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#*singing* and that’s what fanfiction is for

lonelyroommp3 · 9 hours

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*please read the explanations below the poll options before voting*

was thinking about this on my coach home and naturally had to make it into an overcomplicated poll

explanations, disclaimers, etc. under the cut:

until tumblr enables polls with infinite options there is no way for me to account for the entire breadth of human experience here. the categories provided and the examples thereof will not be, and are not intended to be, exhaustive. if you can't find the exact thing you do listed here or you think it falls into more than one category then please use your best judgement to select whatever answer is closest. only choose "something else not covered here" if there is actually nothing even close to what you do listed in the poll (and please elaborate in the tags if this is the case! i'm curious)

i really wanted to include "guy running alongside the moving vehicle you are in" but ran out of options. sorry

if you feel you do two or more of these things in equal measure just pick whatever one answer you want based on vibes

music video: anything you imagine as a standalone, prerecorded visual to accompany the music. this may feature musical performance elements, dance, a narrative, or any combination of the above. if you're imagining your little scene as if it's intended to be viewed on MTV, youtube, etc as the official visual complement to the music, it probably comes under this category

a music video mainly featuring somebody else: this could be you, your blorbos, your self insert OC, another artist you'd like to see cover the song, random actors/celebrities you would cast in the video, etc. whether they are performing the song within the video or not. if the bulk of the "running time" of your daydream is taken up by people who aren't the artist who originally performs the version of the song you're listening to, pick this one

a live performance: this could be in concert (whether a concert version that already exists e.g. imagining taylor swift's eras tour staging when you hear cruel summer, or a version you would like to see), at karaoke, at an open mic night, your acoustic cover that goes viral when you post it on youtube, busking on the street, performing to the other passengers on the bus, etc. could apply to dance as well as singing/music!

a diegetic use in narrative context: imagining the song being performed as a musical number by people in a story that exists beyond the scope of this one song in order to accompany or advance said story. this might be imagining the song being performed as one of many musical numbers in a stage or movie musical, or it could be a performance that takes place in universe (like the performances in glee, or scott pilgrim vs the world)

non diegetic narrative use: imagining the song as the soundtrack to a scene in a story that exists beyond the scope of this one song, but it is not being played/performed/heard by the people within the scene. for example, you imagine a fight scene in a movie taking place to this song, or perhaps it would play in the background during your OTP's first kiss if your favourite fanfiction was adapted into a netflix original tv series.

AMV/edit: a video compilation of existing* scenes from a piece of media, put together by a fan and set to music. (*existing might be taken loosely; e.g. you might be imagining an AMV of scenes from a book with no actual visual media adaptation. the main distinction is that here you are imagining the actual editing process of splicing scenes together as a fan project, as opposed to the music accompanying one continuous scene or sequence of scenes - which would come under "non diegetic narrative use" - or the clips being intended as the official visual accompaniment to a song, which would come under "music video".)

an abstract or lyric based visualiser: 2000s core windows media player visuals, a lyric video, anything that focuses more on objects, scenery, abstract patterns, words moreso than People/Fictional Characters/Animals/etc Doing Things To Music

#for me i'd say it is music video feat. other people very closely followed by diegetic use. i love imagining my blorbos Doing A Musical

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utterlyazriel · 7 days

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whom the shadows sing for — (and the thief's echoing hymn)

a/n: here we go honeys. when me and aly (<3!) tossed this idea around months ago, this was the big question; how to do the reveal and what comes after. naturally it was as angsty as possible tehe <3 cw: canon typical violence

word count: 4.2k

synopsis: Azriel mourns a mistake that will haunt him for eternity as he races back to you. You play the leading role in one of your nightmares, but you can't seem to wake up.

CHAPTER SEVEN :: MATES

It's too loud and he can't think— that's the only coherent thing that Azriel can seem to grasp as he stumbles forward in the snow.

His shadows burst into a wild frenzy as he staggers towards the cabin door. It's not snowing here but the wind current is fast and wicked, tunnelling over the hilltop. His breath locks in his chest and even as he gasps, he can't seem to catch it.

It's too loud, too much— every single thought and feeling within him is just climbing over one another, overlapping, melding into each other so he can't tell where one ends and another begins.

Sadness, misery, torment, upset, anger. His emotions are thrown together with yours, a thousand afflictions all battling for his attention and he can't fucking think.

He shoves the cabin door open, falls through it, and it slams shut behind him.

Like a puppet getting its strings cut, all at once the noise... stops.

As though the very action of closing the door had managed to silence the bond between you and Azriel.

A different, very real fear suddenly burrows deep in his heart.

Still gasping for air, he shoves a hand against his chest and searches within himself desperately for that tether, his eyes crushing shut. For a moment, his heart hangs in the balance, teetering on the edge of agony.

And then— there.

Golden and rooted in his very soul, the bond that connects him to you. Only once he's found it does he release the breath captured in his lungs. He breathes an audible sigh of relief and shudders lightly, his knees giving out slightly.

