to that point had been more focused on getting their comrades to safety and had been ignoring the SpecOps mechs attempts to make them look at the other two bots present. He could feel the static of Ironhide’s surprise on his doorwing sensors, and he heard Hound let out a frazzled exclamation of surprise.

“Who-“ Ironhide’s began, but Jazz was the one who cut him off.

“Operative. That’s Operative.”

“Who?”

“The greatest spy Cybertron has ever known.” Tarn said, voice oily and dark. “Responsible for revealing Senator Crankshaft’s illegal activities, for breaking up the slave trading ring in Uraya, and most known for stealing the information from the Decepticons that allowed Praxus to save its Sparklings and Younglings.”

There was silence, before Trailbreaker’s voice could be heard. “Holy scrap, one mech did all that?”

“That, and much, much more.” Jazz spoke, voice rough. “Operative is a legend, ‘Hide. And he may not be one of ours, but he is on our side.”

At that, he merely dipped his head in acknowledgment of his bonded’s words. He still didn’t remove his gaze from Tarn.

“Well, and enlightening as this was,” Tarn spoke, taking a step towards the Autobots. “I’d like my prisoners back now, though I certainly wouldn’t mind bringing more Autobot helms to my Lord.” he all but purred, one servo lifting.

It was then that he moved. The Praxian flared his wings, and the armor in his back shifted and made way for hidden boosters. They flared to life, and he sped forward faster than anyone could react, grabbing a length of metal wire from his sub space as he blurred towards Tarn. He snatched the ‘Con’s wrist, dropping his weight down to force Tarn over, and as he moved he slid between the larger mech’s legs while looping the wire around the caught wrist. In the same movement, he slammed his other elbow into the back of Tarn’s knee, forcing it to buckle, and then he twisted and threw his weight, tossing the purple mech to the ground with a heavy, hard impact.

Before he could move, he was rolling on his heels, a wrist flicking and sending a sharp knife into his palm from the sheath hidden in his forearm, and he used the hand still holding the wire to quickly loop the rest of its length around Tarn’s neck. Hand freed, he grabbed the arm the Decepticon was trying to use to get up, twisting it and forcing him onto his front with one arm trapped under his own weight, and pressed a knee to his spinal strut. He finished it by pressing the tip of the sharp blade to the back of Tarn’s head, right into a chink in the heavy armor and against the fragile protoform underneath. Like this, it would be all to easy to force the blade forward and straight into Tarn’s processor. It would kill him in an instant, and it was a maneuver he could pull off before Tarn would be able to throw him off, since positioned like he was, he could feel every shift and tense in the larger mech’s frame. The whole thing had taken barley 10 seconds.

“You will be taking no prisoners today.” he said tonelessly. “You will leave. I will not hesitate to offline your should you attempt otherwise.”

There was silence, and then a low chuckle rose from the trapped ‘Con. “My, I am surprised. It’s been a long time since I’ve been so soundly beaten. It seemed rumors of your skill weren’t exaggerated. Though, what can I expect, from the mech who offlined Sentinel Prime?”

He pressed the knife down harder, engine rumbling in warning as he tried to ignore the gasps from the Autobots behind them.

Tarn clearly got the message. “Alright, little mech. I’m leaving.” he agreed.

He stayed where he was for only a moment, then shifted off the larger mech. As Tarn stood, the blade flashed around him to slice through the wire, and then Operative was moving away.

“Go.” the spy stated, voice cold.

Tarn only chuckled once more, turning a speculative look on to the group in front him, before he boarded his ship. A few moments later, it took off.

“Did you really offline Sentinel Prime?” It was Hound.

He turned, then tilted his head. “I did.”

“Why?” Mirage’s voice was rough, his tone demanding.

“Sentinel was corrupt.” To everyone’s surprise, it was Jazz who spoke. “He not only was aware of the Senate’s actions before the war, he approved and even took part himself. He let the power of the Matrix and the Primacy go to his helm, and he stopped protectin’ and leadin’ Cybertron like he should’ve.” he rasped. “Prime told me. He said Sentinel’s death wasn’t the tragedy the media made it out to be. The Matrix showed him some o’ the stuff the old mech did, and apparently it would be enough to disgust even the Unmaker himself.”

There was shocked silence, and Trailbreaker’s voice was weak. “Seriously?”

“Sentinel Prime was not a true Prime. He was chosen by the Senate and by the Prime before him, not by the Matrix. Before Optimus Prime, there had not been a true Prime since the last of the Thirteen.” Operative revealed.

“How do you know that?” Mirage demanded.

His question was met with a stony silence.

The Towers mech bristled, looking ready to say something else, and then Ironhide’s cleared his throat. “Right. Well. We gotta get these guys back to base.” He turned to the Praxian. “What about you?”

“My mission is done. I will take my leave now.” he said. Then paused. “You will find your second in command back at your base.” And then he slipped backwards into the shadows of a nearby cliff and was gone.

“Wait, how the Pit did he even know it was Prowl who’s missing and sent that message?”

“It’s Operative, Hound.” Skids, the final member of the missing team, sounded tired as he spoke. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he knows every Autobot and Deception secret.”

========================

Back at base, the missing team had been patched up and were recovering in the medbay. It was midnight, and Mirage and Skids were deep in recharge. Jazz was not. He was waiting. Soon, a mech slipped from the shadows, blue and copper colors had changed to black and white, and the visor and mask were both gone. Jazz turned to stare are his bondmate approached, his optics unreadable behind his visor.

“So.” he murmured. “Yer Operative. I’m guessing that’s what’s in that file you never let me get into. Did Covert know?”

“She was the one who recruited me.” Prowl answered. His spark felt heavy and he couldn’t meet Jazz’s gaze. “I’m sorry.”

Jazz hummed, going quiet. “Not gonna lie, Prowler. I’m a little hurt.” he sighed. “But…I get it.” Prowl turned startled optics to his mate. “I’m SpecOps too, remember? I know how important secrets are. Plus, I can understand why you wouldn’t say anythin’. The war needs Prowl the tactician, not Operative the spy.” he mused. “Sure, Operative would help big time, but the Autobots can survive without him, we can’t survive without you, Prowl.”

The Praxian was quiet for a moment, and then his doorwings slumped in relief and he reached out to curl his hand around Jazz’s fingers. “I’m relieved. I was worried you would wish to have nothing to do with me.” he whispered.

Jazz softened. His visor slid away, revealing shining, open optics. “Never, lover.” he purred. “‘Until the stars wink out and the world collapses’, remember? Now pull up a chair and sit. I get the feelin’ you need the closeness as much as I do.”

Prowl did just as Jazz asked, once he’d gotten settled, he folded one arm on the edge of the medical berth, resting his helm on it and once more curling the fingers of his other hand into Jazz’s.

That night, the two bonded mechs recharged just like that, assured once more of their love and devotion for one another.

========================

A couple weeks later, and Jazz had been released from the medbay, given strict orders to finish his recovery in his room. He was on medical leave until such time that Ratchet said otherwise. Prowl had an plan, though. The anniversary of their bonding was today, and he knew his mate loved music of all kinds. He was ready to share his final and more treasured secret with the spy. But he wanted to do more than just tell him the truth. He wanted to show Jazz exactly how much he meant to him. He had a plan for that. He had spent the past many, many days writing a piece of music for the first time since he’d been forced to leave his life as Baton behind. Once he’d finished, he’d just needed a way to play it.

He didn’t have a Cybertronian orchestra, and the few Cybertronian instruments available wouldn’t be enough for a piece of this scale, which left…an Earth orchestra. And luckily for him, he knew exactly what do to. A couple years back, Prowl had rescued a famous human conductor, and had offered him a ride to his home. It was on the way he’d ended up revealing he too had once been a conductor, as his spark had been aching to reminisce with someone who understood, and the two had bonded. Zachary, the human, had been ecstatic when he learned that Prowl wrote his own music. He had told that Autobot that if he ever wrote something again, he would be glad and honored to have his orchestra play it.

Prowl had taken him up on the offer the moment he’d finished piece. They had organized it, and Prowl had even written in a piece for a Cybertronian instrument to be included, which he himself would play. It had taken days of practice but Zachary, the orchestra, and Prowl had managed to play the full song. It wasn’t anything like a Cybertronian symphony, but…Prowl had a feeling Jazz would love it all the same. They’d recorded the full piece for Prowl to take with him, and the Autobot had promised to write Zachary a song as well when the human had come to him after the performance, teary eyed and awed.

Now, it was the morning of their anniversary, and Prowl rose first. He had to get to work, but he knew Jazz was still bed bound. He simply wrote quick note, and left his gift on Jazz’s bedside before leaving. All day, his processor raced and raced. Would Jazz like the gift? Would he recognize that it was a Baton piece even if the instrumentation was different? Did he even know who Baton was? For once, Prowl found his work to be lacking, and by the time he was heading back to their room that night his logic center and emotional cortex were clashing horribly.

The door to his room opened as he stopped in front of it, and closed when he stepped inside. Immediately, blue optics slid to the form on the berth. Jazz was staring at him, visor gone and gaze intense. The mech slowly shifted out of the berth, and Prowl was frozen where he stood. Jazz approached him, and then he pulled the Praxian into a hard kiss.

When they separated several moments later, Jazz’s voice shook. “Did you know,” he whispered. “That Baton was my first crush? I saw his first performance, before his name was known to the public and before Treble took him under wing. I’ve loved him ever since. When he took a break, and then the war happened, I always figured he’d been offlined.” he whispered. “Then I met you.” he grinned, his expression so open and adoring it made Prowl’s spark ache. “And you became my first true love.” he leaned in to kiss his mate fiercely more before pulling back. “You know what that means, my spark?”

“What?” Prowl asked, voice soft.

“It means,” He purred. “That I’ve always loved you, since the moment I first saw you, even if I didn’t know you were you.”

Prowl blinked, then laughed, staticky and relieved. “You liked the music, then?” he asked. He hoped Jazz understood what he had been saying with the symphony. He’d written it from the spark.

Jazz just grinned, kissing him firmly once more before dragging him back to the berth. “It was perfect, lover. Just perfect.” he smiled. He got them both settled on the berth, tucked in close to one another. ��And Prowl?”

“Hm?”

“I love you too.”

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morgana-ren · 3 years

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Empty

Another small short for Shigaraki this time. I’m sure it had a point originally. Yandere Shigaraki and his captive darling and him being a real dick about proving that you’re better off at his side under his protection than you are on your own in the cruel, cruel world. After all, better the devil you know that the devil you don’t.

Warnings: Kidnapping, allusions to death, rotting corpses and rot (indiscernible animal), noncon, captivity, Shig being fuckin’ mean as usual, purple prose again, whump I guess? (In my sister’s words “It’s sad. Is it supposed to be this sad?”)

Rating: Definitely E on this one.

You can tell a lot about someone by their eyes.

Eyes are how we see the world, but in equal capacity, it’s also how the world sees us. Someone’s eyes, unlike their mouths, don’t have the same capability to lie. They can be a tell-all when we’re reluctant or can express the things we don’t have the courage to say. The things you can learn can be overwhelming. Sometimes you see too much. Sometimes not enough.

And when you looked into his eyes, it was like there was nothing inside them. Nothing at all.

His eyes were beautiful, even if you couldn’t see any of your own humanity mirrored back at you in your reflection. Stark red and violent, an open wound bleeding contempt for the waking world and everyone in it.

It hurts you more than you care to admit to know that you’re included in the group he believes to be the scum beneath his ruby red shoes.

Even as he watches you now through narrow lids with a casual sense of detachment, every bone in your body longs to see something in those eyes other than carefully concealed disgust. Something. Anything. Some shining light of pride or care or even just simple recognition that you aren’t just a parasite that clings to him for some sick sense of purpose, even if he is the one who has bound you here.

But you know that’s impossible. Even if he wanted to. Even if he had the capability.

Truthfully, you’re not sure what it would be like if he did.

The closest you will ever get is that he allows you to ride his coattails alongside the dirt and mud, slowly shrinking in the darkness of his shadow as you follow behind him and stare resentfully as he eclipses the sun and all the light it brings. It’s impossible to bloom without nurture and care but somehow, like a weed, you’ve found a way to stay alive in an environment that wholly starves you and deprives you of love and affection. He makes you whole. He makes you real.

He makes you sick.

Worms and maggots crawl across a dead something or other, blood matted fur giving next to no indication of what the small mammal might have been when it was living. Small pieces of bone are visible through the rotting muscle tissue, mangled limbs sitting limply beside the body. It’s a tableau of death he wants you to witness; decay that makes your still living flesh crawl.

“That’s what happens,” he states matter of factly, pale, thin finger pointing at the carcass as the other squeezes the side of your waist tight enough to make you seize. “When you die. You rot in the ground and no one will remember or care.”

The sick crawls up your stomach, bile resting uneasily at the low of your throat. You don’t want to look anymore, but you know if you try to look away, he’ll make you look again. There’s still tender bruises on your skin from the last time you tried to defy him, and you know what happens if you make him angry. Your tears mean nothing to him and you swear you see the ghost of a smile twitch on his lips as he watches your eyes well up.

He’s not giving you a simple organic chemistry lesson, of that you’re completely certain. He wants you to know the power he holds, wants you to understand that if he so chose, he could easily expedite the process of your own fragile form’s decay.

He didn't used to be like this. He used to be Tenko. Used to have a soul.

But he sold that soul the day his daddy took a step too far and then overtook the devils throne and used the contract to wipe his hands clean of the blood. Tenko doesn’t exist. He’s made sure you understand that. Any mention of the boy he used to be is enough to get his fingers twitching and ready on your throat.

He watches as you cry with an expression that’s equal parts elated and aroused, not bothering to conceal it from you any further. Desperately, you shove down your sorrow and keep your back straight against him; your pain is an aphrodisiac for him. Wipe the tears from your eyes and cast them bitterly to the floor. Swallow the hiccups and sobs that bubble in your gut and keep a trembling straight face despite your every instinct longing to curl at his feet and hide your face in the dirt.

It’s far too late.

Anytime you concede to the power he wields, it re-energizes him, and you’re his favorite little power source. He’s learned to tune you like a fiddle until you play whatever song he desires and he’ll dance with you until your feet bleed and your body crumples. He’ll step on the arch of your back and use you as a pedestal to reach the greatness he knows he’s destined for and punish you if you falter under his weight.

