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yeojaa · 4 years

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ANGELS & AIRWAVES (w. jjk)

He's never met you but you know how he sounds when he wakes up from a nap and his greatest fears. You know the way he sings after a shower and that he could be mistaken for a dying seal when he's laughing too hard. The best part? You don't judge him for any of it - including the fact he's a filthy Widow main. He might just love you.

alt summary. Jeon Jungkook has a big fat crush on a girl he's never met.

pairing. jeon jungkook

genre + rating. fluffy crack. general, for now.

warning / tags. long-distance relationship, crushes, canon compliant (ish), eventual happy ending, gaming, gamer!jungkook, strangers to lovers, friends to lovers, overwatch. tags are hard. :(

reading. n/a. a three part one-shot.

word count. ~2750

part ii.

JUNGKOOK’S ROOM Sunday, 15 March, 2020. 2:01 AM.

He falls for you in between the tireless teasing, the laughter that sinks into his ears and replays like a highlight reel. It happens when he leasts expects it, when he's got his face pressed into the velvet of Yeontan's fur and you're cooing over voice chat, whispering sweet nothings to the manic panic pup. It comes in the moments he's not expecting it to, when he's frustrated and unbearable and you're as sunny as always, spilling yellow paint across the doors he tries to keep shut.

Bit by bit, day by day, he finds himself thinking of you more.

First, it's wondering what you're doing while he's half-asleep and on his way to the studio. Do you look as tired as you sound? What colour is your hair and how does it stick up when you've just rolled out of bed? When you yawn, do you stretch like a cat? He thinks you do, if the sounds you make are any indication.

Then it's asking himself whether you might like the same things he does, from horror movies to carnival rides. Would you hold his hand as you made the drop, stomachs leaping into your throats? Would you scream? Would it sound anything like that terrified pterodactyl noise you make when you're spawn camped by a Roadhog? He doesn't consider the fact that he doesn't even know if you're in the same city and you'll likely never meet - bound to the servers of Overwatch only.

He thinks about all the things he'd like to do with you. Video game nights filled with butter-tipped fingers and spilled popcorn. Walks with your family dog - Natto - you'd told him about, all fluffy white fur and dark teddy bear eyes. Sunrises on the rooftop of his building, because you had the worst insomnia he'd ever seen and what better way to spend your endless waking hours than with him.

Jeon Jungkook knows he'll probably never get any of these things, but he lets himself daydream anyway.

Like now, for instance, as the two of you sit in another queue at 2 AM. You just woke up and you've got that tell-tale rattle in your lungs, words sluggish and lacking any real intent. He imagines you look the way you sound - tired and a little out of it, with barely opened eyes and sleep-loosened limbs.

"How'd you sleep?" He asks softly, crossing his legs beneath him and raising his arms high above his head in the same instance. The bones of his body realign, ridges of his spine clicking into place when he knots his fingers together and pulls taut.

"You know - the usual," you muse, apathetic. It's always the same.

He doesn't question it any further. He had once or twice, when you'd first started talking and he'd noticed the way you were always up at inhuman times. One grumbling response had told him enough - your schedule was what it was and no amount of remedying could fix it.

There's a beat of silence before he hears rustling and then the loud, inescapable sound of an electric toothbrush. You don't bother to mute your microphone, not that he minds. He simply sits quietly, scrolling through his phone as you go about your "morning" routine.

"How was your day?" You're settled back at your computer, he thinks. The acoustics sound far less like that of a bathroom.

"I had the day off, actually." He'd used it to edit some footage and record a cover. He hasn't posted it to Twitter yet - there were certain times he was supposed to, to maximize visibility - but he's excited for when he does. It's a song that's been stuck in his head for weeks, all thanks to you.

"Woah - you didn't work today?" There's genuine surprise in your question, rounded syllables that pop off your tongue in an explosion of shock.

“Right?” He laughs a little, short and sweet.

Despite his carefully crafted facade, there were certain plot points that just stuck, intrinsically weaved into his day-to-day whether he liked it or not.

His jam packed schedule, for instance.

To you, it’s the result of stretching himself too thin between teaching at his friend’s dance studio (where he also apparently moonlights as a personal trainer) and working as a videographer for his media-involved friends. Not that you know any of them. No, no. All the work he does is for the little guys - none of those big companies like BigHit or JYP. Jungkook’s just your average Joe behind the camera.

“What did you do all day then?” You’re still in awe, little flecks of wonder threaded throughout like glittering gold yarn.

“Hung out. Did some editing. I’m kind of behind.” That was an understatement. He’s working on footage from six months ago, trying to get it out before they head on tour and he won’t have the kind of time he has now.

“Probably spending too much time gaming.”

“Yeah, probably.” Not that he minds, or that he’d change it. He savours the time you spend together, even if it has kind of messed up his sleep schedule.

“Sorry not sorry,” you quip, seemingly reading his mind.

“You should be,” he retorts with laughter that builds in his stomach and echoes out of his chest. “I don’t think I’ve had a good night's sleep in weeks.”

If you hadn’t had this conversation a handful of times before, he thinks you might be offended. Instead, he can practically hear you roll your eyes - imagines your optic nerve nearly severs with the intensity of it - and grins.

“Don’t kid yourself - you know I’m the best thing about your nights!”

You’re not wrong. “You’ve been lied to.”

“I’m suing!”

“I’ll have my lawyer contact your lawyer.”

“Wait, what?”

The two of you have done what you always do - talked yourself into a tizzy that has you both laughing, sound crackling across the airwaves. It’s nonsensical and silly but it feels good. Your bond shines with it, glitters prettily between you.

Thank god for Overwatch.

You return the conversation to a semblance of normalcy first. “Did you listen to that song I sent?”

“Yeah.” The briefest pause. “It was terrible. Hated it.”

“Oh, shut up!”

“I’m kidding. It was really good.” Jungkook doesn’t tell you that he’s had it on repeat for the past few days, saved to the private playlist that’s filled with the rest of your song recommendations.

“I know!” You’re preening as if he’d just complimented you, clearly pleased by the praise. He supposes it’s a pretty good endorsement regardless.

“Got any more for me?”

“I should just make you a playlist.”

He ignores the way his heart skips a very real beat, mimics the erratic rhythm of his fingers on his keyboard. Because he’d absolutely love that.

“You should.”

“Really?” You sound uncertain but maybe - just maybe - a little hopeful. He might also just be imagining things, as he so often does with you.

“Yeah. Why not?” It comes nonchalantly despite the rushing in his ears, the wave that threatens to drown him. He can feel emotion in his chest - winged and distracting. A kaleidoscope of butterflies fluttering away.

You’re quiet for another second. It feels like an eon. “Okay, yeah. I’ll start one and we can just add to it together.”

BIG HIT ENTERTAINMENT’S GYM Thursday, 26 March, 2020. 6:30 PM.

“You sound like a meathead,” you say, off-hand and disinterested.

He loathes the grunt that squeaks past his teeth as he gently returns the dumbbells to the floor. Cue a generous chug of water and a near death experience when the liquid goes down the wrong pipe.

Loud coughing crackles through his airpods before he’s addressing you. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re grunting like a caveman.”

If your first comment hadn’t offended him, this one does. Jungkook scoffs, tonguing the interior of his cheek as his brow furrows. Weights are returned to his hands, rotated above each shoulder as he resumes another set of presses.

“Do you even workout anything other than your fingers?” He’s making a conscious effort not to make a sound, breath exhaled sharply through his nose. It’s harder than he cares to admit but he’s also not about to give you an excuse to tease him further. You already had way too much material.

“Don’t shame me!” You really don’t sound that indignant.

“So, I’m right? You’re a big couch potato who’s just jealous of my hot body?”

Now you’re incredulous. It’s one of his favourite sounds because it comes draped in laughter, dancing around his head in the form of cartoon hearts.

“Did you just say ‘hot body’, Jay?”

“Maybe I did. What of it?” He sniffs - he’s picked it up from you over the months - and your amusement doubles, giggles crashing into each other in their haste.

“You are so, so weird.” There’s a tenderness in your voice that he’d like to live in. It wraps him up like a hug, tugging at his feeble little heartstrings.

“Weird and hot.”

“You can’t just say that!”

“Why not?” If anything, you’re the one person he can say it to. With you, it’s the funniest joke he’s ever made. It’s playful and silly, with no rhyme or reason. He doesn’t have to worry about it being misconstrued or held against him.

“You just can’t! Only other people can say it.” You sigh dramatically, from your chest. “Do I have to teach you everything?”

“Everything but being healthy, probably.”

“Har har har.”

He can tell by how the words roll off your tongue, muffled and lacking clarity, that you’re eating. He wonders if you’ve made pancakes - you’d been complaining about craving them just two days ago. There are no tell-tale crunching or slurping, so he knows it isn’t your usual double whammy combo of ramyeon and Choco Boys.

“I’ll have you know I used to run.” Something about the way you say it makes him believe you, even though he wants to mock you a little more.

“In gym class doesn’t count.”

“I used to run with Natto, you ass!” Okay - so that actually sounded legitimate.

“Why don’t you still then?”

“There was an incident once.” You’re sipping on something - likely coffee with oat milk and two pumps of hazelnut syrup. It doesn’t matter that it’s dinner time and most people would be winding down for the evening. “Because of my insomnia, I’d run at odd hours. One day, some weirdo stopped me while I was running along the river. He didn’t hurt me or anything—” A part of him thinks you’re downplaying it but he says nothing, only waiting for you to continue. “—but he followed me home. I made the mistake of telling my parents and they freaked out so…”

“So no more running by yourself.”

“Yeah, exactly.”

“I’d run with you.” It doesn’t mean much, but it’s the thought that counts.

“Thanks, Jay.”

Not for the first time, he wishes he could hear his name - his real name. Just once.

“JUNGKOOOOOOOOOOK.” It eats up every ounce of space of the gym, filling the room with the resounding boom of it. How it manages to be so loud, he’s not sure. He wishes it weren’t. There’s no way you haven’t heard it.

Especially not when it comes again, deafening even to his occupied ears.

“JUNGKOOOOK-AH!” Namjoon now, right as the double doors fly open.

Jimin’s barreling toward the alarmed maknae as he shouts. “WE’RE DOING A VLIVE!”

Jungkook feels like his insides are melting - his internal temperature spiking with embarrassment and worry and something that chants oh no! over and over in his head. The tops of his ears are burning, as is the column of his throat. A quick glance in the mirror confirms his suspicion that he is, indeed, bright tomato red.

“Jay?” You repeat once, twice, when he doesn’t immediately answer. “Everything okay?”

He moves with a speed he doesn’t expect, weights unceremoniously dropped on either side of him before he’s tearing his AirPods out. “I’ve got to go. Sorry!”

He doesn’t end the Discord call a moment too soon, Jimin upon him in the next instant. The smaller dancer is draping himself across Jungkook’s shoulders, the widest shit-eating grin on his pretty face.

“Want to join us for a VLive?”

“No. I’m busy.”