He lets himself slump back against the cabin door as his scarred hand slips from his chest, his wings curling forward around himself. His head swims with the overload of new information, the first dregs of it only just sinking in.

You... were not the person you said you were.

...Was that such a bad thing?

Still breathing hard, Azriel's gaze turns to stare hard at his hands, their delicate scarring paining him nearly as much as the memory does. He thinks back to their origin.

Thinks back to a space too small for a growing boy, thinks of the darkness. He thinks of the never-ending misery that seemed to torment his life in a way he feared he would never escape.

It had taken a very long time for that fear to diminish in size; or perhaps, Azriel had just learned to grow around it.

But the cruelty of those mountains and the Fae that resided there was something he was intimately familiar with. The world up there, between the pines, was kill or be killed. Rise to the top of the food chain or spend every waking moment trying to figure out how to survive.

Isn't that what you had done? Learnt how to endure the conditions, to withstand the brute force of the winter and the merciless Illyrian way?

And wasn't that what he had done, all those years ago? Perhaps, the two of you weren't so different.

But his mind keeps snagging: liar, liar, liar.

Some vicious, prideful voice in his head makes a different point— he did it the right way. He didn't deceive anyone.

He fought for all he had, trained harder than any of his camp-mates to overcome every wretched obstacle in his way, earned his place at the top of the Blood Rite by being better, by working harder and winning.

Even with his... set back with learning to fly, he had still conquered it. He'd earned his place.

But… no, that wasn't right, was it?

He'd earned it, yes, but only because there was no other choice.

He had been kicked down at every possible chance, stalked for being born from a father who detested him and none of it was his fault. He'd earned his title as warrior but he had done nothing to reap every extra hurdle to get there.

Azriel had endured a great many terrible things in his life—and it took effort to recall that it wasn't fair. That it was an injustice he shouldn't have had to bear.

Sometimes, he hated how deeply ingrained the Illyrian way was within him. How it had changed him in the most unsavoury of ways, giving him an Illyrian pride that overtook his rationale at the worst of times.

It echoed out in the most unfamiliar of ways, like a hidden piece of himself he'd forgotten about— forgotten the person he'd needed to become to survive those camps.

So when Azriel thinks of the lie you've been hiding it, protecting yourself, the forgiveness is already there. It always was there. He could never had truly held it against you.

You had lied, yes, but as if there was any other way to survive. As if he could fault you for picking the option that let you fight, let you grow strong, let you keep your wings.

He remembers your words suddenly.

Please, I- I just wanted to keep my wings.

A sinister horror creeps up his throat and Azriel lurches forward, his forearms slamming against the cabin floor as his body forcibly retches. His stomach clenches tightly and bile floods his mouth but nothing comes out but his ragged breath.

How young had you been?

He knows to make your lie feasible it had to have been too young. Nine years old? Eight? He tries to recall the age that Lord Mylind said you started turning up trouble but it only succeeds in fueling the harrowing feeling that was running through his veins.

Azriel sags forward, his eyes drawing closed as he presses his forehead to the cool wood of the ground, trying to contain his growing dread. Still curled around himself, his wings quiver in the wake of his revelation. His shadows try soothe him, whirling down the planes of his neck.

You were pleading with him.

And... he had left you.

His stomach heaves once more, his breath a mixture of raspy pants.

It's impossible not to recount every single interaction you've had over the months, turning over every memory and seeing the other side of it with startling clarity.

The lone cabin, the outlier to the group. The tenseness in your shoulders when asked about the Blood Rite or your absences from training that Lord Mylind had spoken so crudely about.

Your drive to train and learn; the utter disappointment at the inadequacy of your tonics.

You had so much on the line, so much more than he ever could have imagined.

Azriel bites his cheek meanly as he recalls the conversation in which he asked why you hadn't completed in the Blood Rite. It makes perfect sense now; the exposure of the challenge was far too big of a risk and as a bastard, you would automatically be a target.

Even if you managed to succeed, which he had no doubt you could, the tattoos... removing your shirt...

All dead giveaways.

Your voice echoes in his mind.

Azriel, please, you have to understand—

You had begged him and he left you, he left you.

His body gives another awful retch, the horror of what he had done beginning to truly settle in. Gods, in a thousand ways you had been more trusting and vulnerable that he had ever known. Allowing him into your shelter, into your life...

Letting him get close to you, knowing that the closer he got, the more your secret threatened to reveal. And you let him anyway.

Azriel lurches to his feet, swaying for only a moment, his head reaching a clarity he so desperately lacked earlier.

He needs to go back. He should have fucking never left.

Somewhere between his ribs, there's an wallowing ache on the bond. A jolt of sharp pain.

Hand flying to his chest, Azriel stares at it and desperately prays to every god he can think of that he isn't too late to fix this. His eyes flick over to the Siphon on the back of hand, dim and lifeless. Drained.

Fuck. He snarls in his frustration. He can't even winnow back to you.

Turning and pressing back out the door, his boots smash through the snow outside for only a few steps— til he beats his mighty wings and takes to the skies.