It’s a mock symbiosis you live in, neither wholly at peace but each one needing the other. You’ve tried to leave, tried to run. He finds you, dragging you back to him kicking and screaming and clawing at the ground. With a gnarled hand twisted through your hair, he tells you how pretty you are, puckers your ruddy cheeks with his nails and kisses you deeply as the tears stream down your face.

‘Don’t kid yourself. You couldn’t survive without me, idiot. Where would you go? Who would take you after I have?’

You hate it, you despise him, but he’s right. Who could ever accept you after you’ve allowed him to have you time and time again? Where in the darkness could you hide that he wouldn’t find you? Even if you did find someone who would care for you after your body had been tainted by his touch, Tomura wouldn’t stand for it. He’d find you as he had time and time again, seek out the source of your light and snuff it out.

“Don’t you care about me?” He’d say, leading you away with hands still stained red. “Don’t you want me to be happy?”

And when you start to cry again, he’d simply wipe them away with a filthy thumb, smearing the grime across your cheek.

“Don’t worry. I forgive you. But don’t do it again.”

Long have you given up your silly dreams of freedom, but still he likes to drive the nail further, either out of necessity or malevolence. So he drags you far from home into places you could never find on your own to show you the pitfalls of life without him. Cold and shaking, you’ll follow wherever he leads you because when he asks you nicely to come, there is no other choice. He’ll take you on a personally guided tour of the horrors of the world, horrors he orchestrates just for you and watch gleefully as your vision tunnels and your view of life becomes even darker and more damning until it’s as cynical and deprived as his own and you cling to him for safety.

Only when your eyes clouded and your outlook bleak will he pull you into the dirt, touching you in places that contrast starkly against the misery you feel and coaxing a bliss from you that makes you bend to him all over again. He’ll kiss you softly as he pushes your face harder against the floor, letting the leaves and the muck tangle in your hair, forcing you to face the maggot ridden corpse not far from your entwined bodies. In this moment, he offers you only two choices: Pleasure or pain? Him or death.

Sometimes you wonder how long it will take before you finally shove him off and opt to let him touch you for the last time, placing five fingers down instead of four and watching as you rejoin the Earth as newly formed ash. And that’s if he decides to be merciful. You doubt he’d give up his favorite plaything so easily.

But apparently you haven’t reached your breaking point yet, because you let his fingers wander lower, arching into his touch and keening against his bony shoulder as it digs into your own. Quickly enough, your clothing is cast aside and he marvels in your flesh like it’s the first time all over again. He leaves you bared before him, vulnerable and quaking beneath his cage of limbs. Brand new bruising patterns over the old in a myriad of colors as his hands grip just a little too tightly for comfort wherever he can reach. He holds you callously down, as if you could run even if given the option, and soon his pants are pulled down just enough over his hips to allow him to violate you the way pleases him most.

He pushes inside of you, stealing your bodily warmth for his own. It’s the closest he comes to removing the mask that is his personality now. His mouth slacks and his eyes close and you can forget, if only for a moment, that the man who has chosen you is incapable of loving you, and equally incapable of letting you go. When you can no longer see your reflection in his apathetic eyes, it’s easier to stomach that you’ll be stuck in the suffocating purgatory of his desire until you perish.

It becomes easier to play pretend that he actually cares.

He goes through the motions and hits all your sweet spots, but you know this isn’t for you. It’s for him. He prides himself on being able to feel whatever it is he wants you to feel, and even though you know damn well he’s manipulating you, it’s almost impossible not to take the tenderness when he offers it. Though you are fully aware he is conditioning you to favor him and his cruelty over the world and its cruelty, you are beginning to relent. You can only struggle against the tide for so long before you have to acknowledge that you will never make it back to shore.

So you’ll allow his kisses, sometimes even returning them when you lose yourself enough in the moment. You won’t hold back the noises he wants you to make because the ones he will coerce from you if you do will be less kind. You’ll lock your ankles around his waist and follow his rhythm because he will get what he wants, one way or another.

No matter how uncomfortable, no matter how filthy, you’ll allow him your body because it’s easier when he asks rather than when he takes. It’s better to try and fool yourself into believing that his are the gentle hands of a lover rather than a captor. You’ll revel in the one simple time you are allowed to mark him, and that’s when your nails dig into his skin, pulling him closer. You’ll croon into him and say his name in a manner that’s genuine, because in the moment, it is.

You’d give anything for him to love you. Not to own you, but to love you. Maybe then, just maybe, you could find contentment in your place in his world.

There may come a day when he no longer wants you. There may come a day when the indifference in his eyes might seem a gift in comparison to boredom or irritation. On that day, you might find yourself wishing that you had been a little more convincing in your act, or perhaps that you had been a little less difficult. Maybe if you had scooted closer instead of running away, he wouldn’t have tired of you.

Or arguably worse, perhaps he’ll never tire of you at all. Perhaps he’ll keep you caged until your wings have lost the ability to fly entirely and even when offered the chance, you’ll cower at his side. Perhaps he already has.

Chances are that you’ll never know, because when he’s finished and your thighs are slick from his completion, he’ll lead you back home and you’ll follow despite there being no tangible leash that pulls you along. You’ll lie in his bed and eat his food and find false comfort in his arms even as your mind screams to the wind for freedom and you pray for some deus ex machina to set you free.

But even as he sleeps soundly and those empty red eyes aren’t focused on you, you can hear his voice in your head.

‘What would you do without me? Where would you go? Who else could love you?’

Maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s better to accept your fate with a sense of dignity than to fight against him and drown.

Maybe this is where you’re meant to be.

#Shigaraki x Reader #tw rl decay #tw noncon #please see warnings for more #yandere shigaraki #smut but saddish lmao #nsft

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modestlyabsurd · 4 years

Text

Just a Dance (Loki x Reader)

"Let's hear it for the gride and broom!"

The formal crowd of green and red erupts into applause, and your glass of green punch fogs up from a sudden laugh after seeing a tipsy Tony Stark on the stagefront - using the microphone stand as a cane.

Having never been fond of line dancing but finding it very entertaining to watch, you nestled yourself away from the commotion by the food bar, lined with tables under black cloths and stacked high with elegant dishes, to observe the dance floor. The cha-cha slide never disappoints; the look of concentration on Peter's face as he tried (and failed) to hit the poses was enough, but add that to the honest yet terrible attempts from the "gride and broom" and you've got a beautifully orchestrated shit show.

Tony's drunken voice continues to blubber incoherent sounds of happiness over the crowd. "Where are you guys anyway? Get up here - blurgh - it's sappy mushy speech time, come on!" With that, everyone encourages the newlyweds up to the stage.

Even from your nook, the brightness of the couple's smiles are blinding, nevermind the spotlights following them along. You feel your cheeks getting tighter as an unconscious smile spreads across them, marvelling at how Bruce lovingly carries Natasha's long, white train up the steps. Her red lips and braided hair contrast gorgeously against her dreamy wedding gown, and Bruce can't take his eyes away - nor can either of them help the huge, toothy grins on their faces.

A hopeful phenomenon. Two tortured souls who found peace and love in one another. You knew no one deserved it more.

Natasha urges Bruce to speak first. He makes a face, but happily obliges nonetheless. "I guess this thing's on then?" he says, eliciting modest laughs from the people. "Ah, thank you all again for being here, hope you're having as good a time as we are. Thanks again to Tony for providing us with pretty much everything, from the venue, to the decorations, to the food, to the music, to gifts, to our honeymoon - this could go on for another forty-five minutes,"

"Hey," says a deep voice; you turn to find a sharp-dressed man-bunned Thor standing next to you. "Missed you on the dance floor."

You offer a smile. "Not exactly my cup of tea. Neither is this, though," you swirl your punch around.

"The red one is far superior," says Thor, stepping around you to ladle himself another glass. "Have you tried it?"

"Yeah, that's the spiked one. No wonder you like it more." You hear Bruce speaking of how trapped he felt for so long, until Natasha swindled her way into his life and somehow made him feel worthy of living.

"Really? Hm, I couldn't tell. But you have a point, it's at least a bit better than that," says Thor, though you barely hear him - and when he meets your eyes, you don't really see him either. "Everything alright?"

"Hm?" you chirp. "Oh yeah, I'm fine. Why you ask?"

"You just seem ... elsewhere, I suppose. But perhaps it's my own longing disguising itself as someone else's." he says nonchalantly, looking to the floor and downing his glass of red punch in one go.

You open your mouth for a humorous response before you see a wave of sadness wash over Thor. Instead, you nudge his tree trunk of an arm, "C'mon. I give it two weeks before Jane comes back."

He scoffs dismissively and draws a pattern on the floor with his shoe. "Sure. She, erm ... has she, mentioned anything about it, to you?"

"Actually, make it one week."

It was indicated that Bruce's speech had ended when the crowd started cheering and the lights dimmed. With the spotlights still on Natasha and Bruce, they hold each other intimately close and dance to another slow song below the stage. The band's soft guitar and bass vibrates from the soles of your feet up through your bones, all the way to the condensating glass in your hand. It was both a riveting and soothing sensation all at once.

A few feet away, you spot a familiar dark figure weaving through the dancing couples toward you and Thor. As his confident strides bring him into clearer view, your mouth suddenly feels like it's full of cotton and the room gets warmer. Wishing to just become invisible, you attempt to busy yourself with one of the vast cheese platters nearby - haphazardly, having no idea which cracker goes with goat's milk brie or which fruit goes with English Stilton.

He emerges and taps the shoulder of his oblivious brother's maroon blazer. "Don't blame the messenger, but a drunken game of truth or dare has resulted in your friends attempting to lift Mjolnir."

"Gah, not again!" Thor slams his glass on the table, causing some of the cake and hors d'oeuvres to rattle, before running away and disappearing in the sea of people. You're left alone with Loki, and your invisibility attempt has resulted in a not so nice bite of smoked gouda and white grapes.

Next thing you know, your punch glass is empty and your mouth is still dry.

Loki makes a point to look into your eyes rather than gawk at your formal wear as others have already done. It's a breath of fresh air, yet at the same time, his small, polite smile makes you forget how to breathe altogether. You force a smile of your own despite your growing nerves.

"How can you be enjoying yourself tucked away from the fun like this?" says Loki. His voice reminds you of melted chocolate, which draws your attention to the gloriously flowing chocolate fountain across the room. Enticing as it was, looking at the confection was a futile effort to avoid staring at Loki's dark green suit and black bowtie, or his new short curly hair that worked so well.

"You're one to talk. Haven't seen you having much fun either," the words flow smoothly. A nice surprise.

"I never said I was enjoying myself."

You laugh and shrug in concurrence. "I dunno, it's better than it seems. I'm here with all the food and drinks, everyone else is busy, and I have a bird's eye view of the dance floor."

Loki reaches an arm around you and grabs a finger sandwich; the brief closeness sends pleasant goosebumps over your neck. "I suppose. But wouldn't it be nice to see it up close?" he asks. The way he deftly held and nibbled the tiny food ... Jeez. How in the world can someone make eating a sandwich attractive?

In desperate need of a distraction, you turn to the three tier display of sandwiches and take one at random. From your side vision you see Loki anticipating your answer, so you reply with a mouthful of cucumber and cream cheese, "I don't dance."

"Oh, come on. Will you dance for me?"

You stop chewing to stare at him wordlessly.

"Ahem, bad choice of words," he clears his throat and says with a grimace. "I do beg your pardon. Rather," he extends a chivalrous hand toward you, "will you dance with me?"

The disbelief that Loki wants to dance with you, out of all the single people around - most of whom aren't chipmunking all the snacks - it almost leaves you dumbfounded. Almost being the keyword, being as how you took his hand so quickly. The coldness of it shocked you a bit, but the lightness and warmth of his hold made you feel safe. As if you could hold on, or even let go if you wanted, and he wouldn't mind.

He lead you to the center of the floor. The two of you were engulfed by the sea of people dressed in dark shades of red and green, dancing closely to the music. Just as the anxiety began to set in, Loki lifted your interlocked hands up to shoulder level and held you just beneath your ribcage with his other hand. Your mind is whirring, you can't decide if your shivers stem from anxiety, the temperature of Loki's skin, or the mere fact that you can smell him and it's driving you a little crazy.

He squeezed your hand, and patiently placed your free arm around his shoulder. Breathe, you remind yourself. Relax. It's just a dance. It's nothing. The vibrations from the music soothed you, slowly swept you away from your worries. When you dared to reopen your eyes, you found that it was not only the band, but Loki's gentle swaying that carried away your fears.

"See? It's not so bad."

You shake your head. "Just wait until I step on your feet."

He looked at you and you looked at him. You, a clumsy bag of bones, and he, a skillful puppeteer, gracefully carrying your bodies' movements. You both smiled. Like pots of water, overflowing with nervousness and happiness alike.

As he found you relaxing and absorbing the moment, Loki finds himself gazing at the way your hair is framing your face. It hangs and accentuates the softness of your features, but somehow reflects a distinct royalty in you, despite there being none. He can't bring himself to look away. You hadn't seemed to notice that the song had ended and a new slow song had begun to play, and Loki didn't bring it to your attention.

Rather, he brought your warm hand in his grasp up around his shoulder, matching the other, and placed his own hand to match the one at your side. He was testing the waters, really, and was relieved that you offered no protests to his actions. In fact, you seemed to meld into him further by laying your head on his chest, making his heart jump miles into the air.

He was good at concealing his emotions. Or he thought he was. Before you.

The light vibration of your voice against his sternum pulls him from his thoughts. "Pardon?" he asks.

"What are you wearing?"

He glances at himself. "A suit."

"I can see that, dipshit," you chide. "I meant what Asgardian fragrance are you wearing?"

"Oh," Loki croaks, biting away a sting of embarrassment. "I dunno. Must be my natural scent. Pheromones, as your human science says."

"Liar," you playfully squint your eyes at him.

He raises a hand with three fingers, "Scout's honor."

If you could facepalm without breaking away from Loki, you'd punch yourself in the face. "That's, that's not how it works - "

"Shhhhh ... we don't speak of the Scout's rules," he presses your head back into his chest with an open hand, subsequently silencing your laughs and concealing his own blushed cheeks from your view.

"I just realized something."

"What?" he says cheerfully.

You pull your head up to look at Loki. "Everyone in this room is staring at us."

Discreetly, Loki looks around and sure enough is met with many prying eyes. It made you want to crouch behind his legs to hide, but since that's not socially acceptable, you study Loki's dark green Victorian jacket. Is there food on you or something?

But he, on the other hand, lapped up every bit of the attention of the wedding guests. He flexes his fingers a bit, pinching your hips; a gentle reminder of his closeness to you. "Mm, perhaps they're jealous."