“Busy with your girlfriend?” Jimin’s wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. He only stops when Jungkook shifts aggressively, tearing himself out from underneath the other.

“Not my girlfriend!”

“But you wish she was!”

He can’t deny that, so he doesn’t bother, instead seizing his discarded weights with an embarrassed scowl permanently etched into the planes of his face. He’s reracking them - because god, he’s not an animal - when he notices Jimin making his departure, that teasing smile replaced with something soft and edging on concern.

“What’re you going to do when we’re on tour?”

Jungkook blanches then. You’d become such an undeniable part of his everyday life that he hadn’t even considered what it’d mean when he was busier than now, unable to spend late nights gaming with you.

But Jimn’s already gone, leaving him and his thoughts alone.

JUNGKOOK’S ROOM Friday, 27 March, 2020. 12:05 AM.

It’s close to midnight by the team he logs on. Realistically, he should go to sleep. He’s clean and worn out and his bed is calling to him like a siren at sea. But you’re sitting alone in the channel, streaming Overwatch for no one to see, and he can’t just leave it at that.

He needs to say goodnight, like he always does.

“Coming for my title as Headshot God?” The quip’s off his tongue before you have a chance to acknowledge him, your laughter the first thing he hears once he’s connected.

“I’ve been waiting in this queue for seven minutes. Seven!”

It’s really not that bad. The rare times you’d both queue for DPS were nearly double that.

“Patience is key,” he teases, slumping into his chair as he watches you click through your Hero Gallery. You’re cruising seemingly aimlessly, roving through the different skins for your mains (Mercy, Ana, Genji, Ashe). The silence between you is comfortable, interspersed only by the occasional munching he can only assume comes from the carrots you seem to inhale.

For all the junk you ate, you were somehow also weirdly into vegetables.

“Patience sucks,” you retort, matter-of-fact.

“You know what else sucks?”

It’s a rhetorical question and he knows you know, but because you’re you, you start listing things off just to get under his skin. “Spiders? Undercooked samgyupsal? Not having coffee? Your jokes?”

If he weren’t laughing so hard, he might’ve given you shit for making fun of his comedic genius. He really doesn’t understand how you think he’s the unfunny one when all you do is crack puns.

“I was actually going to say me,” he finally manages in between those high pitched cackles of his.

“Wait, why?” You’re used to him having witty comebacks.

Edge of enamel worries his bottom lip and Jungkook can taste cherry Chapstick and what would be bashfulness, if it had a flavour. “For earlier.”

You scoff, your own tinkling laughter tearing him out from inside his own head.

“It’s okay, goofball.”

He appreciates how laidback you are, never holding anything against him. Not even when he hangs up on you or accidentally spams you with memes when you’re trying (and failing) to sleep. “No. I’m sorry.” He says it earnestly, with all the meaning he can muster.

MATCH FOUND flickers across his and your screen and you’re loading into hero selection. He knows you’ll be too distracted once the game starts, so he’s grateful when you laugh again, sweet as summer.

“Nothing to be sorry about. Just tell me everything’s okay and we’re even.”

Inhale, exhale. Try not to tell her you have the biggest, stupidest crush on her, he tells himself.

“Everything’s okay.” And he means it when he says it, though they aren’t the words he wishes he could say.

“Good.”

You’ve chosen Genji, He smiles to himself when you join voice chat and the rest follow, greetings filtering in from your team members.

“Good luck.” You don’t need it. He still likes to say it.

“You have an early day tomorrow, right?” Leave it to you to remember his schedule even when he doesn’t.

“Yeah, pretty early.”

“Then go to bed! I’ll still be awake when you’re up.”

He lingers on that fact - holds it tightly in his hands so it can’t slip away. You’d be there in the morning, just like you always were. Knowing that stirs those same butterflies in his chest, words stolen by the overzealous beating of their wings.

You read his silence like they’re your own thoughts, “I’m always here for you, Jay.”

“Goodnight.”

"Sleep sweet."

notes. this chapter is set four-ish months following the first, in case that’s not clear. :)

tag list. @teawithbucky

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mhdiaries · 4 years

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Sweet Screams Abbey Bominable Diary

Alone in a hallway at Monster High*, Abbey looked all around and heaved a great sigh; for she was struck in a nightmare of not her own making, and something was keeping her body from waking.

Because Abbey’s dreams were practical most of the time, she never had any that played out in rhyme, which she thought strange and a little annoying, “This dream I am not, in the least bit, enjoying.”

But to make matters stranger, she had a cart with a bell and pushed it by classrooms singing, “Ice scream is swell!”

“Is sweet, is tasty, come get it now; is made from yak milk, not from cow!”

*Now the school itself, it should be noted, inside and out was all candy coated - Draculaura brought this on after a midnight treat that drew all of her friends into a scream not so sweet.

Of course, Abbey, being Abbey, was not a ghoul to get manic, and with icy resolution determined not to panic. “I must have plan to get out of this mess, but where first to start I haven’t a guess.”

So she kept pushing her cart and singing her song, believing she’d eventually figure out what was wrong. Then from a classroom behind her came a noise like a trumpet, and Abbey spun her cart quickly and almost dumped it.

Then Abbey crept right to the classroom, her curiosity aquiver, slowly opened the door and saw her pet mammoth Shiver, who was in front of the board, a piece of chalk in her trunk, causing Abbey’s jaw to fall open, with an audible “thunk”.

Said Shiver, “Don’t just stand there gawking like newborn yak, I have something to show you that will help you get back.”

Abbey quickly recovered and closed her mouth tight, even though Shiver wasn’t looking quite right.

Gone was her curly white fur soft and thick; now she looked like a frozen confection sans stick. But her pet’s new look Abbey skillfully ignored, as she focused on the map Shiver drew on the board.

It showed an “X” in Mad Science class moving around, and two more in the hall toward Abbey were bound. “Is all I am showing, so hurry with cart, go find your friends - no worries, take heart.”

Abbey didn’t look back, didn’t think twice, she just slid out of the classroom like a bobsled on ice. Then down at the end of a hallway, Frankie and Draculaura came into view; they saw Abbey and cam running as Abbey ran toward her friends, too.

Thus a fangtastic meeting happened in this creepy uncool place, as the ghouls all held each other in a joyful sweet embrace. Draculaura said she was sorry to Abbey with all her heart, but Abbey said, “No worries, just hop up on this cart.”

“Ghoulia is in Mad Science, and I am thinking is no mistake that all must be together if from this dream we are to wake.” So down the halls she pushed them toward their final destiny, but if the ending’s sweet or not you’ll have to wait and see.

#monster high #monster high diary #abbey bominable #sweet screams

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filthysweetie · 4 years

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Captured - Interlude

This is the backstory to a D&D character I made awhile ago! Since that game unfortunately fell to pieces, this will likely be all there is of Aria. Gosh she was fun for that small slice of time though; a terrible paladin but fun.

“You slimy bastard!” Aria yells kicking at air as Reiner gives the demented laugh that is going to haunt her for ages after she gets out of this dungeon. If she gets out of this dungeon.

Reiner (human, older with yellowed teeth, a manic look in his eyes, and too many bubbling vials for comfort. She notices these things, eyes better than the bastard’s in this light. She also notices the posters—vile and derogatory and speaking of nothing but subjugation. It doesn’t bode well.) disappears into the shadowy hallway. If the pattern holds true, he won’t come back for a while yet.

A groan emits from her new cellmate.

“Hey,” Aria tries to soften her voice but it feels raw after so much yelling, “hey you’re okay. He's drugged you; you’re going to have a headache for a little.” Aria looks back at the darkened hall, and yells “Because he knows if we were out of these chains, we’d tear him apart!” The footsteps continue to fade.

“Ugh...” the woman—human, druid if the attire is any indication—whips her head around and immediately closes her eyes against what has got to be a terrible headache. She takes a deep breath before opening them again, eyes narrowing as she tries to get her eyes to adjust “where...?”

Aria shrugs and it makes the thick chain holding her against the wall shift and clank, “Underground somewhere.” The woman pulls on her own bonds, once and then again, harder; “I’m Aria.” Aria takes a deep breath before concentrating, letting a soft light gather in her hand, letting her compatriot see, “and I've been stuck in this godforsaken place for ten days.”

----

Whenever Reiner is away, it isn't really that bad now that Lilli is here. It's better than being alone with only the dark and thought for company. And Lilli’s nice; she’s calm and steadfast and knowledgeable and can talk to Aria about so many places other than this.

“I cannot believe they made you read Olgark’s Conversation with the Trees!” Lilli laughs, “I mean druids read it a lot, but we like trees.”

“You couldn’t have actually liked that book though,” Aria snorts, “‘Ah but the sway of the willow in the breeze did sway my heart towards the simplicity of growing roots.’” Aria quotes mockingly, as Lilli laughs “like what does that even mean? That's why I didn’t minor in Nature studies. Olgark. He's the whole reason. If I saw a willow tree right now, I'd kick it.”

Lilli snorts, “You wouldn’t though.”

Lilli makes her feel seen, feel real.

Aria rolls her eyes, “Alright I wouldn’t but I'd think it real hard.”

Lilli’s face sobers, “Footsteps.”

They quiet and Aria tries to ignore the ice that goes down her spine. It's been a while since she’s seen the sky. Her wings flutter against her back, yearning to stretch out.

The thing is, Reiner hasn’t done much. He's fed them bread and water (just enough that her throat is always dry) but he hasn’t done anything. He's just looked at them and laughed and gone to his workbench; mixing things, brewing things. He tried to get Lilli to drink one of the mixes, on Lilli’s third day, but the druid fought back enough (and Aria yelled enough) that he dropped it; the soil under the liquid decaying before their eyes. He hit Lilli for it, hit her so hard her head snapped to the other side and Aria yelled with something like terror clawing at her throat. Then Lilli spat blood on him and he’d just...left.

(“I don’t think he’s supposed to have us here.” Lilli had said, after the blood had dried, in a contemplative whisper, “He’s a slaver, or partnered with them at least, we should already be in chains on our way to market. Why are we still here...?” her voice drifts inwards, thinking over too many things.

That had unsettled Aria the most. If they weren’t supposed to be here, then the only one who know they were was Reiner. The light of hope was getting a little dimmer.)

Reiner holds his latest concoction up and laughs to himself, humming some version of a broken nursery rhyme before he turns to Aria and starts to stalk forward.

“You stop that right now!” Lilli yells, the clanging of her chains loud in the space without Aria’s standard yelling—she’s too busy keeping her mouth shut, arching away from Reiner and kicking her legs to create more distance.

“It’s all right,” Reiner coos, “It probably won’t kill you.”

“Leave her alone!” Lilli’s voice is loud and commanding and Reiner stops for the slightest moment—Aria gets one good kick in, but it doesn’t dislodge the hold he has on the vial and the viscous purple liquid inside.

Her mouth is pried open and it’s poured in. Bitter and pungent, it makes Aria gag, trying desperately to get it out. Reiner lets the empty vial fall and holds Aria’s mouth closed and covers her nose and mouth, forcing her to swallow or pass out.