Whether the bond had snapped for you or not, it didn't stop him from gripping that thread tightly and pouring every sincere intention down it. I'm sorry. I’m coming back. I’m sorry. I never should have left. I'm so fucking sorry.

He could only hope that you somewhere on the other side, connected to the same red string of fate, you could feel him coming back to you.

—

He's taking too long.

It's the thought that's stuck on loop, like a record that keeps skipping, repeating the same part over and over again. He's going as fast as he can and still, he knows he's taking too damn long.

As his wings strain from the long journey, the endless labyrinth of trees whirring past beneath him too fast to see, Azriel glimpses down at the siphons atop his hands.

They're still gleaming in that lacklustre way but there's more of a shine to them now. He can feel it too, the well refilling with a slow drip, the build up of his power.

His keen eyes scour the landscape, narrowed as he analyses the distance between here and Exordor. It's still far— it will stretch the reserve of magic that's barely begun to replenish but Azriel doesn't care. He'll do anything to reach you.

He squeezes his eyes shut, brow furrowing, and folds the fabric once more. The world spins as he pushes through the fabric of it, feeling the strain in his bones. The snowy entrance to your shelter comes into view.

He lands with a sickening crack, his knees bending to catch himself as he touches down, one heavy motion into the snow which spins up in a flurry. It's raining heavily, the drops coming down with a vehemence, creating a thunderous applause against the frozen ground.

Around him, the trees groan and shudder as they bow to the powerful energy. Birds take flight, cawing as they do. In the distance, there's a loud snap, carried with the wind.

Azriel stares right into the cabin.

His stomach threatens to lurch again at the sight. The door to your shelter is wide open.

His mate, where is his mate?

Stretching out the doorway, there are obvious signs of a struggle. The muddy snow has been kicked around, the boards nailed to the inside of the door are fresh with splinters, and... and...

The blood. Crimson, scarlet, fucking red blood coats the floorboards, a ghoulish splatter of it leading from your bed out the door, turning the slurry of melted snow a soft pink. He knows from the pull in his chest that you're not here.

This isn't just some attack. They haven't just ambushed you, they've... found out.

Where before he had felt terribly ill, bile rising, there is only icy and raging fury. In the distance, another snap sounds and his shadows beg him to pay attention to it, their whispers kissing at his cheeks. Water soaks his dark hair, stray raindrops rolling down his face.

Azriel ignores them and stumbles forward one, two steps and stops, his heart soaking in the reality of what had happened.

He had left you and they had taken you.

They found out and they hadn't killed you, they had— they had—

The snap in the distance. This time when it sounds, it yanks Azriel's attention, his head whipping towards where it's coming from. It's towards camp. Dread curdles up in his gut, latching onto each notch in his spine and burrowing deep.

Every instinct in his body roars into overdrive as he realises what it is he can hear in the distance — the crack of a whip against skin.

—

One of your nightmares has come to life, dragging from the murkiest parts of your mind and taking the treacherous form of Brudam.

You keep begging yourself to wake the fuck up.

It can’t be real— this can’t actually be happening, you think desperately, none of this was ever supposed to happen- you had- it was- you secret was something you guarded with your life.

"Wake up," You plead to yourself deliriously. Your wrists are already feeling chafed from where they're bound against the wooden pole, the steel that binds them cold as ice. The rain has soaked you to the bone.

"Wake up," You all but sob, trying futilely to pull against the restraints on your wrists.

It only succeeds in tugging on the stakes driven through your wings, a searing, fiery type of pain the ripples along every nerve in them. A sob scrapes up your throat, answering the pain's call. It hurts, it hurts, it fucking hurts in a way you haven't known before — everything, every cell in your body, is being tortured.

A shredding deep in your gut as though you've taken a fistful of claws to the stomach makes you seize, your vision flashing wildly. Even now, your cycle continues its bloody rampage. You can't stop crying, can't stop your body from convulsing in pure agony.

Somewhere behind you, your ear pick up the shifting in the mud, Brudam preparing to strike again.

Even sobbing, you tense up, unable to stop yourself—instinct drives you to hastily try tuck your wings, trying to pull them from their spread position. They catch on the stakes pinned through them meanly, the delicate flesh tearing with a sickening squelch and sending rivers of pain up into your body.

You cry out a strangled gasp, your head bowing further forward, trying to escape what's to come.

The blow rains down onto your unprotected wings all the same.

It's pure fire. Like they've doused the membranous skin of your wings with oil and set them ablaze, fiery hot pain licking at the tendons, tracing all the way up to your bare back. Your teeth grit to contain your scream. Tears streak down your face, lost in the thrum of the rain.

"Wake. Up." You demand to yourself again, panting heavily now.

You can't take much more pain or you'll be unconscious soon and some awful part of you knows, that's when they'll take your wings. You'll wake up midway to the worst nightmare of them all; the splintering sound of them cutting them off your body.

There's a boot pressed suddenly to your lower back, pressing meanly.

"Oh no, this isn't a dream," Brudam taunts as he leans down, all too happily. His tone shifts to something harder with his next words, nearly spitting the words. "I knew there was something off about you, you mutt."