"Jealous of what?" you wonder. People are whispering under their breath in a way that instantly made your palms sweat. You try to decipher what they're saying, but all that's clear is that you're the topic.

"Of me."

"Psh. Yeah, you're probably right." You allow your eyes to drift over to his slightly crooked bowtie. It accentuates his boyishness; it sends butterflies through your chest and down to your belly.

"Do you know why they're jealous of me?"

"I mean, I can think of a few reasons."

His cheekbones round out as he smiles. "Well there's one reason in particular that is driving them all mad at the moment. Aside from my mere existence, of course."

A laugh puffs from your throat. "What is it?"

"It's the fact that I'm dancing with the one person that everyone in this room wishes to dance with."

You blink, as his bowtie seems to become a blobby rectangle shape. Me? you think. The room was already too warm, and now your face is uncontrollably heating up. You notice the scuffs on his shiny black dress shoes.

"You're crazy."

Loki looks up momentarily, feeling warmed from the inside out by you. The damp hands placed around his neck are all that's holding him on the ground. "Call me what you will - I know envy when I see it."

You miss a beat and step on his toes, but he doesn't react; in the same moment, the lights brighten, as the crowd began to applaud and mindlessly you did too. The dance was over.

When you turn back, you find that the lights have enhanced Loki's vivid green eyes. They were happy. They captivated you entirely, drew you in to him. You felt drunk; Loki was your liquor and you'd drank more than you ever had before. Someone's speaking on stage but you don't hear them. It's just you and Loki.

Cold, fingers sweep behind your neck and effortlessly bring your mouth to his. Drunk, without inhibitions, you allow for the kiss to deepen and Loki obliges, but only modestly, mindful of the ever prying eyes. You couldn't have been further from them. His hands held you in place, kept you tamed. He pulled away ever so slightly to let you breathe - and indeed you needed to, for you were breathless completely.

It took all you had not to kiss him again and never stop.

"YAAAAAS!" someone shouted.

You and Loki both turn and find Peter cheering like an idiot. And if for some reason you were imagining everyone staring earlier, though somewhat preoccupied, they're definitely staring now. Mentally you were screaming at Loki to poof you two away from it all as you hid your face in his lapels. The scent of him encased you in a fleeting blanket of safety.

"Please," Loki assures - still holding your hand, "there's nothing to see here. Do return to the party."

And they did. They listened to Loki without another glance. As they dispersed to mingle, you caught sight of Natasha and Bruce across the room; you mouth an apology to Natasha, but she shrugs it off with a smile and a knowing wink. Which didn't help the the fact that your face might as well be melting from embarrassment.

An icy breath in your ear takes the wind out of you.

"What did I tell you? They're all envious of me. Because of you."

🎶they come runnin bustin down all the doors

cuz EVERY girl's crazy bout a sharp-dressed Thor 🎶

tag list: @sydneyss-worlddd @afinedilemma @fire-in-her-veinz @belladonnabarnes @drakesfiance @internetgremlin @dragon-chica @triggeredpossum @tarynkauai @sadwaywardkid

#loki x reader #loki imagine #loki series #loki #loki odinson #loki laufeyson #tom hiddleston #thor #thor odinson #the avengers #avengers #avengers x reader #avengers imagine #avengers endgame #marvel #marvel x reader #marvel imagine #mcu #modestlyabsurd

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electric-marrow · 4 years

Text

mouth dreams review but it was typed live while i was listening to it and completely unedited

under the cut because it’s 1800+ words. also, swearing. actual review to come soon!!

mouth dreams' first track is ephemeral and beautiful, spine-chilling and moving. it rocks you into this world in a beautiful passageway, like the entrance to sakaar, and the moment it peaks over into the twilight opening you are almost on the verge of tears.

and then we will rock you kicks in.

/and then the spongebob squarepants opening theme kicks in/.

and then the two motherfucking /sync/.

a beautiful piece of childhood, worked over another. beautiful guitar overlaid with beautiful chanting almost powerful.

the next song uses extensive sentence mixing, but is cut so smoothly that we are convinced Cash is offering up an absurd, painstakingly honest tale. "it's probably a good train." fuck, fuck, yes, it probably is. "my mama was my train." fuck, she was...

the instrumentals are soul-rising, and the "baby, baby, baby" undercurrent is eargasmic. everything about it feels like you're listening to your dying mentor's backstory.

it moves you, and you keep moving. this whole album keeps you in constant motion, as if you yourself have some falling to do.

and then he says "i shit my pants". and you realise, this is it, this is NEIL'S ALBUM, oh, how foolish you were for forgetting.

HELL YES IT'S FUCKING PSYCHO KILLER. let me pause the review of that song, fuck yes.

a heavily sentence-mixed "pyscho killer" focusing on david byrne's bed, overlaid atop the iconic instrumentals of super freak.

this makes the talking heads classic seem like an upbeat song you might hear on the radio. it's much less somber, more passionate.

neil's humor pokes through visibly, shining like a beacon of light that brings a smile to your tear-stained face.

there's no room to breathe on this album; the songs come running together in the most gorgeous of ways. holy shit, am i only twelve minutes in? i think i might sob.

this one is unfamiliar at first—i only saw the partridge family once or twice as a kid. the remixing is smooth, so that it sounds natural.

so natural that when it starts to sound unnatural, it's a terrifying work of art that made me shake. a plea with you to be happy, almost a demand, like they're outside your windows.

the music starts to dance from ear to ear, and it's almost masterful in the horror it invokes.

and then there's scatting. or, what sounds like it.

and then you realise it's the chili's babyback ribs ad. it's soulful, placed atop everybody wants to rule the world in smooth ease.

that's when marilyn manson starts shrieking. the roughness, the rasp, smacking against that smooth drawl. it's a beautiful juxtaposition.

oh, and then the lion sleeps tonight is there. somehow, it fits. you start to revel in neil's genius. no one will ever be able to achieve this again, not in the same way. this is the beacon that you needed in these dark times.

you wonder if you'll cry the next time you hear this.

it's a pretty effective ad, actually. if marilyn manson advertised everything, i might buy it.

the next song makes you jump to attention. the track teased in the trailer, with its jumping guitar and its congested vocals. this sounds almost natural, like an authentic goth song.

of course, he has to say "mouth". aerosmith and green day and, most importantly, neil cicierega, combining to create a mouthy ballad that echoes through you.

—oh, goddamnit, green day. september 30th. neil woke up when september ended. fuck. dammit. is that insensitive? maybe. shit.

i'm not well-versed with music, so these songs were both pretty alien. however, their mixing is masterful, and the removal of the singer's objections to his situations form a sweet little ballad.

my own worst enemy. this one is familiar, and it makes heads turn as you realise what music is slowly remixed.

a rocking tribute to sleeping with your clothes on. short, sweet, rockin' and rollin' as hard as it can.

the segue is beautiful, like it's natural.

the lyrics make your chest heave, and the sound itself is heavily distorted to a dreamy state, as if you are as drunk as the singer sounds. anything can be amore, you realise.

the distortion is noticeable without ruining the track, and neil has gotten significantly better.

it ends a little more nightmarishly, and makes you feel very real. very in your skin. fuck yeah, neil.

the following "stop" is even more jarring, and it's almost welcome.

and then, stacy's mom. i think the instrumentals are where is my mind, i don't know. but it /works/, and it fits together, with stacy's mom slowed down considerably but not so that it ruins the track. the pitch is shifted properly so that it becomes an angry slow ballad about stacy's mom. rife with heartbreak.

and then it stops, breaks off into a cry for "mom" that might awaken buried maternal issues in the listener. maybe just me, though.

here comes fred durst. it gets the "wow wow" treatment, and its nookie theme becomes sweet, bouncing around with innocent sentimentality. i thought i heard seinfeld around there somewhere.

this is a good point in the album to close your eyes and really hear the album, to feel what ou are truly experiencing. it can move by too fast if you're not paying attention. listen to that iconic sledgehammer guitar. listen to—mario?

fuck. fuck. fuck.

fucking christ. not the fucking ewok celebration.

almost nonsensical lyrics play over the nookie instrumental (reversing the last track's roles), and the combination is natural and rowdy. you slowly realise what those ewoks reflected in neil's glasses /mean/, and it horrifies you just a little.

god, that's good. fuck you, neil.

jingles? is that—jingles?

a moment of confusion. and then, THX.

the iconic, crawling note, invading your ears and then slowly fading out. "she drives me crazy" is playing, and the THX sound is its backing track.

only neil.

it gets better as it goes on, from a joking track to a genuinely orchestral sensation. it's good music. it's beautiful. it feels like an action movie soundtrack, as the hero discovers a massive secret.

maybe you are dreaming.

the next sound sample is jarring. the announcement. the outsiders cast. and then more, and then more. it feels like a list of gods left in a dying world. johnny.

and then there is johnny cash.

and then it isn't.

what neil plays is heartbreaking. it feels like your world is crashing down around you. it's a betrayal that could bring anyone to their knees. the booing played behind it is appropriate.

but he builds that world right back up, with soft, strumming guitar. it's forgiveness and vitriol all rolled into one.

actually, you can forgive him for the next track. yes. fireflies. let's fucking go. closer overlaid with fireflies. yes. hell yes.

it's like a gift, a peace offering.

the nostalgic, upbeat lyrics, feel deeper atop the warbling, warped backing track. it's like owl city's song about dreaming feels like it could be a teenage angst anthem.

it's art.

the plucked guitar fades out, and the lyrics start to distort. everything fades away...

nevermind, time for billy joel.

the shrieking, screaming, rasping lyrics of nightmare are mixed atop the bouncing piano music, so the song lays halfway between an upbeat piece of joy, and a warning.

it ain't over yet.

xylophone. why is there xylophone?

the iconic "powerhouse" track serves as our instrumentals, the classic sound one from our childhood as the droning sound of jack white forms a buzzing piece of heartbreak. only neil, right?

only neil.

the "War" sample is iconic, and it makes you jump.

the "Wannabe" sample will make you writhe.

iconic, jamming guitar, and also wario. the spice girls, and also wario. yes. yes. this is it.

the following laughter brings back your childhood. elfman's work on the peewee soundtrack, peripatetic in nature, running up and down your ears as gorillaz croons a bittersweet sound. it becomes almost triumphant against the instrumental, re-energized like the monster in frankenstein's lab.

peewee is laughing. maybe we should laugh too.

the next one up is soft, plucked note by note, until alanis morisette goes completely off the deep end. the spoons, alanis.

holy shit, is that knight rider?

this mashup is classic, expertly remixed without a single hitch. it's neil at his finest, neil at his neiliest, alanis' quiet "Don't you think?" almost smug.

the sound of rain, followed by the crooning iconic "raiiiiin" is enough to make you break down. this is a blessing from an unknowable god.

two backstreet boys lines run up against each other, forming a surrounding sound that envelopes you in shaking guitar until the distorted sound in the back becomes noticeable.

there it is. there's the song you were waiting for.

your savior has arrived, and it is in a horrible form. it rises from the tomb in an unholy abomination. you fall to your knees.

"wake up."

i can't. i'm trapped here. i can feel every single one of my vertebra. i'm crying.

and then beethoven and britney make a duet.

"hit me baby one more time" runs along iconic dashing violin.

you start to hear it, and then it's there even more.

the hall of the mountain king, slowly building, the suspense enough to bring you to the edge of your seat. weezer's lyrics are pronounced like an oracle's prophecy, sardonic and yet grim, delivered with its iconic "say it ain't so" almost ironic.

then the crescendo hits, and the singing feels like it's declaring your fate. it rocks you, and never lets you still.

...and then there is the dial-up. you're staring at neil's face, and you realise the title itself has a secret. the starred letters spelled out "nice modem."

the screeching dial-up sound, and then nothing. you're sitting in the silence, with this quiet revelation.

he's carried you through the greatest adventure of your life, and then left you in the nothingness, tearing away a world that could only be imagined in the dreams of a 90s kid raised on the internet.

it's heartbreaking, but it mends every single tear of that vital organ. it's alright. neil's got you. this is his gift, this is his message.

he shares this dream with us, because it's the only piece of hope we can hold onto. someone else's dream, forged on childhood memories and ambition, woven together with years of experience until it culminates into an hour-long album of cultural mashup and musical blasphemy.

it brings tears to my eyes, and then wipes them off. it wants you to feel, it wants you to bleed, and then it wants you to heal. rejoice, says mouth dreams. rejoice. rejoice in what the world has given you.

you're going to be alright.

definitely, like, a solid 9/10. pretty good album. i think my favorite track was either brithoven or superkiller, tell me what yours was in the replies!

i can see new colors.

#neil cicierega #frankie muses #mouth dreams #it was...an experience.

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vvivacious101 · 4 years

Text

Re-rewatching S05E22 - Swan Song

Surprisingly, I can’t believe I ever thought this was a good ending. Now, I have so many mixed feelings about this one.

I feel like I have to talk about this first of all, I like how immediately after getting rid of both Lucifer and Michael, Dean tells Cas to tell God that he is coming for him next. Give or take ten years, Dean and that is exactly what you will be doing.

I think the ace up the sleeve that this episode has is the Impala. I liked how this episode is about the car, which is Sam and Dean’s home and how that very home plays a very important part in this story. Making it about the Impala really helped tie up the story together and that is the best thing about this episode that the Impala is the hero of this particular story.

Every time I watch a finale of Supernatural and “Carry on My Wayward Son” starts to play, I get so emotional. It’s like every finale I watch is another nail in this coffin. It really hurts. I think I’m going to cry when I finally watch the ending. God, for one second contemplating that moment is like the hardest thing ever. Only four months to go, I’m staring down the barrel of this thing. I think I’ll start crying right now so moving on.

It was always meant to go down in Detroit. Sam says yes to Lucifer but he is unable to wrestle back control from Lucifer and it feels like everything is lost but just when it should be time to give up. Dean decides to fight back, I guess Dean’s definitely going down swinging.

So he finds out where the apocalypse is going to go down and he arrives at Stull Cemetery where Lucifer and Michael are having a very interesting conversation.

This episode really reminds me a lot of season 15, even if they had no idea they would be ending years after 2010. I feel like they used a lot of the early seasons to craft out where the story is at present, that’s why this episode hit so hard.

We have Lucifer telling Michael that they are brothers and they can just walk of the chess board after all what is it that are even fighting about? One of God’s test that they don’t even know the answer to.

“No one makes Dad to anything. He is doing this to us.”