She swallows and—

-----

Aria feels wrong.

“Hey you’re okay,” Lilli says softly, like Aria had, what feels like forever ago.

“Where...” Aria’s voice cracks

“He’s not here—he's been,” Lilli takes a deep breath, “He’s been checking in on you every day, seeing the –progress.”

“Progress...?” Aria feels nauseous, “how long...?” the rough stone scrapes against her back, cold. She feels cold. Everything feels very cold.

“It’s been four days.” Lilli clears her throat, “Aria, we will get out of this, okay? I’m going to make sure we get out.” Lilli pauses until Aria gives a listless nod of acknowledgement, “Aria. Your wings are fading.”

It's panic. Pure, unadulterated panic. Aria whips her head around—her wings; she can see them, the faint outline of them, the slightest brush of them against her skin but it’s like they’re flickering in and out of reality. They're going through the wall, leaving her back pressed against stone and not the curtain of her wings. Aria tries to flap, tries to feel the air move through her feathers but it’s muted and dulled like the nerve endings have been burned.

The wounded keening sound that fills the chamber and wretches at her soul—that's from her.

It's her core. He did something—her core, her very celestial being is dampened, covered and veiled by this ichor inside of her that she can’t wash away. It's never going to go away; she’s going to be—it's going to—she won’t be able to—

-----

“I have a dog,” Lilli says and Aria wonders how Lilli knows she’s awake, “His name is Olaf. He's absolutely giant” she laughs, “Bigger than me when he’s on his hind legs.”

Aria makes a questioning sound when Lilli goes silent, wanting to hear of anything that’s not here. Her wings aren’t fading away further, and if she concentrates, she can feel them still, but they’re not getting better and Aria can’t breathe right if she thinks about it for too long.

“I rescued him from some bandits that were abusing him.” She looks at the middle distance and snorts, “They may have left the encounter with a few less limbs.”

“Good.” Aria rasps, “The least they deserve. The least this guy deserves for keeping us here.”

“Don’t worry Aria—" Lilli says over the space and thoughts between them, “He’ll get much worse.”

----

“A paladin, huh?” Lilli leans her head against the wall

“Not really—not yet.” Aria tries to shift her arm to get the blood flowing again (it doesn’t work), “I need to train more before taking my oath.” It’s nice, talking of familiar things. Acting like there will be time for more training, acting like normal life will come back.

Lilli squints at her through the dark and Aria wonders what she can actually see, “I thought Paladin’s started younger. Or much older.” she rolls her neck in an aborted stretch, “I’ve done a lot of reading, but mostly about—"

“—trees?” Aria cuts in and it gets a laugh if nothing else, “Yeah I didn’t exactly go the typical path. I told you I had a pretty nice upbringing.”

Lilli snorts, “little privileged angel” she says fondly.

“And I'm sure you grew up in a tree.” Aria shoots back before leaning back against the wall, “I fell into it. I have a ‘strong sense of justice’ the master Paladin at home used to say, even if my ‘sense of what right and wrong were didn’t match the traditional’. I wouldn’t have ever really considered if not—well, you see…

——

A flurry of wings and Aria is on her back, getting a tight hug and a bright laugh, “I’m so glad you’re back, Aria!” Céleste gives Aria another squeeze, “you have to tell me all about it!”

“Céleste,” Aria laughs, trying to get the wings out of her face, “I’ve only been gone for—"

“—too long!” Céleste gets up and pulls Aria up after her, “It’s really been so dull without you, it’s just been prayer and training on repeat with the master of the guard.”

“Oh hush with that, we all know you love praying to Etheria,” Aria laughs, “and wow, what a sword, oh and look at that fancy yklwa!”

Céleste strikes a pose, taking her longsword off her back and holding it aloft with pride, “Well maybe it hasn’t been too boring—Master Michaela has taught us some really cool stuff. All to spread justice and light.” Céleste recites the line like she really means it.

Aria snorts, before waving off Céleste’s narrowed eyes, “Sorry, I know, I know it’s very important, it just sounds so idealistic! The world isn’t just light and dark Céleste--I went to the infernal lands, demons aren’t all bad, Aasimar aren’t all good.”

Céleste puts her sword away, “I know that.”

Aria rolls her eyes, “Come on now, don’t be like that—here let's go walk by the river and see if our playhouse is still tucked behind the Shimmering Glen.”

Céleste nods, “Alright.” she turns and leaves the foyer and walks back outside, stopping at the gate for Aria to follow, exuberance left somewhere at the door.

Aria frowns—Céleste has to know that Aria didn’t mean anything by it. It's just all this talk of divine justice and Etheria always makes her roll her eyes. It's all so...devoted. Céleste should be devoted to things she can see and touch; to Aria.

The path is winding and legato, letting them follow it at a sedate pace. The brush has grown since they were little, but they’re bigger now and it only tickles Aria’s knees. Aria’s halfway into a great story about her elective and the worse book ever (“there are so many types of trees, Céleste, and I know this man’s thoughts about all of them.”) when Céleste holds out an arm in front of them and Aria stops, mouth shutting with a click.

There are voices; loud with louder footsteps and Aria doesn’t know how she didn’t hear it (she wasn’t listening, she never listens when it’s important, why was she always like this?). Céleste moves her off the path with a heavy hand, pushing them well into the lush foliage, obscuring their forms.

“We can sell them for at least 10000 gold a piece.” An orc man says, self-satisfied. He and a human man walk with a cage between them with three baby dragons in encased within. They're mewling and crying out, pushing against the cage bars and their restraints. They're silver.

“That or we cut them up into pieces and see how much they sell for when they’re quiet,” the human grosses.

Céleste’s hand goes to the hilt of her sword; Aria’s grab hers, keeping the sword in its sheath. Céleste looks at Aria, eyes narrowed, and Aria shakes her head as hard as she can, tightening her grip on Céleste’s hand.

The orc shrugs as the two unknowingly pass Aria and Céleste’s hiding spot, “We’ll let the money-man decide.”

When they’re out of sight and the sound of their footsteps fade Aria takes her hands off of Céleste’s and let out a shaky breath. Céleste hasn’t looked away from Aria yet.

“Why did you stop me?” Céleste hisses, “They have my goddess’s familiar and they are going to sell them or kill them!”

“They could have hurt you!” Aria yells, hugging herself, “They had real weapons! And-and they were so big, they could have hurt you!”

“What do you think this is!” Céleste takes out her sword, “I have not stayed the same since you left, Aria, I have devoted myself to what is right and I will not let you stop me!”

Aria takes a step back as if physically slapped and Céleste deflates.

“Look. Go back to the city.” Céleste pets Aria’s hair, “I’ll be back soon.” She gives a tight-lipped smile. It’s a strong dismissal.

“No!” Aria grabs Céleste’s forearm, “I-I can help. I can be a lookout or blind them with my light and—I've been learning some basic healing, I can help. Let me help.” Aria keeps Céleste’s gaze.

Céleste lets out a breath and gives a crooked little smile, “Alright, sure.”

“I need to go back to the city to get my chainmail.”

Céleste stiffens, “Aria, we might lose the trail if we go back.”

“I’ll be quick.” Aria pulls on Céleste’s arm, “I’ll be really quick, I'll fly there.” she flaps her wings once as proof, “Come on, you wait at the gate and I'll be so quick. Please.”

Céleste doesn’t want to, Aria can see it in the line of her back and the furrow in her brow, but Céleste has always given into her, in the end. Céleste has always let Aria get away with too much.

“You promise?”

“Of course.”

-------

Stepping into her room, it’s like the whole thing is already a fading bad dream. How would an orc and a human even get that close to their flying city without being caught? How could they ever catch silver dragon hatchlings like that? There's no way they could take down the mother.

But they did. Somehow, they had those three babies in their cage, crying out for their mother; a mother that might be dead. Aria looks out the window. Céleste is waiting impatiently at the gate, her wings twitching like they always do when she wants to take to the sky.

If they could take down a silver dragon what could they do to Céleste? Maybe it would be better if they lose the trail. Maybe they should just let it go—surely someone else would rescue the hatchlings. It doesn’t have to be Céleste. She said she’s changed, and she looks so much stronger, and taller, and fitter than the last time Aria had been caught up in one of Céleste’s crushing hugs. But those men were professionals. There's no way Céleste could take them. Aria certainly would be no help.

Aria looked out the window again, waiting for her eye to catch on agitated dark blue wings, but the green and white expanse of the courtyard is unbroken.

Céleste’s gone.

---

Aria has never flown so recklessly in her life—keeping too low to safely get around branches and treetops to get to where they’d last seen the poachers. A stumbling stop and she’s falling into the underbrush, quickly righting herself and running in the direction that they had gone—that Céleste had certainly followed.

Leaves and branches slap against her face and the loudest sound is her breathing, heavy and ragged in her chest. The roots; roots that she’s danced over as a child with her eyes closed catch her feet and slow her precious seconds. One catches her just right and she sprawls out, flat on the earth, tears of frustration already forming in her eyes.

“A little thief, eh?” A voice says, familiar; Aria scrambles forward, towards it, holding her breath. They're there. The two men that had carried the hatchlings—but there are more here. Five others, of differing races, kept together by gold and broken loyalty. At their center is Céleste, keeping herself up by her sword, blood running from her temple, looking badly wounded. She had been expecting two adversaries, not seven. She grits her teeth and raise her sword to the ready and Aria wants to yell at her to just give up. Maybe they would let her live if she just gave up.

Céleste notices her, they make eye contact. Her eyes flick to the cage and then to Aria before focusing back on her attackers. The direction is clear. Céleste is the distraction now.

Aria takes a breath and holds in, holding back tears. She doesn’t want to do it. She slowly shifts over, closer to the cage that is set where the tree line meets the clearing. They're playing with their food, laughing and feigning movement towards Céleste without attacking and cackling as she flinches, ready to defend.

Aria gets to the cage and the little dragons start to mewl softly, “shut up. shut up. shut up.” Aria hisses at them, tears falling as she pulls at the bolt keeping the door closed.

The human starts to turn, Aria can see it from the corner of her eye—that's when Céleste attacks; running at him with her sword at the ready, capturing the groups attention.

“ARGH!” Céleste yells, whipping around to face the archer who shot her through the wing, but then the orc is running at her back, bringing his axe over his head for a deadly swing.

“NO!” Aria screams and a lot of things happen at once.

Céleste turns to block but not soon enough, her left wing gets hit at the bend and a sickening crack echoes through the clearing. Aria fumbles forward towards her friend—loosening the bolt enough that when the hatchlings ram at the door the fastening falters and they tumble out, immediately running for the safely of the forest. Half the poachers swear and run after the hatchlings. The other half focus on them.

The archer shoots an arrow at Aria but it can’t pierce her chainmail, glancing off the metal. The orc roars and brings his axe up again for another terrifying swing. When he does, Céleste attacks—stabbing him through the chest. The sound of skin and bone being torn apart by her blade reverberates through Aria’s skull.