His voice climbs to a shout, addressing the crowd gathered around you. "I always knew you were a FUCKING TRAITOR!"

There's a roar from the crowd, lead by the antsy group of warriors you've grown up and trained beside. All of them are eager to see justice delivered for your lies. None of them are pleased to have been duped, much less by a female.

They know, everyone knows. There's no coming back from this. Even if it weren't from the scent of blood from your cycle, your bound chest—revealed through your cut away armor— is proof enough.

Another convulsion rocks your body, the pain from your cycle making itself known. You're burning hot from every laceration on your skin and freezing cold from being bare in the icy rain. Your defence gets swallowed up in your pitiful whimper.

The mud behind you shifts again, Brudam no doubt winding up for his next hit.

You hold your breath, capturing the next sob in your throat. Your wings tug inwards, despite how you beg them not to, and your wrists ache as you try to wrench them free fruitlessly.

A sense of finality sinks in. You're going to die here.

A part of you feels like maybe you'd always known it would end like this, one way or the other. It's tired. So fucking tired of living in your intricate lie and spending each and every moment of your miserable existence on alert. On defence. Waiting for a break that never seems to come.

It's that part that can't, in any capacity, be truly upset at Azriel.

You can't resent him for leaving when you're the one who lied.

You can't regret him finding out, without regretting ever meeting him—and that means... regretting all the happiness you've truly felt.

But there's also an anger swirling within you, a rage that is as icy as it is hungry for vengeance.

Inexplicably, it feels unknown. Not your own. It starts somewhere in your chest and it only feels like it's getting bigger, growing in size, glowing hotter.

In the drone of the rain, blackness swims before your tired eyes as they begin to slip shut— only, no, they haven't closed.

The darkness is real and in front of you. It's surrounding you, curling up from under your captured arms. Despite the loud protests from your anguished body, you lift your head shakily. You're still quivering, quiet hiccups pushing out your lips.

"What are you doing, witch?" Brudam snarls from behind you, his boot on your back digging in harder. You wince, the motion dragging your wings against the splinters of the stakes. You shake your head, unable to form words.

It isn't me, you want to say.

But you're not entirely sure that's true either. The black plume is only around you, rising as though it is coming from you. Protecting you.

"Brudam!" A loud voice cuts across the rustling, nervous crowd, cutting through the din of the rain clear as night and sounding as deadly as venom. The courtyard falls into silence.

Your heart lurches up your throat. You know that voice.

Something within you cleaves in half, torn by opposite forces. On one side, there the mountainous evidence of your miserable life, of every thing that's worked against you time and time again. Of the fact that things don't work out for you, they never have. You're a fool to believe that would change now.

The other side... is a terrible, feeble hope.

Because he came back.

"Shadowsinger," Brudam greets with a sneer. The boot on your back shifts and then retreats, the warrior turning away from you. Agony tears through your body again and you hold your breath, shuddering through the silent pain with gritted teeth. A dangerous hope starts to cling to your heart.

"One chance," Azriel growls. The hair on the back of your neck rises at the promise of violence in his voice.

"Let her go."

Brudam snorts unattractively, forcing a bitter sounding laugh out. You focus on trying not to throw up as the pain fogs your brain, bile filling your mouth.

"Not fucking likely."

"Walk away." Azriel snarls his demand, sounding angrier than you've ever heard him.

"Over my dead body, bastard," Brudam spits back, the mud shifting as he digs his feet in, preparing to fight. His hand tightens around the whip in his hand.

There's a moment of silence, the wind carrying a whistle, the trees swaying as if leaning closer to listen in, two warriors sizing each other up in the pouring rain. Your ears strain for Azriel's response.

"Gladly."

And then the courtyard is doused in pure shadow.

—

Azriel moves without hesitation.

Illyrian warriors are fiercely trained to fight through every type of conditions, battling in the harshest of all seasons. Snow, sleet, rain, shine. They're disciplined to go days without sleep, to fight and win, even with one arm pinned behind their back.

But what defence is there against losing your sight?

Azriel hadn't even known his shadows were capable of such a thing. Their usual whirling expands in a blink of an eye, spreading out into a storm-cloud of blackness that drapes itself across the landscape. People murmur and bleat in fright as it creeps out deathly fast, snuffing senses and blinding everyone in the courtyard except him.

Like Rhys' own cloak of darkness, of midnight — but no, it's not night, it's shadow.

Azriel doesn't dwell on it, doesn't hesitate. Not when there's still territory, still enemies, in the space between him and you.

There's a ripple of unease from the warriors but Azriel's already advancing, the shadows beneath his boots silencing the shift of his feet. Through the darkness, Brudam gives himself away with an animalistic snarl and leads Azriel exactly to his his target.

He swings powerfully and Heartstriker does what it does best—aims true.

The bones in Brudam's shoulder makes a horrible sinking crack as the blade pierces it through, the brute giving a fiendish cry of pain.