This has to be the most relevant dialogue of this series.

Supernatural has become an increasingly complex in a way. The current season focuses on Chuck as the ultimate orchestrator of Sam and Dean’s story, the one pulling the strings. This becomes especially relevant because the showrunners have changed over time, when I rewatched this season, I found a lot of inconsistencies I had never found earlier. That’s because I’m watching this show with foresight, I know where this story is going and I can tell where it seems to be different from where the present storyline is. Of course, the show gives you a very simple reason about why you might feel that way, it is because this is the author’s interference and over time as the show’s tone has shifted slightly but surely the earlier seasons seem a little forced at times because they aren’t written by the same people with the same endgame in sight. With time the ending to this show has changed and while, at that time, I could have accepted this as an ending, I also know this was never intended to be one.

They treated this episode with a lot of respect because it was finishing up a very interconnected plot that has slowly taken shape over five seasons but I realise now that this isn’t a satisfying ending and maybe the reason I liked it so much the first time is because I already knew it wasn’t the end. The problem is the actual end of this show will not have that luxury and there is fifteen years worth of legacy depending on that one ending.

I agree with Chuck, endings are hard. They are hard for the writers and the viewers.

Anyhow, Michael and Lucifer are ready for the showdown when Dean, Cas and Bobby drop in. Dean just wants five minutes to talk to Sam and Cas blows Michael away so that Dean can get his five minutes.

Well, that definitely gets Lucifer’s attention who kills Cas and Bobby and then proceeds to beat the crap out of Dean when a glint off the Impala, gives Sam that extra something to help him take control and he flings himself into the cage and ends up dragging Michael with him.

This episode really takes a lot out of everybody.

We have Bobby, who is probably the only one living the life he has always lived albeit without Sam and Dean. Bobby goes on hunting.

We have Dean who is pissed at the lot he has been given while Cas tries to explain to him that he actually ended up getting everything he wanted, after all what would Dean rather have, peace or freedom? That is one question that is still being answered even in season 15 but increasingly the answer being pointed out to is freedom. Dean makes his way to Lisa who welcomes him into her home but I can’t see this as a happy ending for him, cut off from everyone he has held dear, cut off from the very life he has lived his entire life. It feels like running away right now.

Cas, poor Cas, who dies and comes back in the very same episode. Chuck really loves playing with him doesn’t he? I like how the moment Cas comes back Dean asks him if he is God? There is just so much in that moment. It is really hard to process.

I liked that they had Cas and Dean really talk before this season ended as a homage to what their relationship is depicted to be but Cas disappearing at the end is straight out of 4x03 - In the Beginning, and we can all agree that we are a long way from there with these two.

Well, Dean, maybe it isn’t goodbye.

Sam is the one who got the weirdest ending we see him get shoved into the cage but at the end of the episode, we see him looking over at Dean as he sits down to dinner with Lisa and Ben.

I feel like the show really pushed the sacrifice play for Sam to showcase him as having been fully redeemed. That is really what the show wanted a clean slate for Sam but I think he had redeemed himself way before that sacrifice. Sam definitely deserves better and just for that i’m glad, this is not his ending.

#supernatural #spn #spn 5x22 #swan song #why does this episode give me so many feels...#supernatural season 5 #spn rewatch #myposts #sam #dean #chuck #cas #bobby #lucifer #michael

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tarotdeckshuffle · 5 years

Note

Hi! Could I request a happy/romantic Noctis x reader fic? From the day Noctis met s/o to when King Regis found out about their relationship to the moment s/o became the future Princess of Lucis...

:3 no…you may have this.

I’m just kidding. I was trying to find an element to base this story on when I came across one of my favorite songs. That’s how you got this fic. It’s bittersweet with many happy elements and a happy ending. I hope it’s ok! Enjoy!❤

Taglist: @idiotflowerex @laststory1013, @sayaoqueen, @jophinabean

If you like what you read, please consider supporting me on Patreon or buying me a Ko-fi!

Once Upon a December

You were a young child when your parents took you to your first ball. As a child, you had no interest in dancing; you were often swept away by the older ladies in their big dresses. Instead, you opted to watch from a balcony, high above the dancing. You envisioned dancing creatures in the large crowd below as wildflowers danced on the coattails of the men.

The servants never minded if you watched, as long as you stayed out of the way. The music was the best part, it sounded so sweet from above.

“May I…join you?” A small voice asked. You looked up to find a small boy with black hair and large eyes. You smiled as he sat down next to you. You bobbed to the waltz below, pointing out imaginary creatures you saw in the flowing fabrics.

“Prince Noctis! There you are!” A caretaker approached. The Prince! You had spent the evening with the Prince! “Your father awaits!”

“Can my friend come?” The little Prince squeaked. The caretaker sighed but allowed it.

He took you by the hand and led you down the grand stairs. You attracted stares and giggles as he led you through the crowd, to his father’s side.

The young king laughed. “And who is your new friend, Noctis?”

Those beautiful eyes looked at you, “This is [Y/N].”

“Well then, [Y/N], would you care to join us?”

And that was your only memory. Everything else was dark.

You had gotten hit in the head by rubble upon escaping from Insomnia. You awoke to hunters caring for you, barely able to remember your own name. Everyone was concerned, but you were alive. That was more than many could say.

You lived with the hunters, learning their skills, trying to make a life of it. But old feelings came back to you at strange moments.

“RUN [Y/N]!” You heard the King’s voice yell in your sleep. You would awake in a panic, but not remember why.

You could hum the tunes to a waltz that left you feeling safe and warm, but everything was blurry when you tried to remember more.

The taste of summer carrots almost made you cry.

Why? Your heart seemed to know the answers, but you mind just hurt. What had you lost? There were so many questions left unanswered.

More memories came, but they seemed locked behind a hazy storm in your mind. Your new friends told you to let it go, but they hurt too bad. You yearned to remember.

The weather was getting colder when a dark car approached camp. Visitors were of little concern to you, so you took position on a watchtower. But your eyes pulled towards the scene below you.

A dark haired man slammed the door on the car. Your heart stopped. Could you be imagining this? Who was he? You felt like you knew him.

Slowly, your feet carried you from the watchtower, towards the mysterious man. You came up behind him as he traded for potions. Your eyes wore confusion, you heart held pain.

A sound made him turn towards you. His eyes, they were the boy’s eyes!

“Prince Noctis?” You asked.

Noises escaped a mouth agape on the royal figure. All four men looked shocked to see you.

“[Y/N]!” The Prince shouted as he embraced you. You embraced him back. It felt so warm, so…right. He simply held you for a long moment, before giggling and pulling back.

“I thought I had lost you! How’d you escape?! Where have you been?” He was berating your hurting head with questions. You simply looked on, silent.

His enthusiasm faded with your silence. “What’s wrong?” He wiped a tear rolling down your cheek.

“I…don’t remember.” The pain in your heart was reflected on Noctis face.

He started telling you so many things, everything he thought you should remember, but Ignis stopped him.

“It won’t help to simply tell them, they still won’t remember it.” The advisor pulled the prince aside. “They’ve been living with this longer than you, give them time.”

Noctis gave you a pained look before walking away. Prompto smiled at you, but Gladio and Ignis…bowed? What was this?

You spent the night in your watchtower, looking up at the stars. You loved to imagine animals in the constellations. Footsteps echoed on the metal ladder. You turned to find Noctis.

“May I?” He asked, gesturing to the floor next to you. You simply nodded. The two of you sat in silence for a long time.

“What…what do you remember?” He finally asks you.

You sigh, knowing this question would come. “I remember feelings, sounds, tastes, but few sights. I remember watching a ball from a balcony with young eyes. You were there. We were both very little. Your father was there.” Noctis looks at you like he may cry.

“That’s the night we met. Neither of us liked balls, so we ran away to the upper levels to watch the dancing from above.”

“I remember your father’s kind voice…” You trail off, his last words echoing in your mind.

Noctis swallows. “He wasn’t just my father, he was…” he stops short. You look to him, hoping for more information. “He was the king: King Regis.” Noct finishes, not looking at you.

“Were we…close?” You ask, the pain in your heart whispering the answer.

Noct sighs, again. “Yes…very. I should go.” He stands to leave, but you reach for his hand.

“Please, I want to remember,” you plead.

Noctis smiles at you, “And I’ll be here to help you. I’m not leaving you, again.”

With Noctis’s help, memories start to return with more clarity. You remember your last name and your parents, your favorite food, and a memory of sitting and watching the night sky from the highest point of Insomnia, Noctis at your side. Embers of love take root in your heart for your black haired savior.

You’re patrolling one night, humming a tune that feels older than the air you breathe. Noctis is staring at you from up ahead, looking stunned.

“You remember that?” He asks.

“What?” You don’t know what he’s talking about.

He pulls out his phone, fumbling with it for some time. You think he’s forgotten all about you when a tune starts to play. It’s an orchestral version of what you were humming!

“That’s! That’s…” You say, pointing to the phone excitedly.

“This is the first song we ever danced to together.” Noctis finishes. He takes your hands and pulls you close. You begin to waltz, your feet acting on their own.

“I can dance!” You exclaim.

Noctis laughs. “Yes, did you think your parents only drug you to one ball?”

He spins you around. The two of you dance, the music echoing in your very soul. Snow falls in the slowed time between you.

Soon, the men have to leave. Noctis has a destiny to see to. You anticipate your regular company, loneliness, to return. But the Prince surprises you.

“[Y/N] is coming with us.” The whole group seems shocked by this announcement.

“Are you sure?” Gladio asks.

“Never more so.” He replies. To your joy, it’s settled.

You get to see the whole, beautiful world. You pet chocobos for the first time, see the ocean, and feel the cold of the mountains. Small, miscellaneous memories come back to you, but little of significance.

You and Noctis sit around the campfire, late into the night. The others retired hours ago.

“And carrots? Why do I remember those?” You ask him through smiling lips. It had become a game of yours to share and learn about trivial facts from your previous life. Noctis had tried to trick you many times.

“Ew, you remember carrots? Why? Those things are nasty!” He was making faces just thinking about the food.

“But I remember them!” You insist.

“Probably because I hate them! Oh! I used to give you all of mine so that Ignis would think I ate them! And you liked them!” He replies, a look for sudden realization crossing his face.

You burst out laughing. You thought that the veggies must have been special to you, but it turns out you ate them because Noctis hated them. The reason seemed so simple compared to what you had imagined.

Noctis hadn’t seen you laugh since he left. He sat, staring at you. You looked at him, wondering if something was wrong.

“Noct?” You asked, looking into his beautiful eyes; the eyes you could always remember.

He placed a hand on your cheek, leaning in closer to you. His hand was warm and soft on your skin. You closed your eyes, leaning into his presence.

Your lips met his. The world stopped moving for one simple moment. His lips were soft on yours and everything felt warm. Your heart stopped beating in your chest and your mind went numb. Your skin tingled from the familiar memory.

All too soon, but after long moments, Noctis pulled away. His smile glowed to you.

“We should…get some sleep.” He stuttered. You smiled at your awkward Prince. He kissed you once more, lingering on your lips, before moving to his tent.

You sat, alone, staring into the campfire, thinking about what had just happened. The fog of your mind lifts for one moment.

Your closed eyes see the king. He is gray now, but no less kind. He sits in an armchair across from you. A fireplace is lit before you.

“Ah, [Y/N] it has been wonderful to spend this time with you. You have grown into a fine young individual. I look forward to greeting you as family.” The memory fades as the king rises from his chair.

Family? Where you and Noctis…married?

You don’t want to bring up the subject. Wouldn’t he have told you if you were married? Wouldn’t someone have recognized you? You hold your questions close as salt kisses your lips upon the speeding boat to Altissa.

The men insist upon showing you the whole city, especially Noctis.

Each day, the two of you grow closer. It may be a new love from you, but he accepts it gracefully.

You’re out exploring the edge of the town, when you hear a familiar tune. You drag Noctis towards it in your excitement.

The waltz plays on a phonograph next to a beautiful woman in a ball gown. She wears a gold masquerade mask. The song begins. Her voice ushers a beautiful song into the daylight on a voice that reaches the rooftops.

You stop, staring, feeling the music. “I didn’t know the song had words to it.” You say, stunned. You can’t take your eyes from the singer.

“Not many people do. It’s…special.” Noctis replies, squeezing your hand.

His hand in yours. This song. Your mind gallops away with you.

Noctis wears a silver and purple mask shaped like a crescent moon. You wear a gold and red mask resembling the sun. A singer stands in the corner of the castle’s ballroom, singing the words to the waltz. It was the first time the song had been sung in this room.

The two of you perform a celestial dance to the music. You feel so safe and warm in his arms. As the music begins to fade, Noctis steps away from you. He pulls the mask from his face as he gets down on one knee, pulling a velvet box from his pocket. Your hands fly to your mouth as you say “Yes!”. The whole room applauds, the King loudest of all.

“[Y/N]?” Noctis has been trying to get your attention.

“We were engaged…” Your whole body is still taken by the memory. Noctis is shocked.

“You remembered!” He grabs your waist and spins you around, kissing you. You had a family and Noct was going to be part of it! And now he’s here! But…

“What…happened?” You ask. You need answers to what happened to everyone you loved.

Noctis starts to lead you off. He takes a deep breath before beginning.

“We were going to be wed, but that was right before the Empire proposed their ‘peace treaty.’ We decided to postpone the wedding until after I returned. Then…the attack happened. I thought you had died. No one knew where you were. I looked everywhere for you!” He grows more frantic as he explains, afraid you’ll blame him.

“And…the king?” You had loved King Regis like a father.

“He…died in the attack. But, he loved you. He was so excited that we were going to be wed.”

Tears well in your eyes. The King had made sure you made it out, to return to his son, even if he couldn’t.

Suddenly, a thought came to you. You look down at your hands. You had never had a ring with you through all of this. Had someone stolen it when you were unconscious?

“What happened to…” Noctis stops you by placing his hand on yours. “Your ring is safe. I took it with me when I left. You wanted me to hang onto it, that I could place it on your finger, again, at the altar.” A smile crosses his face.

You stood on a bridge, high above the waves, as Noctis got on his knee.

“Do you…want it back?” He asked, pulling the velvety box from his pocket and opening it.

You gasped. Through it all, Noctis loved you. He would always love you.

But…should he? You couldn’t even remember who you were, much less him. He loved the person in Insomnia, but you couldn’t even remember them.

“Are you…sure?” You whisper, afraid of his answer.