The orc drops the axe and his hands fall limply by his side. When Céleste removes her sword, the orc falls. Dead. Aria wonders, somewhere, in the back of her mind, if this is the first time Céleste has killed.

"Look out!” Aria yells when a woman all but materializes from nothing behind Céleste, but it’s not soon enough; the woman stabs Céleste, catching her below the ribcage and dragging the serrated edge as deeply as she can while stabbing at the base of Céleste’s right wing with a short dagger.

Céleste swipes at the woman with her yklwa as she falls to her knees. The woman backs away; the strike misses.

“Céleste!” she yells, barely feeling the knife that is thrown at her, catching her in the thigh. She falls into Céleste holding her tight and wrapping them in her wings. Aria feels attacks against the shield of her wings, feels them try, but they don’t hit, somehow. And then they stop trying; the poachers have left them here, have left Aria with a broken angel in her arms.

“It’s shield of faith.” Céleste gets out, answering the unasked question, and then coughs, a bit of blood falling from between her lips, “I learned that, when you were gone.”

She’s shaking. Aria’s shaking and crying and holding Céleste close, “Why didn’t you use it on yourself you idiot?” She slowly sets Céleste against the grass, swallowing against the sick in her throat at the state of her...of Céleste.

“Oh.” Céleste gives a rough laugh, “I didn’t think of it.”

Aria gives a wet laugh, “You idiot. You idiot.” Aria takes a deep breath, trying to remember her studies. They have to be good for something. If anything, they have to be good for this. She places her hands on Céleste’s chest, where the jagged dagger wound is bleeding too much.

“Come on, come on,” Aria mumbles under her breath, feeling her energy coalesce in her palms before it dissipates into nothingness, “fuck, come on.”

“Hey don’t swear.”

“Don’t tell me what to do!” Aria yells, breathing out in a rush and trying again, hands getting progressively redder as Céleste’s life slips between her fingers. Her hands aren’t glowing at all anymore.

“Hey, hey, Aria.” Céleste pats Aria’s cheek and its wet with a mix of blood and tears, “you did good. You did the right thing.”

“No I didn’t!” Aria chokes on a sob, “You came alone! I broke my word!”

“You saved the hatchlings,” Céleste says like that’s enough.

“Screw the hatchlings! If I can’t save you what’s the point?”

Céleste does a pained aborted shrug, “It’s my duty to protect, Aria. I’m just sorry I couldn’t protect you.” Her eyes are sad and it pulls at Aria’s heart

“What are you talking about? I'm fine.” Aria takes a hitching breath, “I'm fine, it’s you.”

“Hey,” Céleste reaches for her knife

“Stop fucking moving you idiot”

“Take my yklwa.” Céleste gives a shaky exhale, “you didn’t have anything but chainmail when you ran out here, that’s dangerous.”

“Dan--” Aria sets her hands harder against the wound. It won't stop bleeding, “they called me the irresponsible one—it was you this whole time, you’re the irresponsible one. You're doing this to me!”

“I had to, I'm so sorry.”

“No you didn’t! You didn’t have to do any of it, you could have just stayed with me in the Flying City and been safe!”

“You know I couldn’t do that.”

Aria breaks. She can’t even keep enough pressure on the wound, gut-wrenching sobs stealing her strength “I know. I know and it hurts so much.”

“I’m sorry, you know I didn’t mean to.”

Aria sobs

Céleste’s hand moves to her cheek, so sweetly brushing away the tears that won’t stop “You’ll be okay, Aria.” Her hand slips back down to the ground.

Aria feels herself breaking apart, “Céleste?” the silence is deep and all encompassing; “Please--please C-Céleste. Please don’t do this to me, please.”

Aria grabs onto Céleste’s hand, holding it tight.

“Céleste?”

Aria doesn’t know how long she stays there, holding Céleste’s hand and staring at her chest, willing it to rise. She doesn’t look like she’s sleeping. It isn’t peaceful.

A trilling sound brings Aria’s gaze away. It's one of the hatchlings. Staring at Aria and trilling softly. It nudges at Céleste’s other hand. Aria is overcome with the urge to kick it, to push it away, to get it as far away from Céleste as possible. This is what she died for?

Aria looks back at Céleste. Of course, she died for this. That was Céleste.

Aria kisses Céleste’s bloody hand. her hand. She slowly sets Céleste’s body as kindly as she can, straightening her bent wings and setting her arms gently by her side. She still doesn’t look like she’s sleeping. Aria looks around, memorizing the clearing that she won't ever be able to forget. They'll need to come back for her. Céleste deserves a proper burial with all the accolades of a true paladin.

The dragon trills again. Aria picks it up, throat dry and eyes wet, and expands her wings. It's time to go back to the Flying City.

——

“So after all that, Master Michela took me into the fold,” Aria gives a laugh “I think she thought I'd be too dangerous if left on my own.”

---

“I’ll kill you for this!” Aria yells at Reiner as the man steps forward, the first time she’s seen him since he took away her wings, “you bastard, don’t you dare!”

There's a half-elf and a gnome in the doorway—eyes wide as they take in what they can in the low lights. They're surprised; Aria can tell, this isn’t what they were expecting.

Maybe she and Lilli can get out of here after all.

#i fancy myself a writer #d&d #origin story

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ifuckinglovestvincent · 7 years

Text

St. Vincent Is Telling You Everything

“I told you more than I would tell my own mother.”

September 10, 2017, 10:34 a.m. By Laura Snapes | BuzzFeed Contributor Reporting From New York, New York Annie Clark was reconfiguring some older material for her upcoming tour when she realized how alien it felt to play it. She could adapt the arrangements to her harsher new sound — the sleazy, acid aesthetic of Masseduction, her upcoming fifth solo record as St. Vincent — but the writing’s proggy complexity was cockblocking the emotion. “In so many ways, I thought I was being completely transparent and brave in every record, only to realize that they are very oblique,” Clark told BuzzFeed News. She cackled and looked delighted. “Who knew! I had no idea.” Clark is much too self-aware for this to be completely true. But the difference between her polite, guarded Texan past and confrontational present is colossal. When I first interviewed Clark in 2009, she nervously pressed her pendant against her lips and face, leaving a red lipstick pox on her insane cheekbones. By 2014’s St. Vincent, Clark’s public persona would be imperious. But these days, she’s a playful freak who revels in showing the tightness of her grip, a disposition aided by long, straight eyebrows that dance like Memphis squiggles. In late July, she appeared in the lobby of New York City’s Marlton Hotel, her temporary home during the making of Masseduction. She had come from pilates — which she likes because it makes her sing better and “come a lot harder” — and disappeared to change out of her leopard-print gym shorts. When I mentioned a recent paparazzi photo of her looking like a sexy detective in another skintight leopard-patterned getup, she asked twice, with predatory delight, whether I’d looked at her camel toe. (No! Okay, maybe!) The only time her control slipped was when the hotel’s stereo started playing “Who,” a knotty song from the album she made with David Byrne, and she shriveled like a salted snail at hearing her own voice. Self-possession like hers is often interpreted as pretentious, or pathological. But over time, the confidence that the younger, anxious Clark had to fake has become bracingly real. You can hear it in Masseduction, a record of pop fluidity and queer possibility. It’s the best thing she’s ever done, and there are no bad St. Vincent records. It’s partly harsh, heady, erotic synth-pop visions steered by her diamond-sharp guitar, and while Clark has written plenty of ballads, there have never been any as brutal and gorgeous as these. Its lurch between apocalypse and ecstasy mirrors how it felt to be kicked in the head by the past couple years. In a way, Clark was right about the obscurity of her past work, filled with archetypes and distanced observations — emotions through a stained-glass window. If not a clear pane, then Masseduction is at least a peep show on heartache, fucking, addiction, destitution, and suicide. And her relatively new life as a very public figure, thanks to relationships with Cara Delevingne and Kristen Stewart, gives it an extra frisson. Tabloids will rush to find the former, the famed British supermodel, on an album littered with wasted bodies, especially on “Young Lover,” where Clark finds someone overdosed in the bathtub. She recounts the night with terror but also arrestingly ugly indignation. “Oh, so what / Your mother did a number / So I get gloves of rubber / To clean up the spill,” she sneers. “Scenario has to rhyme, babe,” is all Clark said about its veracity. She was bemused at being asked to explain the lyrics. To her, this record is butt-naked. “I told you everything,” she stressed. “I told you more than I would tell my own mother. It’s right there.”

Annie Clark Nedda Afsari Masseduction started out with three tenets: It would feature programmed beats and pedal steel guitar, and examine power and seduction. “What does power look like, who wields it, how do they wield it — emotionally, sexually, financially?” Clark ticked off her fingers. The album was properly born over a creative first-date dinner with Jack Antonoff, the Bleachers frontman who also recently produced and wrote with Lorde and Taylor Swift. Clark was looking for a teammate; they told each other everything that was going wrong in their lives and decided that total oblivion was the only way out of their heads. “It wasn’t, ‘Hey, let’s make a record together, that’ll be fun,’” Antonoff told me. “It was, ‘Let’s absolutely go all the way and find the absolute best thing that exists here,’ which is really the only way to work on things.” That grit is Clark’s MO. Until recently, she claimed to have taken approximately 36 hours off in between returning from touring 2011’s Strange Mercy and starting work on 2014’s St. Vincent. The concerts for the latter were bonkers, starting the run as avant-garde, meticulously choreographed deconstructions of a traditional rock show, and ending it with exorcisms that entailed Clark crumpling down a 10-foot pink plywood pyramid like a drunken horse. She often stole objects from the crowd: a pair of crutches, someone’s dinner. The spectacle of her murdering the thing she’d trained for was addictive.

St. Vincent during the 2015 Coachella Valley Music & Arts Festival. Frazer Harrison / Getty Images “Touring became a blood sport for me. I mean, I was born with a whip anyway, and touring became this self-flagellating exercise,” she said, clenching her jaw and lashing each shoulder with an imaginary strap. “And I was seeking that kind of physical exhaustion; I was seeking the pain.” She doesn’t know why, and she’s okay not knowing why, though eventually she did accept that her relationship to touring was a form of delirium. On the new album’s “Sugarboy,” a dystopian, post-Moroder disco banger, she describes herself as a “casualty hanging on from the balcony.” (She literally climbed rafters in some theaters, kicking away security guards.) This hysteria is one of the reasons she considers Masseduction her saddest record. “I lost my mind, I lost people, I gained people, I stopped touring,” Clark said of that period between 2014 and 2017. “It was just a lot of a lot, you know.” After the St. Vincent tour dates ended, Clark had to learn to construct and value life away from the road — she had been on tour since age 16, when she worked as an assistant for her aunt and uncle’s jazz group. “And I still love that,” she said of touring, “but it’s more like a component of my life now rather than…my life.” Back home she indulged in a “period of bacchanalia,” and briefly got into self-medicating, an experience she turned into the lunatic track “Pills”: Imagine the Stepford Wives lost in Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory (Kamasi Washington guests on saxophone; Delevingne sings on the chorus). She’s transfixed by the forces that can swallow us — “You know, drugs, sex, and rock ‘n’ roll,” she winked. “So corny. Kill me! Kill me dead!” Though sometimes she uses those themes to dress up more mundane relationship dynamics. “Savior” explores the unhealthiness of mutual projection through a funny S&M parable involving nurses and nuns and our tediously prosaic concepts of kink: “You put me in a teacher’s little denim skirt,” Clark moans on the song. “Ruler and desk so I can make it hurt / But I keep you on your best behavior / Honey, I can’t be your savior.” The album’s self-destructive dynamic comes out on the title track — “I can’t turn off what turns me on,” she wails over twisted guitar — and her protagonists never stop annihilating each other for their own benefit, whether for carnal kicks, or for the mothers who “milk their young” in the song “Los Ageless.”