Azriel drives it all the way through, his anger aiding his strength as he swipes out Brudam's feet. Heartstriker buries itself deep into the mud, driven by the weight of Brudam's body as it hits the ground.

All Azriel can think is that he should fucking gut him, should skin him alive. He should pull that blade and drag it forward, force it through all the muscle and shatter every bone on the way, until it pierces his awful heart.

The mating bond within him roars at him to do so, every inch of his body, of his soul, enraged at the state he'd found you in, the agonising hurt bestowed on you by this male—but it's not his kill. Azriel knows that.

So instead, he draws the Truth Teller with deft, deadly accuracy and then sinks it in deep into Brudam's groin, til the tip reaches mud on the other side.

Brudam howls, his whole body twitching as it tries to curl up against either blade unsuccessfully. Between the rain and the shadows, he's too incapacitated to do anything except wail.

Azriel doesn't waste a second, already moving. There's a warrior approaching on every side but between the gift of sight and silence in the shadow, he's devastatingly lethal.

One goes down with a slice across his throat, crimson soaking his front. The next crumbles after too many jabs of Azriel's dagger land in his torso, too slow to block them when he can't see them coming. The next, his head cut from his shoulders in one mighty swing.

Their cries join the thunder of the storm but somehow, through it all, all he can hear is the softness of your weak breath. Wounded. Fading.

Azriel's vision goes red. He moves expertly, his kills efficient until the burning rage in him gets too much and then he's slashing with pure malice, teeth gritted in hate, as he cuts down any warrior who stood by and watched. All he can feel is the thread between you and him, nearly torn from how much they've hurt you.

When the clashing of steel stops, the last foe dead, only the din of the rain remains.

Like a vacuum has opened somewhere in the sky, the inky cover of his shadow is sucked away, leaving only his sluggish moving shadows and exposing the bleak day. Carnage lies all around him. Bodies upon bodies of warriors.

Azriel can only see you.

You're still strapped to that torturous pole, your beautiful wings forcibly spread out and pinned, like you're being laid out for dissection. Across the flesh of your wings is a sickening number of thin, scarlet lines, gently bleeding.

Beneath you, in the mud, is the remains of your armor and Azriel can trace the scar that'll be left on your back from where it was cut off. The binding on your chest remains, now stained with blood.

You aren't moving.

He sprints without thought, without reason, following the bond. He finds the thread within his chest, grasps it tight, and tugs desperately. You don't even flinch.

A fear mounts inside him, more heart-wrenching than he's ever felt before. A glance down at his siphons reveals their still dull appearance—fucking useless to him.

Azriel staggers to his knees as he reaches you, his scarred hands reaching up to pry off the steel that binds your wrist to the wooden pole—ripping out chunks of the wood at the same time with his rapid, panicked motion. Your hands fall limply to your sides. He feels sick again.

"Y/n?"

He's scared to touch you, scared to do more damage that he's already caused, so so frightened that he just found you and you might already be gone.

He doesn't know what he'll do if you die. He can't—the thought is suffocating in itself, like a black hole that opens and starts pulling in his entire world— you can't die or he'll— he'll- nothing will matter anymore.

RHYS. He throws the plea out desperately, nearly delirious at the sight of your unmoving body. The words sound like a sob, even in his own mind. You have to help me.

Where are you? Rhys' voice fills his mind in an instant.

Then... a haggard breath sounds, like drawing through a mouthful of blood. You cough lightly, barely audible, and murmur, "...Azriel...?"

Something explodes inside Azriel, a burst of pure energy that fills him with relief so overwhelmingly he could cry.

Exordor. He barely manages to think properly, to even respond, beyond the staggering emotion. Come immediately. Please. I need you to- she needs—you have to help her. Please.

I'm on my way.

tags below!

@strangerstilinski @janebirkln @itsswritten @mischiefmanagers @hnyclover

@waytoomanyteenagefeels @idkitsem @illyrianbitch @jeweline16 @fightmedraco

@iamjimintrash @maendering @spideytingley @aneekapaneeka @cassianswh0reeee

@viciane @astarlitsoul @mybestfriendmademe @archiveofcravings @reputaytionn-13

@bionic-donut @chessebookgirl @itseightbeats @littleblackcatinwonderland @twsssmlmaa

@fanworrior @skysayhi @vintageoldfashion @tequilya @fabulouslyflamboyant5

@rhysandorian @laughterafter @brieftriumphnightmare @hirah-yummar @some-person-somewhere

@scooobies @sfhsgrad-blog @cherry-cin @bookloverandalsocats @megscabinetofcurios

@doodlebugsblog @landofpetrichor @acourtofdreamsandshadows @florabelll @tanyaherondale

@aomi-recs @letmejustreadthanks @problemfinder @sevikas-whore @doodlebugg16-blog

@meandmysillywriting @justingnoreme @krowiathemythologynerd @hanatsuki-hime @sunny747

@coffeebeforewater @kalulakunundrum @marina468 @moonbirde (i'm so sorry! u asked me to tag u right at the beginning and i've forgotten this whole time! forgive me pls <3)