He stood before you. “Yes. I love the person you were and the person you are now. I want to be by your side and I want to have you by mine. Even as broken and battered as we both may be, I promise you, I want to be here for you.”

Tears welled in your eyes as you held out your hand. He slipped the ring onto you.

You never left his side from then on.

The two of you didn’t have time to marry, as Altissia fell the next day. You held each other close as Ravus led you to Ignis and the crystal.

“I’ll come back soon.” Noctis promised you as the crystal called.

“I’ll wait however long it takes.” You replied.

Ten years felt like forever in the darkness, but you helped the world prepare for the light. You weren’t going to let anyone forget about the sun. Too much in the world had already been forgotten.

Seeing your love felt like the resolution to a chord held in suspense too long. The world felt right, life was warm. Together, you left for Insomnia, the city of darkness.

The dance concluded in a royal finale, as you faced gods and immortals, alike. But no song lasts forever.

The world rejoiced as embers turned to light that blazed across the sky.

All that had been lost in the darkness was a fading memory. The sadness would come, but so would new happiness. You knew better than most the power that new memories can hold.

As the sun rose, you ascended the steps to take your place next to the King of Lucis. The world would soon be celebrating a wedding.

#final fantasy #final fantasy xv #ffxv #noctis #noctis lucis caelum #noctis x reader #reader x noctis #once upon a december #happy ending #fanfiction #memory loss #ffxv noctis

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purplenarwhal19 · 4 years

Text

COSMIC DANCER

so, here’s a v short story I wrote for class about the importance of exploration. two of the songs that are excerpted in my story I found through @basic-banshee ‘s fanfic Rebel Rebel which is one the best (probably the best) fanfics ever.

Also I don’t know how to do the cutoff thingy so it’s gonna be a long post 🤷‍♀️ so sorry

....

enjoy, I guess? 💕

COSMIC DANCER

Over the radio, a gentle guitar played, followed by T. Rex’s smooth and repetitive lyrics. I sighed, bliss. We were driving on a California road in our rusty tour bus. Sitting in our narrow duffel bag with my costars, with bemused smiles plastered across our faces. Cool air conditioning blew a soft breeze. We listened to beautiful, alternative music, an epic soundtrack for our journey. This was the life of a performer. A true actress.

It was the summer of 1971. I was an actress and dancer on the television and stage show, Desi Dance. We were a children’s show that taught people all about India’s rich culture and history. Dance, art, poetry, music, and food offered just a peek into Indian tradition. We had been performing and touring for six years, but it felt like we started the show yesterday.

“I danced myself right out the womb

Is it strange to dance so soon?”(1)

The guitar solo came into full sound with the backing vocals. It created a powerful feeling that filled my whole body with true hope and strength.

All my life I had danced. It was my escape, my passion, and my love. It felt like that was what I was made for. Reading also brought escape, when the pressure of being an actress became too much. Reciting poetry for my castmates or singing a song that was stuck in my head was so relaxing and freeing. The lyrics are what spoke to me about music, and while I had quite a large vocabulary, there were often times when I didn’t know what a word meant.

“Beraham, what is a womb?” I questioned the boy next to me, clad in loose fitting turquoise pants with gold embroidery.

“I don’t know, Shrishti,” Beraham said plainly.

Beraham and I both sat there, still enjoying it, yet dumbfounded. Curiosity, a crimson rash that we needed to itch, in that unreachable spot on your back. This infection spread throughout the whole cast, leaving all of us with that same itch.

Maybe I could ask my movement director when we get to the venue… I thought as I drifted off, wrapped up in the comfort of music and friendship.

The year was 1973. In the dressing room, now with a smaller cast, we were practicing lines and getting ready to film. I had been groomed with brushes, painted with makeup and had been dressed in the most gorgeous fabrics. My lengha was brilliant magenta with intricate canary yellow details, and paired with a simple sequinned pearly white top. I loved these days, dressing up, feeling beautiful like a royal queen.

To the left of me, a record player played a Paul Simon favourite, setting our moods to the upbeat song.

“The mother and child reunion

Is only a motion away

Oh, the mother and child reunion

Is only a moment away”(2)

A familiar feeling of confusion washed over me. Why is the reunion so important? Why were the mother and child separated? Who are they?

Who is my mother?

Where is she?

Everyone has a mother. Our director, our manager, our movement director, the children in the audience; everyone except me and my fellow actors.

Everyone except me.

I tried to close my perfectly designed eyes, to block out the image of my unfortunate life, but my body refused to listen to my command. Blinking wasn’t even in my control.

I felt so overwhelmed. I had no identity. Who am I? This was a question from too deep in my heart for me to bear.

It was too much. I wanted to leave, I had to get up. I willed my thin, stick-like legs to stand up, pushing, using all the strength I had, just to leave the room.

Nothing happened.

I tried again, hoping for something, some sign of my own independence.

Nothing.

My body wasn’t mine. My will, myself, I could not control it. My life wasn’t mine.

I looked around at my colleagues, chatting, laughing, and totally unaware of their inability to be free. Bound to our employers who dictate and orchestrate our every move.

“Oh, little darling of mine

I can’t for the life of me

Remember a sadder day

I know they say let it be

But it just don’t work out that way”(2)

Paul Simon was right, I still can’t remember a sadder day than that one. My life had changed forever.

As years passed, I began to feel emptier and emptier, resenting my profession, and hating my life. Those years also happened to be our most successful, as a show. The success changed everything. Our bosses got sloppy; high on the fame, as well as their drugs of choice.

Most notably, Arjun, our stage director, became addicted to heroin. It was a horrid sight to witness him become a shell of the person he used to be. It reminded me exactly of that sad, sad Velvet Underground song.

“Heroin, be the death of me

Heroin, it’s my wife and it’s my life

Because a mainline into my vein

Leads to a center in my head

And then I’m better off than dead”(3)

It broke my heart to see him like this. I couldn’t understand how he could inject a toxin into his body by choice. How he could slowly kill himself one high after another.

By then, I had realized that I wasn’t human. I was something else, like them, yet different; stronger, yet weaker.

I spoke with my closest companions, Beraham, Jaidev, and Mitali. They were as confused as I was the day I realized I entered this world without anyone, without a mother. They too began life motherless.

The directors, started our show with shining faces, and now were graying and worn out. We kept the same expressions over the years, never seeing a wrinkle appear, never feeling an ache or pain, never feeling or looking our age.

We hadn’t aged in the past 20 years. We were to be used, like the puppets we were, forever.

“What can we do?” Mitali questioned, urgency overtaking her usual calm nature.

“Nothing,” Jaidev said. “It’s hopeless…”

“I want you to know deep in the cell of my heart

I really want to go

There is another world… a better world

Well, there must be…”(4)

I felt like the Smiths were reading my mind; I wanted another world, a better world, and I hoped with all my heart and soul that there would be one.

This was the lowest depth of our depression. We considered “ending it all”, whatever that meant.

Most of the time our directors listened to nonsense music filled with empty, happy thoughts that had less meaning than my life. When we listened to the melancholy music of Miles Davis, Billie Holiday and Chet Baker, that our bosses listened to so rarely, it felt reassuring: someone else suffered as we did.

Determined to solve this problem, I decided to speak with the director about our conditions. I had heard the humans refer to us as “puppets”, inanimate objects who could only recite lines, made only of felt, and paint. This sounded as bad as any slur that I’d heard before. They pushed and shoved us around, threw us in crowded duffel bags. This had to stop. We needed to break away from the chains the humans bound us in.

“Today we will close our show with an excerpt from Keralan poet, Kamala Surayya. “I am sinner, I am saint— I’m sorry. I can’t do this,” I paused, taking a moment to think of the right words.

“I cannot read the words of a woman who has lived and loved, while I am kept here, held captive by you humans!” I angrily burst, far less eloquent than I had imagined, emotion overtaking my composed mask.

My face turned a deep scarlet shade of red, reminiscent of tamaatar; something that had never happened before. The camera people, directors, and executives stood in place, too shocked to move or speak, the puppet that they had manipulated for so many years had finally taken control and spoken back.

Divya, a camera person, pale and shocked, stuttered, “W-what is happening?” She glanced around nervously at the other people in the room to see if they saw the same thing.

“Divya, you aren’t hallucinating. This is very real. My costars and I are conscious beings; we may not be able to move like you humans, but we deserve the same treatment as you. We have thoughts and feelings, hopes and dreams. The way you speak about us is degrading. The way you touch and move us is disrespectful. We deserve respect and our thoughts and opinions are as valid as yours,” I spoke with a dignified tone. “The cast and I would like to have a meeting with all of you to discuss our treatment.”

Wide eyed, the crew, obediently agreed and took us to our cramped dressing room. The room was painted a pale yellow with a cheap elephant decal on the wall that was torn and peeling on the edges. This tiny room barely housed all thirteen of us cast members. With all of the behind the scenes crew in our room, we were packed in tight, like sardines in a tin.

“We have called this meeting today to negotiate our rights and responsibilities within this community,” Mitali serenely began. “Our citizenship within our show needs to include us as full members with equal rights and consideration. We understand that your use of us has immense benefits for you, with few benefits for us.”

“You make significant profits from our labor. Your wage is even plentiful enough for you, Arjun, to fund your addiction.” Jaidev scoffed.

With a quivering chin, Arjun begged, “What can we do to fix our mistakes?”

Beraham blustered, “ We want a change in your behaviour!”

“We cannot move on our own, so we expect help and kindness. When you have moved us in the past, even just five minutes ago, you throw around our bodies, like the inanimate objects you believe us to be. We want to go outside and see the world. We want more space in our dressing room, and we expect some real answers about who and what we are,” I demanded.

Afters some discussions we learned that we were the descendants of Saraswati, the Goddess of wisdom and art. The movement directors, who were called “puppeteers”, had no idea that we could do more than just read prepared lines, until we had all travelled to America. This was too far away from the Pundita, that had given them the divine puppets that we were. They could not receive guidance. They had no idea as to what we were capable of, or how to teach us.

That Pundita was my mother. Her name was Tavni, and I was given a picture of her.

She had a golden, caramel complexion, with large eyes and hazel pupils. She had a smile that lit up a whole room and round, rosy cheeks.

I noticed the similarities in our appearances, the way she had crafted me to look so much like her.

I had found my identity.

Learning all of this information brought a new sensation to my eyes; something burning and prickly, and a wet droplet traveling down my cheek. I was crying! This feeling brought a warm emotion of relief, of content and of closure.

Soon after these discoveries, I realized that I loved my job. Even though the past years had been rough, this was what I was meant to do. If conditions improved, I would truly be happy.

I was going to do what my mother created me for. Dancing and performing, bringing India to the whole world and teaching about our glorious culture. I would do just that.

“I danced myself into the tomb

I danced myself into the tomb

Is it strange to dance so soon?

I danced myself into the tomb…”(1)

THE END

SONGS REFERENCED:

(1) Cosmic Dancer, T. Rex, 1971

(2) Mother and Child Reunion, Paul Simon, 1972

(3) Heroin, The Velvet Underground, 1967

(4) Asleep, The Smiths, 1987

#writing #inspo #art #exploration #indian #lengha #my writing #please be kind #I actually got a perfect mark on this and I am so fucking excited #PLEASE READ

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totallyvain · 4 years

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Vanity Hour with Yung Heazy

Hometown: Vancouver, Canada

Sounds like: If The Beatles and Mac Demarco decided to collab on a bedroom pop track.

WORDS BY: Thania Garcia

Jordan Heaney’s indie rock project, Yung Heazy, was initially created as an avenue for releasing mini love songs dedicated to Heaney’s girlfriend. The now-viral track “Cuz You’re My Girl” was uploaded (not by Heaney) to Youtube almost three years ago and since then, the project has become one of the most recognizable in the bedroom pop world.

Totally Vain: You first started to notice traction in plays when someone uploaded one of your songs on a popular Youtube channel. What was your initial reaction to that? I’m assuming no one contacted you about the upload or gave you any revenue for it either…?

YH: That is a correct assumption. The feeling I got was intense happiness and gratefulness to the universe. It’s still very surreal, I try not to think about it in fear I’ll go insane that all this is real life.

Back in September Heaney released the single “Kool Musik,” a dreamy almost four-minute enormously expressive track with scattered instrumentals. In the past, Heaney has expressed infatuation for hypnotic relationships in music referencing Radiohead’s “Rainbows” and Ariel Pink as inspiration which you can clearly hear in “Kool Musik.”

TV: With some songs like “Comfort” your musical influences, Mac Demarco & Ariel Pink, are present but what other artistic avenues do you pull from when you create? I mention this because your cover art and overall visual aesthetic is so spectacularly unique to your brand.

YH: I like lots of stuff when I write a song I try to fit as many musical experiments and references as possible. I think the last song I recorded took influence from Walkabout, Moving like Mike, Black Skinhead, Helter Skelter, and Readymade, Bad Guy, a whole set of songs. When I hear a cool musical moment I go, hmm how can I make that work in my world?

TV: What would you say were the defining moments or traits of your environment that inevitably shaped or influenced your start in music and your music industry experience?

YH: I was surrounded by music as a kid, specifically that of The Beatles and 60s/70s music my dad had on tape. I had music lessons regularly...such as violin at age four and then piano a few years later. What made me get invested in music properly was learning the guitar around age 13 and discovering the Red Hot Chilli Peppers.

TV: What is the major difference when it comes to dictating your own music (production, writing, recording, performing) vs. with a band?

YH: In recording/producer world I can just do what I want and experiment, try to make everything sound nice and cool. With the band, I like to keep things a bit open-ended after everyone has learned the parts if someone has an idea on how to improve the song for the live show may as well try it out.

TV: Congratulations on landing a spot on the Tropicalia 2019 lineup! I think Tropicalia is doing a great job at catering to a specific audience of ‘indie’ ‘bedroom pop’ listeners along with catering to the Latinx community that greatly makes up a portion of that audience. How do you think the ‘bedroom pop’ community will evolve as we dive deeper into the digital age and the accessibility to recording and producing grows?

YH: It will become more diverse and split into subdivisions that will inspire completely new and unique genres and styles. It’s a beautiful thing that anyone can start recording music for dirt cheap these days.

TV: Do you feel restricted by the ‘bedroom pop’ label? Or do you feel being a part of that genre means you’re free to mix and match thanks to the likes of Soundcloud?

YH: No I mean, if I want to make metal music tomorrow, why not? I don’t need to release it under Yung Heazy, stay tuned for my prog metal project under my new label 2020.