The album cover for Masseduction. Loma Vista Recordings And then there’s the heartbreaking “Happy Birthday Johnny,” which sounds like a snowflake but crushes like an anvil. It calls back to the title track of her 2007 debut Marry Me, about “John” who’s “a rock with a heart like a socket I can plug into at will”; and to “Prince Johnny,” the decadent downtown royal from St. Vincent. She said she feels compassion and hopelessness for his self-destruction, but can’t judge because she’s just like him. Maybe he’s also a cipher for the way humans use each other — Clark flatly refused to talk about him. “One thing I have learned in six records and 10 years is that I’m not obliged to answer any questions — a lesson I more or less only recently learned.” She stared into the bar, fixing a grim expression through her orange aviators. “Next question.” At any rate, the song is a whole story. Once conspirators, her and Johnny’s literal fire-starting days are behind them, and now he lives on the street, calling up Clark at New Year’s for “dough to get something to eat.” She demurs, and he calls her a queenly miser who’s sold out for fame. “But if they only knew the real version of me / Only you know the secrets, the swamp, and the fear,” she pleads. It is deeply tragic, being shamed — perhaps rightly — by the person who once understood your shame. Antonoff theorized that she’s mourning a past on the record. On the forthcoming Fear the Future Tour (named after a new song, and to resemble a Jenny Holzer maxim), Clark said she probably won’t be flinging herself around stages as much because “I think I’m emotionally throwing myself around a lot more.”

A still from St. Vincent’s “New York” music video. Alex Da Carte In late July, Tiffany & Co. announced Clark as one of the faces of its fall advertising campaign. Diamonds and waspy Americana are a weirdly prim contrast to the freaky propaganda aesthetic that Clark is calling “manic panic” — the Masseduction album cover is a photo of a nice ass in a leopard-print thong bodysuit. But like any savvy propagandist, Clark’s image will be everywhere this year. Having directed a short film, The Birthday Party, as part of the horror anthology XX, she’s now due to direct a feature-length, female-led adaptation of The Picture of Dorian Gray. (“The most rich text I have ever read: transgression, modernity, society, repressed queerness.”) There’s also a multimedia performance as part of October’s Red Bull Music Academy in Los Angeles, and an upcoming art exhibition in New York. A coffee table book. Essays. (She calls art “a fountain of youth” that’s given her everything and everyone in her life, hence her urge to make everything.) And that’s just the exposure she has control over. Celebrities like to pretend that their success is the result of some cosmic fluke, but Clark has said quite openly that the best part of becoming more famous thanks to her love life is “just getting the opportunity to do more work in different fields,” which nobody ever admits! (Though her 2015 Grammy for Best Alternative Album and overwhelming critical acclaim probably helped, too.)

St. Vincent, Zoe Kravitz, and Zosia Mamet at the Tiffany & Co.-presented Whitney Biennial VIP Opening in March 2017 in New York. Mike Coppola / Getty Images One of Clark’s best-known songs, 2014’s “Digital Witness,” is about social media voyeurism. “I wonder if, in the future, privacy will be something that only the 1 percent can afford,” she told Rolling Stone that year, which now seems beautifully naive. From the second she and Delevingne were spotted together at the 2015 BRIT Awards, the UK’s pervy yet ever-scandalized tabloid media went nuts that their hottest young model was dating a woman, and pursued them so staunchly that the couple once took revenge by firing water pistols at the paparazzi. “She really is so famous!” Clark said of Delevingne, feigning hammy disbelief at the attention they received. “That shouldn’t have been shocking to me, but it was shocking to me in the sense that she’s such a sweet, really, deeply kind, unspoiled person. She has more compassion in her little finger than—” She waved her hand around her torso with a grim laugh. (The pair reportedly split last fall, but Clark would only say they were “never not close.”) Clark’s self-assurance helped her to perceive the tabloid aggression and celebrity weirdness as baffling rather than distorting. She was too classy to run with my suggestion that attending that Taylor Swift 4th of July party must’ve been an interesting anthropological study. “That was, I think, in the midst of a game of Celebrity,” she said of a photo of her wearing the same stars ’n’ stripes onesie as Gigi Hadid, Karlie Kloss, and Ruby Rose. She took a long pause. “I was very bad at it!”

From left: Cara Delevingne and Annie Clark Schiller Graphics But she was disturbed by dangerous high-speed car chases from paparazzi in pursuit of photos of the couple; she thinks the gossip industrial complex relates to a wider societal disparity. “The biggest problem was that the value system of it is all based on aspiration,” she said with genuine concern. “It’s wealth aspiration, fame aspiration. But if the government, if the world was just generally a more compassionate, empathetic place, people wouldn’t be aspiring to…that. They would be more fulfilled with their own lives if the wealth gap in general wasn’t so insane.” Admittedly, it was hard not to want to look at them, in matching sharp suits and laser-cut Burberry, queering the archetype of the male rock star dating the young supermodel, watching the context around an established artist mutate in front of you. There is the kind of halfway-benign personal invasion where paparazzi follow you and your girlfriend around an airport. But then there is the kind where the never-not-creepy Daily Mail doorsteps your older sister at home in Texas and calls up your well-meaning uncle to sandbag him into revealing that your father went to prison in 2010 for participating in multimillion-dollar stock fraud. Although it is grotesque to treat the paper’s muckraking as a puzzle piece, it did illuminate part of the story behind Strange Mercy, which Clark had — understandably — only ever vaguely attributed to an overwhelming period of loss. “Suitcase of cash in the back of my stick shift,” she sang on “Year of the Tiger.” “I had to be the best of the bourgeoisie / Now my kingdom for a cup of coffee.” (She cowrote the song with her mother, Sharon, who split from Clark’s father when she was three.) “Everybody has their personal tragedies and their crosses to bear,” Clark said in a clipped tone. She calls her father’s 12-year prison sentence “a horrible tragedy. On so many different levels. So absolutely heartbreaking.” She — an adult — could handle it. But her younger half- and stepsiblings on her father’s side are still teenagers. “And I specifically would never talk about that or have ever mentioned that in a myriad of questions about Strange Mercy because it seems like an incredible betrayal of my family. But most specifically, my youngest siblings who are innocent children. They were kiddos.” She described the Daily Mail story as “faux concern,” and reiterated that the paper couldn’t find any dirt on her, no matter how outrageously they tried. “I’m not ashamed of my family,” she said. Then I asked her whether her father going to prison had spun her own moral compass, or made her reconsider any values of right and wrong that he may have instilled in her. She was momentarily confused, and then let rip a massive, absurd, demonstrative laugh. She kept going. “I love my father,” she said eventually, still tickled. “I love my father very much, as any child loves their parent. He’s very intelligent and erudite and a good writer and incredibly well read, and those are all things that I value and I’m glad that he instilled in me.” She paused, and kept on laughing. In the run-up to announcing Masseduction, Clark was Instagramming absurdist junket-styled videos, in which she wears a hot pink skirt and a transparent rubber top the color of ash, and takes questions from an off-screen interviewer. Her answers were scripted by the musician and comedian Carrie Brownstein, who is also her ex-girlfriend. One video poses the question of whether Annie Clark and St. Vincent are the same person. She pauses to consider. “Honestly, you’d have to ask her.” What’s it like being a woman in music? “Good question,” she muses, as the camera zooms to her black and yellow fingernails, which spell out “FUCK OFFF.” These films might factor into her upcoming tour, but the answers were also written for journalists. Earlier in July, in London, Clark found alternative ways to conduct interviews for hours at a time. She invited some female journalists to get massages with her (too weird with men, even though she was face-down on the table the whole time, avoiding eye contact). Other writers were invited into a 10-by-10-foot pink wooden box that was constructed in a North London studio especially for the occasion. Her interrogators had to duck through a low door to enter the blacklit space. “Not full-on crawl, because that’s a little heavy-handed,” she clarified. Inside, she looped a pedal steel recording and lit a Diptyque candle that struggled to mask the paint fumes.

St. Vincent / Via Instagram If anyone asked her an obvious question — like where the name St. Vincent came from — she planned to play prerecorded answers and “check my email, or stretch, or zone out for a second,” she said, sounding almost disappointed that she didn’t get a chance to enact her schemes. She insisted she wasn’t being antagonistic. But sitting opposite Annie Clark for two hours is often intimidating enough without the added fear that she’s about to make fun of you to your face: It is a gigantic power play! “Oh, deeply so,” she said, affecting a wryly elegant tone. “But then also not at all because I was the insane person stuck in a box for eight hours!” If critics and fans are bored of this sort of thing — see Arcade Fire’s recent album campaign — they are clearly not as tired as the artists who have to smile politely at writers who don’t know how to use Google. Plus, Arcade Fire’s hijinks felt cynical; Clark’s feels like a rejection of the idea that women artists are meant to be relatable, having endured a career’s worth of inane juxtapositions between her pretty face and gnarly shredding like it means anything. The point, she said, was that putting ourselves in a totally different, slightly strange context can produce interesting results. (She and I were meant to do Pilates together — before an oversold class spared me the indignity.) Why not make everything thoughtful and curated? If the stakes are already high, why not aim even higher and put yourself in extreme circumstances to see what happens? If Clark has done two things for the cerebral indie-rock world that she’s long outstripped, it’s teach about sex (thank god), and expose its low-risk complacency for a con.

Nedda Afsari Of course, in some people’s eyes, this makes her a phony, a manipulator. Earlier this year, legendary cultural critic Greil Marcus wrote an admirably dim-witted column for Pitchfork where he compared Clark to the slippery Father John Misty, aka Josh Tillman, claiming that they “perform as artists of such pretentiousness you couldn’t possibly figure out how to talk to them. … There’s no way to address a saint: To be a saint you have to be dead … Such characters allow themselves to appear as if touched by God, which is what they’re selling, and laugh at you if you’re so square not to know who they really are: to join their club.” If Marcus had read any of the million interviews that Clark is parodying in her high-concept clips, he would know the name is rooted in humiliation and squalor — the hospital where Dylan Thomas died — rather than divine aspiration. “And I have never, nor would I ever, put the kind of trapdoors and booby traps in my music to make the listener feel dumb,” Clark told me in response to Marcus’s theories. “I have enough hubris not to kill myself, but I actually have such a deep respect for the listener that I have never tried to pander. Songs and arrangements were complex and convoluted at times, but they were sincere attempts at connecting.” She hoped there will be no mistaking her intent with her new record, which “is so first-person and sad.” But if anyone does, she knows it’s not her job to correct them.