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saintetheldreda · 8 months

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every 3 years or so i loop granger danger like a billion times in a row and go absolutely feral about the way they perfectly captured all the manic energy and weirdness of fandom culture and lose all of my cool then get slightly embarrassed afterwards and forget about it again and pretend its not the greatest love song ever written for another three years

#LIKE OBVS IM KIDDING ITS NOT ACTUALLY THE GREATEST LOVE SONG EVER WRITTEN #but LIKE #its SO CUTE #and i love that spotify only has the live version #cause this is the anthem of fanfiction/fandom and its meant to be listened to with a crowd going absolutely fucking feral in the background #starkid #a very potter musical #avpm #musicals #musical #musical theatre #team starkid #WHAT WHAT THE HELL IS THIS #U EXPECT ME TO SING ABOUT HER #I DONT CARE ABOUT HER!!!#harry potter

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eorzeanpages · 9 months

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I love it when people are excited about things.

Please, be unabashedly passionate about your weird (affectionate) little hobbies and blorbos.

I would love to hear about the tragic fate of an unnamed NPC in a game I've never played, because you will tell it to me in a way like no other, with so much striking detail that you'll find me on the wiki later.

(I have played games because they were described to me thus)

Btw long rambling lore rants are just as much creative endeavors as fanfic and fanart. Where do you think we get some of our inspirations? Passionate lore curators like you!

#fandom #creativity #fanfiction #fanart #lore curators #this isnt just for video games btw #movies shows books plays #and all the way out to like #painting sculptung furniture building whatever #tell me i want to know what makes your soul sing

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casuallivi · 1 year

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Meditation

Elain Week March 2023. Day 7. Free Day. @elainweekofficial

A sweet kiss to my our brilliant friend @nikethestatue who gives us the best nicknames. Here I am, stealing your lore again 🎵 forgive me, love you 😊😚❤️

The house felt oddly silent when there wasn’t a single loud-foul-mouth family member in it, the stillness balancing itself in the possibility of being disturbed at any minute, once one of them passed through the threshold. Her bet was on Cass, who had dinner with them nearly every night.

Elain’s love for her family cannot be measure in any metric system known for man or fae, but she won’t deny the peace and quiet is a soothing balm to her tired mind. The sounds never leave her. The creaking of worms digging the earth, the gentle unfurling of rose petals, beating wings cutting the air, water springing from between tiny rock, a cry of freedom, the quick legs of a panther chasing it’s prey, galloping horses marching into the battlefield, piercing screams of faceless men bathed in blood, waves breaking against the hull of a ship, the incessant cry of helpless females stolen from bed. Honeyed promises that demand compromise, complacency, obedience.

“Give in to me.”

Dread bristled the hairs her arm, lungs compressed, expelling everything there is inside, refusing to let her fill them back. She's trapped. No. She's drowning. Horror claws its way into her heart as water pools beneath her, soaking her gown, rising above her empty chest, threating to swallow her whole. A thousand ghost hands tug at her, dragging her down. Drowning her again.

“Breath.” The strong command doesn’t come from her daydreams, the male lying beside her wrapping her cold hand in his warm one, his patchwork of bumpy scars falling in line with the sunk gashes in her palm, fingers lacing with hers. “Breath.”

She’s desperate now, has lost any semblance of control, gasping for the air that won’t come.

“Water. Water is –”

“Not real.” The slice of her words is so sharp one might think he used Truth-Teller, leaving no place for second-guessing. The midnight voice, honed to conduct legions to glory, being spent in the mundane act of calming her down. A blasphemy of some sort, she’s sure.

Elain is lightheaded, body itching, changing, glowing. She had to lose her eyes in order to see the worlds with clarity, ancient power soaking her bones, the Seer woving itself within the fabrics of her soul, singing praises to the being that can finally contain her without shattering into million pieces. “Free,” it chants delirious, “I am free.” Elain isn’t. Elain is shackled. She’s back there, back at that nauseating day. Drowning. Dying. Dead.

Gentleness gives place to a bone-shattering grip that demands her attention. Air rushing back to her lungs in the shape of a painful whimper, desperate wheezes rattling her core. Tears stream past her dark lashes. “You are not there.” Stable words, confidant words, the constant swipe of a thumb moving back and forth over her clammy skin. “You are safe. You are with me. I got you.”

I got you.

Breath.

In and out.

He got her.

Breath. In and out. Just breath.

Elain tames the white glow escaping the translucent skin of her eyelids, the tremor in her hands, pushing the lump that clogs her throat all the way down.

A voice in the back of her mind calls her useless for failing the simple task he presented to her, tells her she should be ashamed to waste precious time so kindly offered to her. Elain holds him tighter. The voice can go to hell.

“Good.” Her cheeks heat at the praise she doesn’t deserve. “Very good.”

“I was terrible.” She contradicts. “You can tell me the truth. I won’t break if you yell at me.” Despite her words, Elain is in the verge of crying, overwhelmed with emotion. Stupid tears. She wished someone would shut her lacrimal canal forever.