TV: How would you compare your place now in the music scene to where you were when you first began? What kind of struggles have you faced during your journey so far?

YH: When I began I was so excited to have anything to do with the music scene in Vancouver. I’m in a place now that I can kind of show up to most places in North America and play to people who know my stuff. The hardest part of getting here was learning about the industry and doing all the behind the scenes stuff, some tasks less glamorous than others

TV: What do you hope to achieve in the future and what are you most excited about?

YH: I’m slowly but surely working to a point where I can start writing for and directing large scale orchestral music. I want to make songs that sound like if Mozart and John Lennon had a collab. Also to direct a film with my own soundtrack.

TV: What song(s) of yours are you the proudest of and why?

YH: Cuz You’re My Girl and Backup Plan comes to mind, lyrics are the most difficult part for me, when I get good ones I feel accomplished.

TV: Any last words for our readers?

TV: Keep fucking up and making bad decisions! (in music that is) I think you should expect at least a thousand epic failures on your journey, embrace em and do whatever you can to keep the dream healthy and alive.

#yung heazy #music #musicjournalism #musicblog #blogging #blogger #rap #mac demarco #indie

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thisisasupergoodidea · 5 years

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just watched The Guy Who Didnt Like Musicals a second time. i didnt really process the songs properly the first time and didnt like them but now i can actually hear the tunes as intended and i love this whole thing so much. so im gonna ramble about this musical for a bit. spoilers ahead if u havent watched yet (its on youtube)

ive seen a few of the theories ppl have about the delivery of the musical, and about what happens at the end especially. i think i wanna try my hand at it too because sometimes i enjoy interpreting details. and im a gigantic sucker for reprises that stitch together all the songs we just heard into its own frankenstein song that completely changes in meaning or tone based on all the info we absorbed over the course of the program. and boi the last song of the show sure fuckin delivers

ok well i need to start at the beginning though. some ppl are confused by what the opening lil song and dance is within the context of the musical, because it introduces the main character, but at that point no one is infected yet so it just seems like standard musical stuff in the viewpoint of the audience, who expects this. but the entire plot of this musical is that the characters’ world slowly BECOMES a musical due to alien spores from a meteor infecting everyone to act as a harmonious hive mind. so in this sense its two musicals at the same time: the musical that starkid productions wrote, and the looser ‘musical’ that the alien entity is orchestrating during its antagonism of the main character. i believe that the opener takes place after at least a partially successful domination of the populace, mostly because of the fact that the characters who participate in that song are referring to ‘themselves’ in the third person and are dancing all hunched and menacingly, exactly how the alien spore compels people to dance later on in the plot. that plus a line that i might be recalling correctly about how the main character is their final story to tell, makes me certain that this is the alien telling that story

as for the main character paul’s absence from that song, i really think thats something intended in the musical to introduce what paul is like in the most succinct way possible. the guy just did not like musicals. throughout the plot he is constantly defining himself by his lack of participation, so of course the cheekiest way to set that up is to have him not participate in the opener. i think the confusing part here is when the story actually begins, because if the opener was performed by the future infected characters, when is the line drawn to differentiate between the two musicals that are happening (starkid musical vs alien musical)? or is the whole thing a performance by the alien entity? in which case, everyone on that stage is simply acting out the story as determined by the hive mind. but to whom, if everyone’s infected? i’ll get back to that later

another thing i love about this musical is how gradually tired of paul’s shit the alien entity becomes over the course of the plot, as evidenced by the tone of the songs. it just gets worse and worse. the alien’s songs turn from sickeningly cheerful to enticing, to threatening, to evoking hopelessness, then finally to pressuring paul past his breaking point. some of the songs arent even directed at paul but the change still happens, which goes to show the alien entity’s frustration. and at the end when the infected find emma, the song is happy again. they sing that awesome reprise, a really energetic mashup in which its hard not to feel like the alien plague is unstoppable. inevitable, one might say.

speaking of the end... paul’s confrontation with the meteor (my absolute favorite scene that i would rewatch a hundred times except i dont want to get tired of it too fast) contains good information to understanding what happens afterward. paul tries to blow it up, gets distracted by the appearance of his infected acquaintances, and the longer he stays there the more infected he himself becomes, breathing in such a heavy concentration of those alien spores at the epicenter of its activity. until now, he has rejected actively being the ‘star of the show’ like the alien seems to... want him to be? idk, the point is that his character defies musical protagonist tropes despite how the plot follows him. the story is ABOUT the alien, but paul is the audience’s anchor. until he goes to blow up the meteor. at that point, the alien has him. he can barely fight back against his own body synchronizing with the other infected as they goad him into giving in, but he puts up a damn good struggle considering those impossible circumstances. still, for the first time, he participates. he sings. he hates it, but it brings out some interesting thoughts: does he hate it? did he ever? or is this just the spores talking?

but what part, exactly, does he hate? in a musical, the singing and dancing act is usually the method of delivery for whatever the character is truly feeling. it is an opportunity for the audience to connect emotionally with the person who is singing. but we dont have that with paul for almost the entire show. he doesnt participate. and he’s established in the beginning as selfish, kind of a dick, and not available to anyone (except emma who is the only person he even slightly opens up to. he tries to be more friendly somewhat with bill, i think, but even then that couldve just been to get him to snap out of it and escape the school). he said himself that people singing and dancing makes him uncomfortable. so all this is to say that, on a deeper level, i think the aspect of the singing and dancing that he hates, that he fights to resist, is the vulnerability. you can witness the madness and shame for yourself as he sings more and more, letting out his worries, unsure if his feelings are his anymore. but hey, he ends that scene with a statement reaffirming the self he walked in with (which is to say, a guy who hates musicals) and finally pulls his grenade. so its cool that he was able to resist that but. guys. if the spores didnt get him. that grenade absolutely did. he didnt even bother to throw it away from himself, he flung it down right in front of him. theres no way he didnt get blown to bloody chunks, fully intending for that to be his final act of defiance

but i think it was too late by then. he’d already breathed in so many spores, and we were shown earlier on that death is not an impediment to becoming infected. i think after he exploded, he was still absorbed into the collective and reformed as a new addition to the hive mind. his explosives might not have been enough to fully destroy the meteor. and thats why, at the very end, i believe that - despite his admittedly suspicious face journey during the song - he isnt faking it. because if he was, wouldnt the hive mind know that it doesnt contain him within it? not only that, but in the opening song emma is clearly part of the group. given that she is the only one who is undoubtedly not infected in the last song, we have to assume that she will be sometime after the finale of the musical.

and now im left with my unexplored questions: is this a musical played straight, or a ‘musical’ put on by the alien entity after it wins? and who is the ‘musical’ intended for? its fun to speculate but im not sure these are questions that can be answered by watching it a bunch of times. theyre aimed too much outside of the zone of operation, if that makes sense. its like, you cant ever look at your own eyeballs normally. you need a mirror or for someone to describe them to you. these questions exist outside of the limitations of the musical format, so we wouldnt direct them at the video, we would ask them of the creators. or not. its cool to not have all the questions answered too

ah i wrote a flippin essay, huh? i guess i wanted to prove to myself that my brain still works

#the guy who didn't like musicals #tgwdlm #starkid #i did say i would ramble...

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danielxrk · 5 years

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✞ SOMEBODY COVER UP MY EARS * SOMEBODY SAVE ME FROM MY HEART

daniel isn't nervous. that's what he tells himself, anyway, with some marginal amount of nerves in his stomach. they built up over time, as he watched singer after singer drain from the room, leaving fewer and fewer in their wake. every time a staff member enters the room to bring someone else to the judges, he practically leaps up, but it's never his name, so that familiar feeling of anxiety he thought he bested grows until his fingers start getting numb. by the time it's finally his turn, he stands up slowly, like he's hesitating, but he heads out anyway, trailing after the staff member obediently, and tries to shake himself free of the weight he somehow found himself beneath, and he wonders if he's really changed at all.

he tries to remind himself of how much he's grown again-- the thoughts he had not long ago, the last time he was outside of this practice room, and it helps, or at least he thinks it does. when he stands in front of the judges, however, he feels like the same daniel from last year: that scared, unprepared boy, in far over his head, wanting nothing more than to leave. no, that's not true. he wants to be here. the mgas last year taught him that he has a place here, even after almost getting eliminated. he survived until somewhere close to the end, and if he made it that far, he sure as hell will make it through this. he'll make sure of it. if he orchestrated this audition of solidarity with all of the band, he has to do well for them. that brings some additional pressure and additional strength simultaneously. he repeats it like a mantra: i belong here i belong here i belong here, but that doubt still lingers, as it always does.

he knows, even among the empty enigma members, he probably has the least talent. woojin and kenta can apparently dance of all things, and both can sing, too. minhyun can also sing, and though he hasn't heard him sing often, it doesn't take much to be better at singing than daniel. maybe his experience with this show will make up for his lack of talent, or whatever carried him the distance last year will do the same this time. he was so certain he improved before this moment.

luckily, daniel has always been good at pretending. he flashes his brightest smile, and he bows to the judges. he didn't prepare anything to say-- planned on just singing and not wasting anyone's time, but he catches the camera out of the corner of his eye, remembers this will probably be aired, and says, "kang daniel. you didn't forget me that easily, did you?" a playful glint in his eye, but the smile doesn't fade, expression evening out into something more sincere with a hint of determination. "i'm back to show better sides of myself and become a kang daniel you can be happy to watch perform, and i aim to start that today. i'll be singing i'm so tired by lauv."

he almost feels embarrassed after saying it, and for a moment he worries that he won't live up to the expectations he set for himself-- worries that he doesn't have better sides to show, or that everyone watching won't be able to see them. no, he knows he's improved since last year; he's certain he's better now than back then in every way, and even if he feels weakness now, he has to trust the daniel that believed that when he first walked into this building. he practiced this song enough. he still feels it somewhere settled into his bones. he's far from the meek, unprepared boy that auditioned last year, frazzled that they wouldn't let him play his guitar, singing the only song that came to mind, voice shaky and unpracticed.

this time he knows what he's doing, and his confidence rises. it's just another performance, and he and cameo have done this countless times. he doesn't have to hide it anymore, even if it's a bit different this time. no guitar riffs, no heavy drum beat, no bassline as comfort, not sungwoon's voice to guide him, just daniel, three judges, his voice, and the empty air in this room. he breathes it in, and begins.

i'm so tired of love songs, tired of love songs tired of love songs, tired of love just wanna go home, wanna go home wanna go home, woah

his performance begins near the end of the version of the song he chose, planned intentionally so he can sing out the lyrics he feels in his heart. he had somewhere around 15 potential song choices for this audition once all of the empty enigma members decided they would try their hand at the mgas this year, and an inability to narrow it down. something compelled him to keep searching though, and when he remembered this song and looked over the lyrics, he decided on it easily. the beginning half is a breakup song, for the most part, but in the context of the one minute allowed, he can make it something different: a manifestation of his conflicted heart in recent months.

he would like to say that yesterday, and confessing his feelings to sungwoon changed this-- made it less relevant, or made it speak to him less, and maybe it did. he knows deep down, however, that it didn't really; if he's honest with himself, he still feels it.

so tired of love songs, tired of love songs tired of love songs, tired of love wanna go home, wanna go home wanna go home, woah

it comes from a place of emotional exhaustion, still present even after the sudden, borderline desperate admittance of how much he truly likes sungwoon. with it came warmth, and relief, and some freedom, albeit temporary-- this lack of need to deny himself anymore, this ability to bask in sungwoon's presence and all of his inflicting joy and comfort and acceptance and love and something edging on home. for a moment, he could avoid the conflict in his heart and settle into some sense of stability and promise of some potential, unspoken future, and all of the possibilities he felt but was still a little too afraid of. yet that's not all, and he knows it. there is still a girl, and her familiarity, and her fingerprints all over every meager year of his life. even the ones that lacked her directly still carried her somewhere in his heart, never really over her, and maybe it's still the same even now. there's a war between the parts of him that want to move on and want to hang on, and he doesn't know whether to drift to the love he knows he has or the love that might be easier. he's not guaranteed an easy path with either of them, and it makes him tired, even now. before, he chose this song because he didn't want to think about it anymore-- he wanted to avoid it, and even now that he's confronted it, he wants it to end. he wants an answer without breaking another heart, a decision without cruelty, to know if what he deserves is neither of them. he just wants to go home, but he doesn't know where that is anymore either.

so when he sings the next lines, he means it more than any he's uttered so far. (it's always been his favorite part.)

somebody cover up my ears somebody save me from my heart somebody take me far from here and rip the speakers out my car

there's not really any saving him from his heart; he knows. it's what he gets for singing a song he put on the mixtape he made joohyun for her birthday the day he bared his heart to sungwoon, but that reality says more about him in this moment than anything else could. his voice caries him through, more stable than his emotions, strong in the face of this turbulence, more staying power than the last time anyone with mnet heard him sing, and he doesn't doubt that anymore-- not now.

'cause i'm ready to love you, but not ready to lose you but i can't wait here any longer

he changed an or i'm ready to lose you to a but not ready to lose you, an easy alteration after all the lyrics he's written for empty enigma's album, made to better reflect him. there are parts of the song that hit harder in this moment than before-- how he couldn't wait with his feelings weighing heavily on him anymore, like he needed to get them off of his shoulders and out of his rib cage, needed to pour them into someone else: sungwoon. he wonders if it could've been anyone, thoughts swirling in his mind regurgitated into some mess-- if it could've been joohyun instead, but no, it couldn't have, for reasons he still isn't sure of. it needed to be sungwoon, and he knows that's still the case because yesterday, the day of that confession, his feelings for him were the only thing he was sure of.

i’m so tired of love songs (someone take me home) just wanna go home ('cause i can’t be alone)

he tries to clear his mind, knowing the song is nearing its end-- that his voice will soon be confined to his throat again, and that these feelings will be hard to admit anywhere outside of this room, but maybe he doesn't need to. this feels like enough. there's something gentle in this part of the song, though that's the nature of all of it, and part of the reason why he chose it; there's no real need for power, just a certain vulnerability that daniel has always possessed, only been a little afraid of. it feels better to get it up, and his voice builds up a little for the end, as each note steps a little higher.

so tired of love songs (and i'm so tired) tired of love, tired of love, tired of love, tired of love

he breathes out the final note. maybe the conflict shows on his face for a moment before it evens out, and the air of the practice room is so still. it's almost peaceful, and something washes over him then, like resolution, like gratification, like extrication, even though the weight is still there. he bows again, utters a "thank you," that he means, even if it sounds small.