A still from the “New York” music video. Alex Da Carte A still from the “New York” music video. If you want to use Masseduction as a treasure map, then this is what it tells us about Annie Clark’s personal life. She experienced a complicated kind of heartbreak. Sometimes that makes her crazy and neurotic: “I won’t cry wolf in the kitchen,” she swears on woozy opener “Hang on Me,” but threatens to jump off her roof “just to punish you” on the vengeful, cracked opera of “Smoking Section,” the last song. Sometimes a mental safety net stretches out when she might otherwise get hurt. “Slip my hand from your hand / Leave you dancing with a ghost,” she sings on “Slow Disco,” the most tender song she’s ever written. “Don’t it beat a slow dance to death?” a forlorn and disembodied voice repeats as it fades out. Her world is changing, and that’s unsettling. “Too few of our old crew left on Astor,” she sings on “New York,” a song about lost heroes. On “Fear the Future,” she belts the title as the song reaches a pyrotechnic cataclysm that sounds like a truckload of fireworks being dumped inside a volcano. But if you respond in kind to Clark’s vulnerability, then these are the more meaningful revelations that we can take from Masseduction into our lives: Relatability is a crock, and sincerity doesn’t take a single form. “I refuse to seem less threatening, if that’s how I’m perceived,” said Clark. “Ultimate freedom is not caring whether you are liked, because you are making something you really love and believe in.” On Masseduction Clark tells us that all the good forms of desire — love, sex, art — are self-destructive. But at their best, they create just that little bit more than they consume, and can eventually alchemize anxiety into total power.

#I’ve gotta try that Pilates #st vincent #annie clark #Laura snapes #interviews

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ninjagoat · 6 years

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Notes on Supergirl 3x09

There's a good chance I might end up being facetious this episode. See if you can guess where.

So, it's the next day after Wake Up? When did Crisis happen?

We talk about bad writing on the show a lot (and believe me, we WILL be discussing it a lot today), but I want to talk about how Mon-El describes the future:

"Technology has developed beyond imagining; but at the end of the day, it's still in service of communicating with each other, and entertaining each other, and also killing each other. In this day, or in a thousand years, conflict is constant. But so is strength." The repetition, the cadence; this is a man who has given so many rousing speeches as a leader that they invade his regular conversation. It's so different from how he used to speak, and it's a lovely piece of work.

Kara's Best Friend Winn - who spent two days with a police scanner and a sewing machine helping her become a superhero, when even Alex didn't want her to be one - being tickled pink by Imra not knowing what phones are is nice.

Amy Jackson is from the Isle of Man, if you were wondering what that accent is. It's its own thing, but the Youtube videos aren't usually this... breathy.

Mon-El was basically the 31st Century Apostle of Supergirl. I'm here for it.

And for Imra's hero worship.

It's a good thing he turned down your invitation, Kara. Things might have gotten awkward, what with Lena being there and all. Or perhaps not. Who can say?

Can we have a ship war between Kara/Food and Alex/Booze soon? I think we're due a ship war that makes sense.

"Crone Buddies"? What happened to the realisation there must be someone else for you Alex? It was just last week/yesterday/possibly an alternate time-line.

I'm getting bored with Danvers Sisters time, to be quite honest. Yes, you're going to support each other through this. We know. Talk it through with someone else, Kara. Perhaps your Best Friend, Winn (who one time requisitioned an entire Catco office and server just so you would have a base of operations at work)?

Look, relationships are the only thing James Olsen has ever been shown to be bad at, so can you two hurry up? I wanna know how he's going to screw up a good thing this time.

I want to love this scene with J'onn/M'yrnn/Kara's Best Friend Winn - who once served as a buffer between Alex and Eliza at Thanksgiving while Kara basically ignored him in favour of her not-boyfriend, who called her from a romantic getaway with his actual girlfriend - but I know it's all a ploy to keep him away from Lena, and thus avoid pesky questions like, "So, how do you know the analyst from the clandestine government agency that helped me out with those things those times?"

Unpopular opinion: American Christmas songs are almost universally shite.

I should also point out that, since Lena knows he is DEO, Kara's Best Friend Winn - who once committed treason on Alex and Kara's behalf after Kara invoked his difficult relationship with his father - is the only person currently in this room that is not concealing a secret identity from her.

I'm just gonna stop having headcanons. I keep thinking of ways the show could mine conflict from the scenarios they've created, and the show doesn't then do it badly, so much as ignore it entirely. I actually burst into tears once because I thought up a thing where Kara tells Winn he can't come to the Christmas party because Lena knows he's DEO and it would raise too many questions. I would actually prefer that to this version. At least it would be a story point then.

Wait. Hang on. Are they trying to tell us that Wake Up happened on Dec. 22nd? Because... seriously, what?

Alex, you can't just steal a child, even if you are great with her; so stop thinking about it. Who said this 'wanting to be a mother' thing was out of character?

I like the choice that Lena would make weak excuses for why she can't just go for it with James. Putting your last boyfriend out of his misery by deactivating the nano-bot swarm he's comprised of must be a tough act to follow.

A funny thing about chemistry that's "off the charts"? It can't be measured.

A rhyming scene of James and Winn on the other side of the room having *their* version of this conversation would have gone a long way.

This is literally the fourth episode of eight you've spent time with Sam, Kara. It's not like she's one of the Barton Bellas.

"I've always had Alex, and she has my back, but-" Sorry, NOW TV keeps cutting the sound there, so I don't know how the sentence ends. I'll presume it's something along the lines of, "If you don't want to date someone who works for you, do you remember my Best Friend, Winn? Really smart, you saved the world together that one time? And at your party? Hates your mom? Remember? Look, he's rocking that Christmas sweater!"

(And he's clearly single, since his girlfriend of 44 weeks isn't here)

I cannot imagine how difficult blocking this scene was, if J'onn has to come up to Kara in front of the friends that don't know she's Supergirl and say she has to leave her own party on Dec. 23rd. I'll assume this scene was written by the Buffoon.

VASQUEZ! You have returned to us! From where-ever it was!

The Symbol is Kryptonian? What were the odds?

I get the feeling that 'if we don't know it, it can't be known' is a common attitude from Krypton. Kinda... snobby, wouldn't you say?

And since we, the audience, already know the Symbol is Kryptonian, why are we sending James and Lena on this wild goose chase?

Speaking of which, why would Morgan Edge burn a symbol into your corn-field, Lena? Explain the logic. While you're at it, why would you go see him about it? What is he going to tell you?

And by saying "I will go with you," as opposed to "This plan is stupid," we've got a solid idea of why there were no 'James helps mentor Kara as a reporter' stories last season.

A two minute scene solely to remind us that Morgan Edge exists. Yay.

Get Prince's name out of your filthy mouth.

"I'm here just to make sure you remain civil." You know what else would have achieved that James? Not going at all.

Here's the thing. It's Reign. We know it's Reign. There is no mystery here. THIS IS NOT HOW MYSTERIES WORK.

THE ALIEN BAR! Still lacking in visibly alien aliens. Bloody gentrification.

Dude, just put lobsters down on the floor if you're gonna do this ribs shit (given the platform, this is probably a one-percenter joke).

Look! Kara's Best Friend Winn - who quit his good job at a global media empire so he could help Kara with superheroing full-time (you know, right before Kara considered moving to Metropolis) - distracting Imra so Kara and Mon-El can talk! What a great Best Friend he is!

I'm gonna say this now: not on board with SaturnNerd, unless it's rounding out Winn's doomed trip through Nerd Fantasy Romance Tropes (the list so far: Kara - Girl Next Door; Siobhan - Mean Girl (To Reform Through Kindness); Lyra - Manic Dream Pixie Girl; Imra - Sexy/Naive Foreign Exchange Student).

You're not at the jokey we-had-fun-didn't-we stage yet, mister.

Creepy Preacher Dude! You're back! And still creepy!

Fort Rozz!

Right, they are clearly establishing Sam as Reign, and Reign as the World-Killer. THERE IS NO MYSTERY HERE.

Sam. Have you never seen a Christmas film before? You know what happens if you work Christmas Eve.

The Christmas story is nice, though. Sam & Ruby are a nice addition to the show.

El Mayarah, brothers and sisters.

'Cip'. Imra's WAAAAAY overplaying this 'foreigner' stuff.

Yep. Break her heart more, Imra. Solid plan.

Sigh. What are you doing going to other hackers, Lena? We know they're gonna be sub-par. Or James should, at least.

For newer, confused viewers, James is a superhero, who has a shield. Winn built it for him. You may not have known this.

This Reign fight is one of the best vampire attack scenes I've ever seen.

Sooooo, we needed Lena and James to visit Edge, so Edge would pick tonight to hire an assassin to kill Lena, so Reign will then target Edge. 'Kay. Oh, and Edge is apparently using Reign as a cover for Lena's 'death'. Except it happens before Reign goes on the rampage. So circular, this logic.

No love in his eyes? Admittedly, Kara's never been good at this.

Edge has a lead-lined panic room. This is the smartest thing he's done yet. Ineffectual mustache twirler.

This week's Jeremy Jordan Award For Doing So Much With So Little goes, unsurprisingly, to Jeremy Jordan; for seamlessly transitioning from sarcasm to serious through repeated use of the word 'No.'

And kudos for Kara's Best Friend, Winn - who once got up in his best clothes and went to a posh party solely to humiliate himself in front of the hostess (the hostess being Lena, who is of course not Kara's best friend, because Winn is Kara's Best Friend) because Kara had gotten herself in a jam - for emphasising that an attempt on Edge's life is only 'objectively' bad. Sticking up for his Sister in Science.

Okay, how late is it on Christmas Eve? Everyone's still at Catco. IT'S A SUNDAY. WHY IS EVERYONE HERE? GO HOME.

I'm not against GuardianCorp, there's a lot of story to mine there in terms of the relationship between Journalism and its Corporate Masters (it's not a marriage made in heaven, nor should it be); but like many things, it depends on execution. With that in mind, there's a few tangible details I want to highlight here:

Firstly, with the exception of letting her call him Jimmy, which is only relevant to a specific section of the audience (casual viewers won't remember why that's a big deal, and longer term fans of the character consider it the default); the nicest thing we've ever seen him say to or about her is that he doesn't see her as an extension of her brother. That seems like a low bar to cross. In fact, I have no idea how James feels about this particular development at all.

Secondly, James hasn't been challenged yet; or at least, it doesn't *feel* like he's been challenged yet. In my notes for 3x02, I wrote of GuardianCorp, "This isn’t a thing that’ll be resolved by him doing nothing until someone else makes the decision for him," but he hasn't actually made any decisions. This story isn't a James story (yet). It's a Lena story, about her taking a chance on him.