“I don’t yell.” True. Azriel was probably born with the ability to make himself heard without uttering a single word, the strong essence of a leader brewing in his soul. “You think I could yell at you?” is a teasing question, an attempt to lighten the mood, but she can sense the faint hints of apprehension as he waits for her answer.

Elain knows he cares for her opinion, he has told her so. Sometimes she wonders if it's simply the family ties that bound them together, or if he has an inkling to the feeling blooming out of control from the depths of her heart, wonders if him, by some miracle, has been cultivating similar boldness in himself.

“Nah, you'd be too scared of me never letting you taste my cooking again.”

Her surroundings are perfectly clear once more. No throne room, no boiling cauldron, no evil gazes, just the townhouse living room. Couch, armchairs and center table have been pushed out of the way, creating a hollow space in the middle of the room, wood burning quietly on the hearth, Azriel and Elain laid side by side on top of the fuzzy cream rug, the only point of contact consisting in the now tightly woven hands resting between their bodies. Her other hand rests above her stomach, feeling the undulations caused by every breath, Elain trying to keep herself anchored to the present and not a slave to her cumbersome visions.

After long days of strenuous research, walking through multiple shops in search of way to grant her peace of mind, Elain came across a certain shadowsinger who stole her materials in the blink of an eye. The stack of book that had seemed like a mountain in her arms now looking like a tiny pile in his.

“Dream walking no more, how to control your sleeping body. The cognitive ability to transcend space and time...” He enunciated the tittles without looking at the books, being his usual meddlesome self. Of course he had seen it, nothing escaped the spymaster. "What are you doing?"

"Tests."

“Anything I can help you with?”

Yes.

“No need.”

“Are you sure? I am very good at keeping unwanted dreams at bay.”

“You don’t count.”

“Why not?”

“Because you accomplish that by not sleeping.”

The corner of his lip turned upwards. “Touché.”

Elain was nervous. Scared she’d take a wrong step in her journey to control her visions, and ending up losing them all together. She didn’t want to get rid of her seer abilities because of how useful they had been so far, but she wanted to tame them. She needed to. Time flow different in her head, visions stretching for days without end, seasons passing in front of eyes, vigilant months of agony that turned into years, Elain blinking back to reality to learn mere seconds had gone by, her glazed eyes the only indication that her mind had been far away.

When she voiced her concerns to Azriel, he said she needed to find an anchor to the present, introduced her to meditation as a way to stabilize her mind here and now. He told her, she should not feel pressure to unravel every vision as they came to her, comparing her hazed slumber to his unending reports. “Every information can be important for a specific cause, yes. But that doesn’t mean I have to read them all the same time. You control you vision Elain, not the contrary, remember that. Learn to choose what you see. When you see it.”

“What can I use as an anchor?”

“Anything you want.”

“Hold me.” Elain doesn’t know who is more surprised by the request, she or Azriel. She clears her throat. “Will you hold me if it gets too much? Will you bring me back?”

There's not an ounce of hesitation in his answers. “Always.”

His determination reminds her of a turbulent escape from behind enemy lines, the fear of eminent death, her resolve to at least help him to get out. Ready to let go of his neck if it meant he could fly out of there without the extra weight. Azriel had to live, no matter the cost. She needed him to.

Their sessions began with a quota of formality that never lasted till the end. Azriel was a firm teacher, yes, but he was also gentle and patient, smiling at her attempts to slack off, amused with a few small complaints. He even joked and laughed at her expenses. Physical Touch proved to be an anchor that worked nine times out of ten. Except that this anchor didn’t please her very much.

Their goal was to have him touch her as little as possible, because that would mean she was gaining control over the powers. Elain trained alone every chance she got, trying bother him the minimal possible, but it was hard to progress without someone to bring her back. Elain was growing frustrated from the constant failing.

“I don’t know if this is the right choice.” she confessed apprehensively.

Azriel’s hand laxed in hers

“Do I make you uncomfortable?”

“No! No, I fine with you, believe me. I trust you with my eyes closed,” she wiggled her brows, “quite literally. I just… I don’t want to keep depending on other. I want to be stronger.” Elain didn’t mind Azriel touching her, but Azriel wasn’t by her side all day long, no one was. All it took for Touching to be an unreliable crutch was she being alone. “I want to be strong like my sisters.”

“You are.” His proud tone didn’t escape her. “Let’s try something else. When the next wave comes, don’t wait for my touch,” he instructed. Elain relaxed her limbs, breathing deeply, his woody scent tickling her nose, calming her anxiety. “Think about the place you are, describe it in your mind. Furniture, shapes, color, smells, if there are people describe them too. Recall their clothes, conversation, mannerism. All that is information to keep you anchored, accurate as touching, without having you at the mercy of others. Sounds better?”

She nodded eagerly.

“Give it a try.”

“Yes, master.

Their carefully constructed bubble of concentration is popped in the blast of a canon. Wide-eyes mirror each other as their heads snap to the side. Shock, surprise, confusion. Different emotions cloud the air.

“What?”

"What?"