#rkmga5audition2 #rkxsungwoon #joohyunrk #;solo #;savemefrommyheart #( * this really #this really...#i don't know #got away from me? ended up a different beast than intentioned? what just happened #i'm hella sad and hella didn't proofread this bc i didn't want to read it again sdsfgdg #enjoy ! )#rkmga5

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simon-egg · 5 years

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Gary King - Playlist

I have created a spotify playlist of songs that particularly resonate with The World's End's main man - Gary King. Gary is an incredibly complex and deeply emotional character, a cool (or at least he tries to be) but broken man. In a strange way, watchers of the film may kind of want to be like him but at the same time would hate to become him. He's an asshole but it is understood why he does what he does. Yes, some of his actions are inexcusable but despite that, most of us can not help wanting him to find some form of happiness. In the end he ultimately finds and deserves happiness. When it comes down to it I love Gary King and here is my playlist of songs that particularly apply to him and his story.

The playlist - spotify link

Below the bar, I have listed the songs on the playlist and my reasoning for including them on the list. Some of these songs appeared in the movie (bigger text), the rest really resonate with the story and would fit on the soundtrack. This took me a while.

Firstly I have to point out that I have chosen these songs in a particular order - an order of which kind of follows the emotions and events in the film. That and music tastes are opinionated, although I love these songs, they are all of a similar style and vibe that fits Gary, whether you like them or not is up to you - mostly punk, ska, goth, new wave and alternative rock. I wanted to choose iconic artists too such as The Doors, Ramones, New Order, Sisters of Mercy, Queen, Joy Division and The Rolling Stones.

Any relevant lyrics I will include in my explanations in italics.

Loaded - Primal Scream

The World’s End begins with this song so it seems fitting that the playlist should do so too. Not only that but it is a fantastic song, of which Edgar and Simon have said that this is a song which Gary particularly takes the lyrics to heart.

we wanna be free, we wanna be free to do what we wanna do And we wanna get loaded and we wanna have a good time And that's what we're gonna do

- and that is something that Gary Precisely sets out to do.

I Want To Break Free - Queen

… I had to include a Queen song on this list and more than anything at the beginning of the film, Gary wants to break free and do whatever he wants, regardless of the consequences.

I’m Free - Mono - The Rolling Stones

Once Gary is out of the psych ward/ hospital and has managed to convince his friends to come with him on his wild adventure he plays this song in his car in the film.

The first free songs on this playlist follow a theme

(loaded) - he realises that he wants to be free

(I want To Break Free) - He knows that he needs to be free

(I’m Free) - He becomes free.

I'm free to do what I want any old time

Friday Night - Saturday Morning - The Specials

A song with a really cool vibe about a man going out drinking with his friends and getting really really drunk... sound familiar? Also The events of The World’s End occur on a Friday Night/ Saturday Morning.

I go out on Friday night and I come home on Saturday morning...

Too Much Too Young - The Specials

Another song by The Specials, now this one really applies to Gary. It’s a song about a man who doesn’t want to grow up and is mocking his friends for doing so. All of Gary’s friends have grown up - wives, kids, jobs e.c.t, Gary doesn’t seem to grasp why his friends have done this, even mocking them for doing so.

You done too much much too young You're married with a kid when you could be having fun with me You done too much much too young Now you're married with a son when you should be having fun with me

So Young - Suede

Continuing with the young theme, Gary is utterly desperate to return to his teenage self and this a song about being young, reckless and free.

Alabama Song (Whisky Bar) - The Doors

Absolutely fantastic song! This song is used in the film just after the gang find out about the aliens and carry on the pub crawl, so not to look suspicious. The scene in question is really well choreographed in time with the music and has to be one of my favourite scenes of the film.

The song has a really cool, sinister vibe and really applies to the story. Well, it’s a song that involves the compulsive need to go to multiple different bars in one night. If the person/ people in the song don’t make it to the next whisky bar they ‘must die’. In he case of those in the World’s End, not continuing the crawl could mean literal death or metaphorical in Gary’s case as he is so desperate to complete the crawl.

Oh, show me the way to the next whiskey bar Oh, don't ask why, no, don't ask why For we must find the next whiskey

Or if we don't find the next whiskey bar I tell you we must die, I tell you we must die I tell you, I tell you, I tell you we must die

Blue Monday - New Order

Okay I love this song, it’s an absolute banger and the vibe it has is so atmospheric! That and the lyrics do remind me of Gary.

Those who came before me lived through their vocations From the past until completion, they'll turn away no more And still I find it so hard to say what I need to say But I'm quite sure that you'll tell me just how I should feel today

...

Tell me, how do I feel

Tell me now, how should I feel

...

Tell me how does it feel, when your heart grows cold, grows cold, cold

More - Sisters of Mercy

Gary’s favourite band is Sisters of Mercy, I had to include something from them, that and this is a good song...

This song also has the lyric ‘And I need all the love I can get’ repeated, Gary certainly needs all the love he can get.

Too Drunk to Fuck - Dead Kennedys

The title says it all... too drunk to fuck...

As I mentioned, I wanted the songs to follow in a particular order - how the film goes. 9 songs out of 15 in and at this point the gang are absolutely hammered. Probably represents the gang in The Mermaid.

I Wanna Be Sedated - Ramones

Great and classic Ramones tune. Giving off Gary vibes again - the feeling of not wanting to be conscious or wanting to be so out of it and numb is a feeling that Gary sadly seems to want to feel.

Hurry hurry hurry, before I go insane I can't control my fingers, I can't control my brain Oh no oh oh oh oh

Disorder - Joy Division

When thinking of how this song relates to The World’s end, think of the scene towards the end when Andy is desperately trying to stop Gary from drinking that final pint. Andy notices the bandages and hospital tag around his wrist and Gary breaks down. As a song, disorder is energetic, slowly building up to a big emotional conclusion, like a breakdown, just like in the scene.

i’ve got the spirit, but lose the feeling, I've got the spirit, but lose the feeling, Feeling, feeling, feeling, feeling, feeling, feeling, feeling.

Fall Back Down - Rancid

The next three songs are more about the interesting relationship between Gary and Andy. I feel like this song is appropriate at the end, when the three remaining Musketeers are arguing with the network and Andy is sticking up for Gary even after all they have been through.

Andy: ‘he is a bit of a cock, but he's my cock!’

Okay now, the lyrics to this song really apply to Gary and especially Gary and Andy.

Don't worry about me I'm gonna make it alright Got my enemies cross-haired and in my sight I take a bitter situation gonna make it right In the shadows of darkness I stand in the light Ya see it's our style to keep it true I had a bad year, a lot I've gone through I've been knocked out, beat down, black and blue

If I fall back down You're gonna help me back up again If I fall back down You're gonna be my friend

Ever Fallen In Love (With Someone You Shouldn’t’ve)? - The Buzzcocks

An iconic and energetic punk tune. When it comes down to it Gary loves Andy and Andy loves Gary. Look, love can mean a lot of things, when I say they love each other that kind of love is up to your interpretation... aka it doesn’t necessarily mean they must romantically love each other. If you interpret it as romantic love, that’s fine too. I do certainly think that Andy must somewhat know that his love for Gary spells bad news.

(Gary talking about Andy): ‘I loved him and I'm not being funny, he loved me too.’...

You spurn my natural emotions You make me feel like dirt and I'm hurt And if I start a commotion I run the risk of losing you and that's worse

Outlaws - Green Day

This is the most modern song on the playlist by far (though it still carries the same vibe) but dudes, it is such a relevant song to Gary and Andy.

It is about two childhood friends who were rebels that did everything together, they were young and free and wild. Then they grew up. The person the song was about (in this case, Gary) changed/ never changed when they should have and is now a lost individual.

Life after youth Faded in twilight The dawn of a criminal in bloom First love First forgiveness We were delinquents Freaks of a faded memory

Outlaws, when we were forever young When we were outlaws We're outlaws of redemption, baby Hooligans We destroyed suburbia When we were outlaws Outlaws of forever

I found a knife by the railroad track You took a train and you can't go back

Forever now, forever now you'll roam...

Yes the song finishes with the lyric ‘forever now you’ll roam’ and the film finishes with Gary essentially roaming indefinitely. Neat.

Electricity - Orchestral Manoeuvres in the dark (OMD)

As the aliens leave so do all the technological advancements they brought with them, sending earth back to the ‘dark ages’. This song is about electricity, our reliance on it and loosing power.

Are Friends Electric? - Gary Numan/ Tubeway Army

By the end of film Gary is left with his only friends being the blanks. These are not human and it’s questionable whether they’re even alive or capable of being emotional, free-thinking or intelligent. Although he’s happy in a sad kind of way he’s still alone.

Also the lyric ‘there’s a man outside in a gray hat, long coat, smoking a cigarette’ sounds like Gary when he turned up at The Rising Sun (the pub at the end). Other than smoking, he was wearing a long coat and a gray hat.

This Corrosion - Sisters Of Mercy

This was the last song that was featured in The World’s End, over the wonderful scene when Gary and the blanks arrive at the pub, asking for 5 waters and starting a fight. It's an optimistic song because who wants to end on a sad note, right? That and it’s Sisters of Mercy again, Gary’s favourite band.... and it’s a fantastically powerful song.

#let me know what you think of the post/ playlist please #the world's end #the cornetto trilogy #gary king #simon pegg #Andrew knightly #my pegg post

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comicteaparty · 5 years

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June 15th-June 21st, 2019 Creator Babble Archive

The archive for the Creator Babble chat that occurred from June 15th, 2019 to June 21st, 2019. The chat focused on the following question:

Describe your comic’s protagonist. Why should we as an audience care about them and their goals?

Nutty (Court of Roses)

Technically I have five protagonists in Court of Roses http://courtofroses.thecomicseries.com/, but I can focus on the main one; Merlow is simply a wandering minstrel who, despite fighting some inner demons, just wants to bring laughter and song everywhere he goes. He is passionate and loves his line of work, and finds the beauty in all expressions in music, and, in turn, in life and in people. His friendly and sincere approach to everyone is what helps bring him and the other four main bards together. Without spoiling too much, once they begin to travel together, he'll be the unofficial leader and the glue between them all.

keii4ii

HoK is about heartbreaks that develop quietly, between people who do genuinely care about each other. The main example of such heartbreaks is feeling abandoned when you need their support more than ever. A lot of us have been through that, myself included. There are countless variations of that experience; the specific variations that I know firsthand, I've mixed them around and given to Ethan and Danbi. That's why their story speaks to my soul, the bruised part of it. And maybe it will speak to yours, too, for the same reasons.

deo101

Millennium's http://millennium.thecomicseries.com/ protagonist, Sage, is a kindhearted, southern farmer who has been thrown into a lot of bad situations he could never understand or prepare for, but always approaches with as much love as he can. I guess we root for him because we, too, want to see the best in things and have that kind of positivity work out.

Respheal

Conan of Galebound http://www.galebound.com/ is a pretty typical farmboy, except he just learned that he's a Hidden Backup Prince, that he has the power to command Magicians, that he's an assassination target, his kidnapper/protector is probably also an assassin, and the literal ocean called him "far worse"--whatever that means. He's had a rough couple of days. I like to think he's relatable and ultimately a good person. At first, his goal was just to get back home, but then he made a terrible mistake with his newly-discovered power. Immediately he takes responsibility for his actions, seeking to learn more about this power so he doesn't hurt anyone else and maybe even help against those using the same power for cruel reasons. Once he feels responsible for something, he tends to through his entire self into taking care of or fixing a problem--sometimes to the point of being a bit self-sacrificial about it. His overall arc, though, is really about following your heart, and recognizing what you really want to do versus what you're doing out of a sense of obligation--or sometimes discovering that your "obligations" and what you want are one and the same.

Desnik

My comic's protagonist (http://ask-a-warlock.tumblr.com/) is actually not the warlock...it's a small bird named Margo who is an animate drawing. She hops out of an illuminated manuscript one day and discovers the real world is very brutal and harsh. Through a series of buddy adventures with a knight, and demonic crime-solving with a cleric, Margo does eventually choose to be part of the real world, because she belongs with her friends...although she secretly desires to be human, as well(edited)

Desnik

argh, I put in the wrong askawarlock...haha, well, updated my urlwith dashes

Mharz

The Angel with Black Wings http://blackwings.mharz.com/ or Big Sis as what me and my readers call her at this point is a sweet and very caring towards people. She's like a motherly figure of some sort. (The one who will tuck you in bed and bake you loads of cookies) However she's heavily plagued by mental illness (feeling extreme guilt and blaming herself on anything bad that happens around her, thinking she doesn't deserve anything good in life, and inner voices that seems to be getting stronger as time passes.) Even tho she thinks she doesn't deserve it, deep down there is a tiny glimmer of hope that one day, she'd be forgiven. Altho her mental issues are amplified, I think most of us can relate to have felt guilt about something we did/didn't do and dwelled and ruminated on it for so long, having uncontrollable thoughts and inner voices that tells us that we are worthless, we are horrible people, everyone hates us and we don't deserve anything. I personally on that boat and slowly working on getting better. So I wrote my comics in the hope whoever reads my comics can make them feel better in some way and find that glimmer of hope. wheeze (edited)

MJ Massey

Emily (http://welcometoblackball.com/) is pretty much a passive doormat. She starts out just doing whatever her parents say and taking the path of least resistence until she feels she can't, that she has to take action to solve her sister's murder. But she has no patience for the shenanigans and games of others, always taking the most direct path she can. Some would say this makes her a concise person, but in her mind she's just doing what's easiest. She ends becoming more assertive and independent over time until she can finally make her own life choices with confidence. A good bit of her insecurities come from being very ill with measles a few years ago, and having to have her hair shaved off. It never grew back quite the same as it was, and her parents are a little more on her case because they want her to marry well in society.

kayotics

I think on paper, Toivo (https://ingress-comic.com/) sounds awful. He’s a wizard professor, single father, serial romantic, and unlucky in his adventures. He’s anxious and a little mean and obnoxious. He’s snarky and kind of an asshole and makes mistakes and doesn’t consider other people’s emotions, so he makes things hard for other people. He orchestrates most of the problems he has to solve. But i think that’s why he’s fun? He’s a good person at heart but he isn’t perfect and that’s the type of character I like to read about.

Desnik

@kayotics He seems like a genuinely fun character to read about. I like characters with flaws that seem to make sense with the story being told

kayotics

@Desnik I like to think he is! One of my favorite comic series is Ranma 1/2, and I think that series fundamentally taught me that you can have characters who are objectively not great people and still likable.