(ASIDE: At some point, someone decided that Lena's main flaw would be 'self-doubt' instead of 'hubris', as was previously established in 2x05. I take small comfort in the fact that person is likely no longer employed)

Thirdly (and this last one's much more open to interpretation, so YMMV), Mr. Brooks isn't really pulling his weight here. Ms. McGrath is doing *all* the heavy lifting: she's standing there, giving him full heart-eyes, and he barely seems to notice that it's happening. James could be playing it cool, I suppose; but that's just another way in which I can't relate to James as a character (because HOW? How do you play it cool when she's looking at you like THAT?).

(FURTHER ASIDE: You know who would have been a challenge for James? LYRA. Or, at least, a visibly alien alien. That story would be about James and his perception of himself; having been friends and love interests for 'passing' aliens over the years, why is an ALIEN alien a sticking point for him? Played by a trans actress, preferably, to hammer the metaphor home. It would also have given him a cause to champion at CatCo)

At some point, I should stop doing notes, and just write a damn review. It'd probably be shorter.

Why are all these Christmas parties happening on Christmas Eve?

You know when would have been a great time to do a Christmas episode? Last season, when it was all about the immigration metaphor, and your three non-human characters can all express how they feel about this religious festival they don't belong to.

Love the tone of this office fight (the song still sucks)

Kara's getting the beat-down of her life, and she's still trying to protect others. I love her.

That block and swing is fucking incredible.

AND THEN THE FLAMING DOOR!

Where the hell is this fight happening that James, Lena, AND Edge can be witnesses?

Impressed at how objective Alex is being here. Would like more detailed reaction shots though. Particularly from Kara's Best Friend, Winn.

Imra's very confident about Kara being okay.

Episodes since Winn and Lyra have had a scene together: 13. THIRTEEN. These counts were supposed to be a joke, show. Not a running commentary of despair. Speaking of which...

Episodes since Winn and Lena have had a scene together: 9 (Record high: 16). No, I'm not counting this one. Being in the same location does not a scene make. We'll just have to live with my pain extending to double digits in January.

#notes #superglue #my ineffectual rage

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nehswritesstuffs · 7 years

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The Warlock’s Wife - Part IV

I’ve been watching a lot of this show lately due to DVDs being purchased within the family, so I thought I might as well.

Basil becomes a reluctant poet one morning, while his sisters attempt to alleviate the situation. [Whouffaldi Bewitched AU]

Basil’s mantra was that it could always be worse. He had survived countless wars, plagues, droughts, and famines, meaning that day-to-day life was generally simple for him to deal with. In fact, there was little that the warlock could experience that would make him even flinch.

...at least, few things from the mortal side of things.

The morning had started just like any other: Basil waking up hazily in Clara’s arms as they laid in bed for as long as possible before getting up for work. He could feel her hugging him tightly, resting her nose in his hair and attempting to press their bodies together.

“Hey, you up?” he asked. She nodded into his hair. “I’m gonna make some coffee—need more than a cup.”

“The alarm hasn’t gone off—” Clara was very rudely cut short by their alarm clock, causing her to groan into her husband’s shoulder. “Can’t we live off of your magic, just for a bit? You’ve said that’s what most witches and warlocks do.”

“Where’s the fun in that? We’d be lazier than a cat,” he replied. His eyes instantly went wide and he sat up. “Clara? Hon? Ask me to say something not very fun.”

“What’s up with you?” she wondered, sitting up as well. She rubbed sleep from her eyes and frowned at him. “You’re not casting a spell—stop rhyming.”

“That’s just it; something doesn’t fit,” he said. Basil clamored out of bed and went to their bathroom. He looked at his tongue in the mirror, then the insides of his eyelids, then trying to peek up his own nostrils. Clara shuffled her way to his side in the meantime, getting a start on her morning routine.

“You’re being silly,” she muttered around her toothbrush.

“Vocabularyitus is nothing to take lightly—John had it once and the fallout was frightly.”

“Oh, God… call one of your sisters or something and ask for help.” Clara took one look at her husband, examining him up and down in his t-shirt and pants, before spitting in the sink. “Get some trousers on first.”

“My sisters have seen worse. It wouldn’t be the first time they played nurse.”

Without another word, Clara went back into the bedroom, grabbed her robe, and put it on as she made her way into the kitchen. The house was an interestingly large one for being in London, yet Basil had apparently gotten it as a low-cost fixer-upper that he had eyebrow-waggled his way into making it livable. The neighbors had been curious as to how the house had gone from a shuttered-up eyesore in need of a month’s worth of updating work to a pristine and modern living space, yet that was short-lived gossip once the teenaged son living three down and across the street was brought home by the police in broad daylight. Clara put together a pot of coffee—the single-cup maker was going to have to sit this particular morning out—and grabbed bread to make into toast. She was nearly ready with breakfast when Basil walked in, having put on his plaid trousers and a hoodie.

“Call Donna or Sarah Jane yet?”

“It’s trickier than you think; one’s in New York and the other’s in Minsk.”

“Just call—I put enough coffee on for all of us.” Basil nodded before putting his forefingers to his temples, closing his eyes, and concentrating on the incantation.

“Over land and over sea, my elder sister, I beseech thee; your brother is ill, he is in a panic, so please come to his aid before things become manic.”

Two seconds later and Sarah Jane popped into the kitchen, a look of irritation on her face. She was holding a journalist’s notebook and had a pencil behind her ear.

“Do you mind?” she asked. “I was attempting to talk my way around some museum security guards so that I could write a piece on their Da Vinci exhibit. Leo would have been proud.”

“He’s being more annoying than usual,” Clara said, offering her sister-in-law a mug of coffee. The elder woman took it, relishing the liquid life given in peace offering.

“Really? How so?”

“I rhyme. Every time,” Basil admitted. “Can you fix the way I talk? I don’t need the students to gawk.”

“Here I thought you were immune to vocabularyitus after catching gigglepox as a boy,” Sarah Jane frowned.

“It’s like getting the shingles—the viruses mingle. Please help me, sis. You’re good with stuff like this.”

“I’m no doctor, but I’ll try,” Sarah Jane said. She put down her mug and pocketed the notebook before readying herself for an incantation. “Mumps and measles can make one feeble, vocabularyitus not; for what it’s worth, he has to work, and while sick he cannot.” The two women then stared at Basil, hoping that it had worked.

“Go on,” Clara said. “Say something.”

“This better work or else…” Basil said. He clenched his eyes shut, hoping it worked. “…else I’ll be irritated. Hey, it worked! Thanks Sarah.”

“No problem; now if you start speaking in Cockney, take the remainder of the day off and have a soak in a tub with onion greens and rosemary.”

“…what’s wrong with him speaking in a different accent?” Clara wondered.

“Nothing, if he was attempting to change his accent, that is,” Sarah Jane replied. “He’s established in a mortal-filled life and an accent change would be disastrous at this point—it could be a sign of something worse.”

“I’ll make note of that,” Basil nodded. He picked up his coffee mug and held it up in a toast before taking a long, satisfying drink.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

“Alright, so, who can tell me the difference between a minuet and a scherzo? Anyone?” Basil asked. He glanced around the room, trying to see if anyone was even paying attention. “Come on—I’m talking about the dance, not something completely foreign.”

“Uh… one’s boring and the other isn’t…?” a student offered.

“Oooh! One’s French and the other isn’t!” another said.

“Okay, how’s about this: did anyone read the assignment?” Basil asked. “Show of hands; be honest.” All hands stayed down, as he expected, which caused him to groan as he pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. “…and this surprises me, how?”

“Because we’re twelve years old and life’s shit,” a third student said.

“Well, you got me on both counts, but those are not reasons to have skipped your readings,” the teacher scowled. The bell rang to signal lunch—practice must have gone on longer than he thought—and he had to stop his charges from escaping. “Before you go, you’re going to need to do your readings by tomorrow or else, got that? I’m picking victims at random, and whoever can’t answer gets to watch me and Mrs. Oswald-Smith make kissing faces in detention.”

A collective sound of disgust came over the class and they were allowed to leave. The tweens exited the room quick as they could, meaning that by the time Clara showed up with lunch there was not a single student in sight.

“Thank goodness you can pop out for a few minutes and get us something warm,” Basil said as they sat down at his desk, he in his chair and her in his lap. “I’d use magic, but…”

“…but you’re trying to cut back for me, which I appreciate,” she finished. She kissed him on the tip of his nose before pulling out the soups and sandwiches from the bag. “How is the music appreciation course coming?”

“Awful,” he pouted. “Coburn and I need to discuss these marks; these kids took it thinking it’d be a walk in the park.”

Clara turned her head and looked at Basil. “That rhymed.”

“It did? I should shut my lid.”

“…until after lunch, yeah, and then let’s see if Donna can help—it was her son who you said had vocabularyitus after all.”

Basil nodded silently, concentrating on eating his food. He finished before Clara did and decided that then was a good a time as ever to call for help again. Letting his wife sit alone, he went to an empty space in his classroom and called, “Over hill and over stream, younger sister who is on my team, come help me where our sister couldn’t, because working like this I really shouldn’t.” A moment passed and Donna popped into the room, a giant smirk on her face.

“And what do you need me to fix that Sarah couldn’t?” Donna grinned. Basil refused to answer, instead pointing at Clara.

“Whatever vocabularyitus is,” Clara said for him. “Sarah Jane tried fixing it this morning, but it came back as we were starting on lunch.”

“John and Troy had that centuries ago!” Donna giggled.

“Donna, can you help me out? I feel like I’ve got the brain of a trout.”

“Won’t argue there,” she snickered. “Clara, did Sarah Jane give you a potion or use a spell?”

“A spell—something about measles.”

“Oh, no wonder… that spell is so old-fashioned that it’s only a temporary fix. What we need is something that’ll really knock you on your arse.”

“Can I still work? No room left to shirk.”

“Don’t you worry—little sis has a good cure for you if you’d just sit down.” He did so atop one of the desks, scowling at the entire situation. “Silver siren, purple plinth, plankton tufts, circus film—fix my brother so that he may utter dumb rhymes on his own time.”

“…well you suck at rhyming,” Basil snarked. He stopped and chuckled at the realization that his sister’s spell worked. “Well, what do you know…”

“You need a bunch of non-rhyming words to counteract modern strains of vocabularyitus; everyone knows that,” Donna said, visibly proud of her handiwork. “That spell helped clear up my boys and they had powerful cases back then.”

“Should’ve called you to begin with,” Basil said. “Thanks, Donna.”

“It’s what sisters are for,” she replied. She snapped her fingers and was gone.

“She’s going directly to Sarah Jane, isn’t she?” Clara laughed.

“Asking both of my sisters to help with a thing is like asking them to please gossip behind my back,” he replied. The bell ending lunch then went off and the two educators could sense the mass migration that was ensuing. “Shit—went by quick.”

“We are not paid enough to do this,” she said. Clara finished her last bit of sandwich and gave her husband a quick peck on the lips. “Let’s hope this one works.”

“Yeah, let’s.”

Basil indulgently watched his wife leave, snapping out of his daydream soon as the first student entered the room. As the class all filed in, he cleaned up what was left from lunch and checked over his lesson plan, seeing that most of the time was going to be spent practicing for the Christmas concert. That was going to be good—the less talking he did, the less likely he’d accidentally revert back to his annoying condition.

“Alright class, get out your music sheets—wait a second—are we all in the correct seats?”

“Yes…” the teens grumbled.

“Very good; glad you understood.”

“Um, Mr. Oswald-Smith? Why are you rhyming?”

Basil stopped for a moment and realized what had just happened, again. “Mrs. Oswald-Smith and I have a bet. It’s just a game, don’t you fret. If I can rhyme until the end of the day, then tonight she will make me my favorite soufflé.”

The students all seemed to buy the excuse, dropping the subject entirely in order to start preparing their instruments. Their instructor, however, cursed internally, glad that at least he could think without rhyming. He had to figure out something, and quick.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Vocabularyitus was not supposed to be this difficult.

His sisters had tried seven different spells between them, two potions, and a vile-tasting poultice that had sat on his tongue for half an hour, and still there were no results. Basil sat on the couch in his sitting room, wrapped up in a blanket and sulking as his condition was being discussed as though he wasn’t even in the room.

“Do you think he even has vocabularyitus at this point?” Sarah Jane posed. “I mean, it’s being especially stubborn for your average, run-of-the-mill strain.”

“I almost want to call in Dr. Jones, but she and Dr. Sullivan are having a row right now and it’s probably not the best time,” Donna frowned.

“We could call Dr. Bombay…?”

“No; I’m surprised that man hasn’t lost his license yet.”

“How long does it normally run its course?” Clara asked. “If he stays home tomorrow, then he has the whole weekend to recuperate.”

“Can’t—takes two whole weeks, and I doubt our wee bard over there can handle being cooped up for that long,” Donna replied. “At least we know you’re safe—mortals don’t get vocabularyitus unless they’re hexed.”

“Good to know,” she nodded.

“You know I’m still here, right? This is sort of my plight.”

“Shush, dear, or you’ll be talking in sonnets next.”

“How did you know? Did I miss the memo?”

Sarah Jane wiggled her nose and Basil froze in place. “There, that’s better. If I could teach you one spell, Clara, it would be that one.”

“So useful,” Donna agreed. “I don’t think we could have made it through the Roman Days without it.”

“I don’t want to know, do I?” the mortal asked.

“Nope,” her sister-in-laws said in unison, Donna going as far as shaking her head. At least, if anything, they were united on that front.

#Whouffaldi #Clara Oswald #Twelfth Doctor #magic!au #Bewitched AU #Sarah Jane Smith #Donna Noble #Doctor Who #fan fiction #vocabularyitus comes from a s5 episode #and yes some of the rhymes in that one are equally as painful

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thesinglesjukebox · 7 years

Video

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KAMALIYA - APHRODITE [4.17] No love...

Alfred Soto: Stentorian arena-pop that should've been called "Thor" because it's blustery. [2]

David Sheffieck: We've heard this song a thousand times in the past five years, the forced dramatics and pomp, the maximalism and the shuffling, stomping percussion and the Clearmountain pause before the final chorus. What I haven't heard as much, or at least what hasn't worn itself down trying to scale Mount Tedder, are those strings -- stabbing, swooping, earning the operatic tag that the rest of the song can only grasp at. [6]

Will Adams: "The mirror's gonna fog tonight" comes straight from Natalia Kills, but the real thing that makes this sound practically timewarped from 2011 is the faux-kink edge that plagued so much of radio. The dramatic strings do little to amp up the blank arrangement, and the awkward workaround to make "Aphrodit-eeeeee" rhyme with "tonight" comes off as the most distinctive aspect. [5]

Jonathan Bradley: Kamaliya sings the title as if, at the last moment, she has been informed that it doesn't rhyme with "night," and, while yelping in panic, she has to append the final syllable. The swirl of violins is also panicked, and a better hook, but these dizzying Evanescence dramatics didn't need nu-metal scratching to complete the effect. [3]

Maxwell Cavaseno: There's that little shrill, shrieky note at the end of the "Aphrodite" on the chorus that really does wonders for a song that's honestly just a lot of generic opulence. For all the pop-opera vibes that Kamaliya aspires to, "Aphrodite" leans further into the spirit of excess and floridity of that older musical style without ever actually needing to dive-bomb into severe melisma or virtuosity. The tone of the record is unabashedly narcissistic, all wolf-grins and wild eyes that can fall on the schisms of manic pride, yet, rather than end on unstable, allow her to sound magnanimous. In an age of anthems that reach for command and empowerment, "Aphrodite" stands tall not for the desire to become stronger, but the will to recognize one's sense of gloriousness. [5]

Ryo Miyauchi: The production might try its best to cover it up with a pomp to match its divine theme, but the fact is "Aphrodite" is simply a one-liner stretched out into a full-length pop song. We get it: you're good at sex. You don't have to belabor the point with an entire verse as the set up. [4]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox ]

#Kamaliya #Aphrodite

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barrybadgerblog-blog · 7 years

Text

Foldin Clothes and Stay(in) Gold: The Many Faces of Rap Craft Part I

J Cole.

Why do we listen to rap? We love bangers and hard beats which is why you would listen to Migos. Something deeper or weirder? Maybe Childish Gambino or Flying Lotus. Or maybe you just want to hear about killing people drugs and fighting so there’s 21 Savage or Lil Uzi Vert (if you’re feeling particularly light).

I’d argue they all come from the same vein of creation. Rap was created to release demons, tell stories, even punchlines all while rhyming or using beautiful figurative language.

That sounds great but do you know who the 2016 Freshman Class of XXL are? Like 8 of 10 of them are trap artists. Like those last two artists mentioned the other guys are Desiigner and Lil Yachty. Which is fine ya know? I like “Panda” and some Yachty songs but what sent me over the edge is a popular ranking site throughout the fucking list the authors wrote “Although they lack lyrical dexterity and diversity they make up for it in delivery.” WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT. THAT’S THE FUCKIN’ POINT. I get XXL isn’t representative of rap music as a whole but my god man. I wouldn’t say I’m an old head because I love a lot of new stuff coming out right now but, I can distinguish what can be enjoyable, interesting and rewarding to a listener.

I heard 21 Savage’s album through and through because I really like “No Heart”. But it’s a goddamn sleeper hold. Like every song is I’m killing people and making drugs yeayeayea. “No Heart” has all of that but in that song he’s insane with his lyrics, the beats boom, he’s got energy and diversity of his words and flows that is seldom heard throughout the rest of it.

Imagine taking all that manic energy into flows, lyrics, and verbosity. Then hook an IV straight to the vein with a syringe filled with a deep story. A message. THAT is “ 4 Yours Eyes Only”.

This is not the album that he promised at all. By releasing “Everbody Dies” and “False Prophets” I was expecting a feral, destroy every rapper album that everyone keeps trying. I hope eventually that album comes out. But, whether he used that to sell more copies of “4” or to surprise everyone, J Cole aimed for depth, feeling and to tell a story and he succeeded.

There are hardly any bangers (A major complaint from my friends on their first listen of the album) with the exception of “Neighbors” which will enrage you and want you to throw your fists in the air. Most of these songs are poetry with a simple beat attached.

The opener “For Whom The Bell Tolls” is like knowing you’re about to crack open a great book. The jangling beat and the first line “I see the rain pourin’ down…” immediately feels like you’re in a storm in the amazon or at least a storm is coming. As the Cole quickly spits about not knowing whether if he wants to die and feeling like there is no where to hide, it feels claustrophobic. It’s a fantastic first song and already has depth and complexity.

“Immortal” is more of the usual J Cole, a swirling beat but not too hard and Cole talking about that world and greed around him. Not bad but I wanted more of the “Bell Tolls”. “Deja Vu”’s first 30 seconds are absolutely groan worthy, There was clearly a rush to get to the verses kinda like a kid shoveling down a few broccoli to eat his spaghetti. The verses are way more versatile, more clever and more concerned with not being able to talk to that girl which a strength that J Cole has. Again past that terrible “fingers in the sky if you want it” shit it’s not bad.

“Ville Mentality” comes just when I thought “Bell” was a fluke. There’s a certain sense of floating around, a navel gazing atmosphere. How long can I go on being what society and everything around me is telling me to be? Then a little girl talks about how she missed her dad’s funeral. Weird. But, it seems to fit perfectly within the song.

“She’s Mine” a beautiful, piano driven slam poetry session. I can see a spotlight on Cole, in a tux with his messy fro, singing. rapping. talking all with a tear down his face looking out to a pitch black auditorium. Catch me I’ve fallen in love he says. I think I have too. With the song. With the earnest voice he carries as if he’s trying to shield a smile. With the thought of the girl, With the song again.

“Change” is another left turn. I imagine he is looking out right after “She’s Mine” and realizes there is an audience and he needs to say what’s on his chest. The song is about changing the views, mentality and personality of those involved in gang violence and tragedy of death in the black community. It’s preachy but at the same time Cole is clearly sticking true to a feeling that cannot be shaken off and needs to be expressed. It’s like politely listening to a friend having a panic attack. They need to get it out no matter how it sounds.

“Neighbors” has the line “ My sixteen should’ve came with a coffin”. Fuck.

“Foldin’ Clothes” has to be the cheesiest song Cole has ever written and I love it. The electric bass and slinky guitar makes it a great framework that even cheesy and incredibly simply borderline dumb chorus (wanting to do the right thing which feels better than the wrong thing) almost ok. The shout outs to almond milk (!) will make you laugh, smile and think about your person. But then Cole surprises with the people being fake around him “N****s is the best actors”.

“She’s Mine II” returns to the sublime “She’s Mine” but what’s that? A baby crying? This is a different love. A protection rather than adoration. Teaching lessons while changing diapers. It’s odd but if it wasn’t Cole it wouldn’t work. I’ll dry your eyes, I never felt so alive, there is a God he coos. And I believe him.

At this point I was scattered. What the actual fuck is Cole on here. There’s children all over this album, death all over the album and the need for change.

“4 Your Eyez Only” begins and I feel ready for an explanation. It’s a full confession and I hang on to every word. Switching perspectives, greedy thoughts, play my this tape for my daughter and let her know my life is on it. Fuck. Again, Cole is in control. I’m listening for each breath. Every line hurts. A whole 5 minutes of bawl your eyes out pain within a strong and steady performance. All the cooing, love notes are almost gone. It is steady focus, Cole’s slain friend using Cole as a vessel to talk to his daughter. It slides the whole album into place like solving a 1000 piece puzzle.

An everyday tragedy locked forever in 40 minutes.

It’s flooring, sobering and it left me a little speechless.

This is craft. To create atmosphere, emotions and incur thinking as soon as the album is done. This album and J Cole deserves respect, long bouts of thinking and multiple listens to full appreciate it and then do it again. It’s arduous and almost too painful but that attributes to the strength of music and when done with care and love even with it’s flaws can be a work of beauty.

B+

- JarvTarv

And on the flipside of relatable, grounded craft is…

#jarvtarv #j cole #4 your eyez only #rap #hip hop #album review

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