MJ Massey

I've enjoyed reading his misadventures so far. I think that since he usually learns some sort of lesson from his misadventures it makes him really endearing to balance out his flaws

NeilKapit

Lamar Anderson, the current focus of We Are The Wyrecats (http://wyrecats.com/) is a superhero of unyielding principle, to the point of self-destructive fanaticism. He’s a mute genius with cerebral palsy, who has difficulty walking without his hero armor. The Wyrecats were the first and only time he felt like he had friends, and K.A. was his first crush (reciprocated, though neither of them acted on it). When she was put in a coma and the team disbanded, he basically started a one man war against the US government that secretly initiated the plot (long story). Five years later, with K.A. waking up, he’s been questioning his approach, which involved stockpiling weapons and hiring mercenaries to wage guerilla war upon his country’s intelligence agencies. Since K.A.’s hardly in the best mental health at the moment, Lamar’s trying to do his best by her to make a world she’d want to live in.

snuffysam

Mizuki Sato is the protagonist of Super Galaxy Knights Deluxe R (http://sgkdr.thecomicseries.com/). She's a small woman from a small farm town, going on adventures through a strange world. Mizuki's main draw is that she's entertaining to watch. She constantly back-sasses & annoys the people she encounters on her journey (to be fair, some of those people are Taci Ramino) - and when action happens, Mizuki is ahead of the game, out-strategizing her enemies and pushing past her own limits. She may be a bit reckless with her own health, but to her it's worth it if she's helping other people in any way. Mizuki's main goal in life is to find love - someone she could get married to someday, specifically. But... that often doesn't work out for her. Every time Mizuki falls for someone, she loses them to someone else - or worse, she ends up in a short-lived relationship filled with endless put-downs. The people Mizuki encounters in her daily life enjoy the fact that she's around. They like the way she entertains them, the way she helps them out, the way she... makes them happy. But, at least from Mizuki's perspective, nobody she meets actually loves her in any meaningful way. anyway funney muscle lady shoot rainbow lasers woo

AntiBunny

My comic AntiBunny http://antibunny.net/ has multiple protagonists depending on what angle we're seeing the world through, but the original protagonist Pooky Bunny can be best described as a gender ambiguous depressed mess who's trying to become a better person. Why should you care? When you first meet Pooky their depression is clearly in control. As the story unfolds in the past you start to see where that depression comes from, and as it unfolds in the present you'll see Pooky learning to let others in, slowly moving to become a better person. Pooky is not OK, and realizes that, but also sees a way forward. So if you want to see someone who is initially consumed by their flaws and who eventually realizes them and works to overcome them, then maybe you'll care about Pooky. What are their goals? Pooky has both what I'd call external goals, that is things they want to accomplish in the real world, and internal ones, that is how they'd like to change as a person. Externally Pooky is all about unraveling mysteries. Being a reporter Pooky often is chasing a story. Internally Pooky's goals change. Early on it's little more than subsistence. Struggling to get by from one day to the next. Though as the story progresses as Pooky says "I'm trying to be a better person." Pooky goes from being someone who's dead inside to coming alive again. You'll see that trauma in Nailbat that started this, and in The Gritty City Stories you'll see the recovery. It's all about the fall, bottoming out, and climbing back up. Essentially that's Pooky.

Attila Polyák

Anne is the protagonist and mostly the perspective character of Tales of Midgard: The Age of Magic https://talesofmidgard.com/comic/book-1-cover-page/. She's a knight and a mage and more or less she's a well established person with a generally (currently) good life. She's definitely not someone special. Magic is very common and accessible to basically everyone and being a knight in a world full of magic is also not really extraordinary. So why should you care about someone who's not special? That's exactly the point! Most fantasy stories are set in fantastic worlds yet the main cast, and the protagonists especially, are still special. Even compared to the world. Not here. This story is the story of the everyman. The true everyman, not a chosen one, not someone who is surrounded by prophecies left and right, just your regular normal person. Of course we're still in a fantasy world so what's regular to the characters is still fantastic for the readers, and these "everydays" are still adventures compared to the normal lives most of us live in real life. Plus... Just because she not special she and everyone else in the story can still, just like in real life, be swooped up into events that are larger than life and seeing normal people cope with the extraordinary is always more interesting than extraordinary people playing their own game.

#ctparchive #comics #webcomics #indie comics #comic chat #comic discussion #creator interview #comic creator interview #comic tea party #ctp #creator babble

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diveronarpg · 6 years

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Congratulations, BECKY! You’ve been accepted for the role of GONERIL with an approved FC change to URSULA CORBERO. Admin Jen: Truly, Becky, you have left us speechless with this wonderful application! Your take on Grace was a bit unusual, and certainly not what I was expecting as I had established her in my mind as very cold and clinical. But the way you integrated emotions into her portrayal was brilliant -- it gave her a touch of volatility and extremism that accentuated the terror that Grace embodies so perfectly. I loved your future plots especially the evil scheme that you elaborated on and your writing sample left me trembling in both fear and admiration; everything just came together so intricately! I can’t wait to watch as she burns Verona to the ground! Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

Out of Character

Alias | Becky

Age | 22

Preferred Pronouns | she/her

Activity Level | I’ve sold my soul to you now, I can’t ever leave

Timezone | Ok so I wrote BST on Odessa’s app but the rest of the UK gang put GMT (time is a social construct and I’m actually a cosmic entity floating around the globe giving u all forehead kisses)

Current/Past RP Accounts | x x

In Character

Ok so I know you didn’t exactly accept her as an FC for Grace but I’m hoping you warm to edgy-looking neo-noir Úrsula Corberó once you’ve read the app. I admit that my idea of Grace may not be quite what you’re looking for but I wanted to give applying for her a shot because I love me Hot Mess of a character! (but I am also happy to come up with alternatives if not)

Is evil something you are? Or is it something you do?

Character | Grace ‘Goneril’ Daly

What drew you to this character? | So like any good prophecy/vision/intervention of fate, I woke up one morning with a mighty need to play a character who is Odessa’s opposite, the black fur coat leather skirt cigarette ash psycho babe to my honey sweet lace and silk angel of retribution, so I’ve sort of been slyly waiting for Grace’s bio to be released.

It’s her contrast to Odessa that initially drew me in with the chance to explore another character whose existence and presence in Verona revolves around her father’s ties to a mob, but resulting in a drastically alternate result. It will be very different playing a character who doesn’t particularly have a motive for killing (beyond self-preservation and power-lust) and is loyal to only herself.

Whilst I would usually play a character like Grace as being a cold-hearted, emotionless ice queen, I feel as though Grace is better suited to burning. She is a slave to her emotions, the rise and fall of them dictating her mood, all while highly strung and fuelled by a chaotic form of energy. You can very much tell when she is happy and when she is not. She’ll cry in front of you just as gladly as she’ll laugh and kiss you. She’s unkind, ruthless, impulsive, emotional, and she’s ready to antagonise people to her tar-black heart’s content.

Character inspo: Azula from Avatar, Jennifer Check from Jennifer’s Body, Bellatrix Lestrange from Harry Potter, War from Good Omens. Trope inspo Alpha Bitch, Ambiguous Disorder, Blatant Lies, Daddy’s Little Villain, Go-Getter Girl, Hair-Trigger Temper, Improbable Weapon User, Jerkass, Sadist, Spoiled Brat, Virtue is Weakness.

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? |

i. A masterplan;

Step One: Grow to become an important part of the mob you were all but born into. Turn yourself into the perfect player, capable with weapons and unblinking in the face of danger. Step Two: Leave them. Join their rivals. Prove yourself to them by dispatching of a few former associates, low hanging fruit. Become just as relevant within their ranks. Step Three: Collate what you have learnt about the two mobs. Their strengths, their weaknesses. Make a few friends with similar goals to yourself. Corrupt them. Step Four: Start your own mob. You now know your enemies intimately. You know what it takes to break them. Bit by bit, steal Verona out from under their noses. Laugh at their mistakes and dance in the ashes of their burning empires as you build your own. Step Five: Be remembered forever.

ii. The double agent;

Traitor. Grace wears the title with pride, her smile sharp when she comes face to face with both Capulets and Montagues alike. Slinking from one mob to the other was a seemingly effortless transition, welcomed by none other than Damiano himself. She fed him information about Cosimo and his crew, spilling secrets around the end of her lipstick-stained cigarette. It was an easy way in, but now that she’s settled amongst her new comrades she finds herself looking back across the bridge with interest. Power is power but information is advantageous – Grace isn’t above feeding Montague-whispers back to her old associates, not if it means she wins friends on both sides of Verona. That way, it’s impossible for her not to win this war.

iii. Sisters, sisters

Regina and Catherine. Both are equally as disgraceful to the Daly name – one can’t even bring herself to be enthusiastic about the opportunities that lie, shiny and golden, before them, and the other flutters her lashes and talks of peace, of all things. Grace has never paid them much attention, but now that she’s sided with the Montagues she’s realised that the Capulets could do with having their numbers thinned. Whether she’ll try to convince them to switch sides with her for the Montague brownie-points or simply wipe her sister off of the face of the earth forever remains to be seen, but if Regina and Catherine think they can keep their heads down and get away with making the Dalys seem anything less than destined for greatness, they’ve got one hell of a storm coming.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | I sure am, same goes for Odessa now, it’s time to make like Grace and embrace reckless abandon

In Depth

In-Character Para Sample:

She is the thing watching you from the edge of the road, where long grass shivers with the motion of something far more alive than it has any right to be; a pair of eyes that glint in the final rays of the sunlight’s reaches, bleached white enamel teeth ready to sink themselves into those who mistake the night’s cloak as a thing to hide under rather than be consumed by.

She is fresh fruit in the heat, a slow rotting taking place at the centre disguised by mouth-watering scents and a flesh that glistens under the sheen of morning dew. Decay is a dance, slow and tantalising, the heart turning to a sticky dark mess that slides through the fingers of anyone who dares to try and save it.

She is a doctor who has never been able to stop her hands from shaking at the prospect of a new body, eager to pick up the scalpel and press it down into soft flesh, revealing a mass of life clinging to the bones. Her favourite colour is red, the sort that looks black in the evening, droplets turning to pools that spread through pressed shirts and silk pyjamas like tears on pillows. There’s blood on her hands, not always metaphorical. She licks it off, rarely quite satisfied.

Grace fucks like the meeting of hips will reveal the monster that lies beneath her, as though touching there and there and there will unlock ribcages and unleash what’s trapped inside of hearts. But to understand why, you must crawl inside her skull and make sense of what lurks there beneath the smoke of burning houses and vultures picking at once-satisfied things–

“Please take a seat,” Damiano says, and Grace lingers before lowering herself onto the chair, her gaze gliding over the mahogany desk between them before raising to study the man himself.

He smells like her father. That’s the first thing she notices, the faint cologne. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes and the signet ring on his finger keeps catching on things, releasing a dull metallic sound each time. His presence is more regal than Cosimo’s and yet she finds herself thinking the exact same thing – you aren’t worthy.

These men had all inherited their empires, passed down like heirlooms, and as a result they had become lazy. Content. Uninspiring.

“I’m very happy to be here,” she chimes pleasantly. “However… unexpected it may be.” She doesn’t tell him how much she wants this. Doesn’t explain that being welcomed into the inner sanctum of the Montagues is as pleasing as a night of post-murder hot sex. “I’ve always been a huge fan of your work.”

Damiano doesn’t laugh, but he doesn’t need to. Grace is well aware that she wouldn’t have gotten this far if he didn’t intend to offer her something. “I have a proposition.”

I bet you do, she thinks, her well-orchestrated plan playing out like the sweetest of songs. Black-nail-polished fingers press to her chest, feigning surprise. “For me? Damiano, you’re spoiling me.” The words curl up from her lips like tendrils of cigarette smoke. She punctuates them with a light laugh.

The deal is a simple one: information for protection. Spill some secrets to join the ranks. Grace does so without blinking, switching silver for gold, and slowly the pieces begin to fall into place. As with any self-proclaimed god, she grazes her knees on carpet to say thanks to Damiano, sacrifices those she’s left behind, and fills her head with only the loveliest visions of tearing his and Cosimo’s empires to the ground.

Extras:

Pinterest board

Time for more of ‘Becky attempts to write headcanons’:

Her parent’s little angel turned little devil. Spoilt from a young age, she soon learnt that she could get away with near enough anything provided she smiled sweetly to her parents and told them just how much she loved them. When her sisters were born, the attention that had been on her drifted and Grace found that she had to work harder and harder to hear her name on her parent’s lips.

Grace grew up restless. Her ambitions would flit like moths around a lightbulb, becoming half-planned dreams and broken things. It wasn’t until she was rushed to hospital following a road traffic accident* (which resulted in the removal of a kidney) that she decided to train to become a paramedic. *Her parents later suggested that it was no accident and had in fact been planned by the Montagues,

As a paramedic, she always manages to be first on the scene when an incident linked to the mobs is called in. Strategically, if someone fails to complete a murder she can finish the job herself, or silence any witnesses. Similarly, it also gives her the opportunity to plant fake evidence or remove weapons from the scene. For those evading the eyes of the authorities, she can also help those who have been hurt and can’t risk a trip to the hospital.

She is resourceful and will use whatever is to hand as a weapon. Has been known to dish out the odd black eye, broken nose, crushed windpipe, and acrylic nail scratches. Her father himself trained her to use a pistol and rifle under the guise that he was teaching her to hunt (which, technically, wasn’t a lie – they just never specified the quarry).

She lives by 3 important rules. One: trust only those you would die for. Two: protect what is yours. Three: if something is boring or unimportant, do not waste time on it.

Grace needs to be needed and wants to be wanted. She can’t stand shrinking into shadows and being forgotten. No, she must remain the life of the party and attract the attention (be it good or bad) of everyone.

She was once arrested and fined for drunk and disorderly behaviour on whilst on holiday in England. She slept it off in a cell and was released the next morning with a hefty fine.

She is a big fan of piercings and has a stick n poke shark on her ribs.

Inspo quotes:

“I’m a slave to my emotions, to my likes, to my hatred of boredom, to most of my desires.” – F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise.

“Her mood is cruel, her nature dangerous. Her will fierce and intractable” – Euripides (translated by Philip Vellacott), Medea

“But if these years have taught me anything it is this: you can never run away. Not ever. The only way out is in.” – Junot Diaz, The Brief Wonderous Life of Oscar Wao

#accepted: goneril #accepted

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