Elain keen ears capture the smirk in his tone, making her painfully conscient of the word she used, a word Nuala and Cerridwen say so much she picked up by habit, a word she only used as a joke when her friends were around.

“Say that again.”

His amusement fades as quick as it came. There’s a change in the air, subtle, or maybe she’s the one who is still learning how to identify it. Is this what they call a scent-change? Night-chilled mist mingles with something thicker, spicier, darker. There’s a dryness to her mouth there was not there before, the picked-up pace of a heart beat sounding almost indecent in strong gallops at her ear. Is it hers or his? Gods, she hopes is not hers.

Elain disentangle herself from him, sitting straight as an arrow, tense, smoothing her hair in a nervous habit. Azriel props himself on his elbow, watching her.

“The girls–” she stammers, not able to look at him. “The girls call you – I hear all the time, so – you know – you trained them, and now you train me –”

“You think this is training?” All color drains from Azriel’s face. His anxiety confusing her.

“Yes...?” Now he’s laughing at her, his leathery wing hitting her back, bumping her forward as he spams on the rug. “I don’t understand, you offered to train me,”

“I offered to help you. We spend time together anyway, improving some skills while at it doesn’t hurt.”

“I thought these were training sessions,” Elain mumbled, feeling self-conscious. “You helped me stretch and everything.”

“You said you neck was stiff from pruning the buds.” He quipped, attentive hands finding her shoulders, gently settling her back down, “you can’t be my apprentice, flower.”

Flower.

The endearment skittered across her skin like one of his curious shadows. It wasn’t the first time he used it, but Elain thanked the mother for being on the floor, because her knees were set on giving up every time he did.

“There are lines to be kept in a mentorship. Lines I do not wish to trace with you.” For a moment there it feels like he’s on top of her. “If I made you feel like a trainee up to this point, let’s get that cleared out of the way, shall we? I can be your master any time, but you are not my trainee. Bear that in mind.”

Elain clutches the rug, eyes rooming over his wings, looming wings that expanded under her attention, spreading proudly to their full extent. They take over the room, drooping things she can’t see or care about, shadowing everything beneath him including her. His hands are on either side of her head now, not a fleek of green in his darken gaze, zeroing on her.

Burning cedar invades her lungs, or maybe she’s the one burning up, imaging what it would feel like if he closed the distance and kissed her. Her face flushes. With a shaky breath, Elain gathers her flitting courage and ask,

“If I’m not a trainee, what am I?”

His wings snap back shut, Azriel settling on the floor, a tamed beast retracting into its cave. His answer is short, simple, declaring the five letters word capable of compassing all the feelings he couldn't find words to describe.

“Elain.”

It probably was.

Because she had a six letters word worthy of the same feature.

“Are you ready?”

“I am.”

“Good. Close your eyes.”

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rapono-writes-stuff · 5 months

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Excerpt from a fic I might end up not posting:

Mostly cuz it's a very simplified version of a plot brainworm I've had for the past few months, mixed with my lack of confidence in understanding the fandom source material. Also it's not even finished yet lol.

◇◇◇

The new stranger is familiar, and the hunter doesn't know why.

Tall, too tall, and blind, hair a stark white. Eyes always closed, and yet used their keen hearing to move as if they could see. Nothing about her was familiar, the hunter would've definitely remembered someone so vividly unordinary.

And yet, the song she often hummed scratched something familiar in the back of their mind, an undeniable feeling they'd heard it before. And for some reason, it made their guts twist with a terror they couldn't quite recall, a memory that refused to surface, but was undeniably there.

“Where'd you learn that song?”

They'd eventually been brave enough to ask, pretending they hadn't been putting off doing so, the stranger turning their head to face them, despite never opening their sightless eyes.

“…I can’t recall. Known it as long as I can remember.”

With that, they sung the beautiful tune once more, the mountains carrying their voice. The hunter stood and listened, as if the melody didn't strike them with prey-animal fear.

They dream of losing a hunt that night, but can’t recall what the monster they face looks like.

---

Today, the stranger approaches them first.

“What's troubling you little hunter? I can sense the tension in your limbs.”

They bite their tongue. They don’t want to admit the truth, make her stop singing, but they can’t find a lie.

“Your song is familiar, but I can’t recall why.”

Her posture stiffens, if only for a moment, a beat of silence unbroken. It feels a little too long, before her answer comes.

“Interesting. I wonder why.”

There's an old flatness to her tone, but the hunter doesn’t question it.

They notice she sings it less frequently around them after that, as if she knows the fear it brings. Only catching the tune in the distance, but quieting to silence as they grow close.

The hunter regrets their words, despite the fear it caused, they hadn't wanted this.

-----

The stranger has become a stranger no more. Still unusual, yes, but proving herself in the hunt, despite her lack of sight. A fellow hunter, a friend.

The song loses its bite, the tune becoming familiar for a new reason. Her voice is beautiful, and carries far, able to hear her from across the village on good day.

She no longer shies away when the hunter approaches, as they come to sit and listen.

-----

“Would you still fight alongside with me if I was a monster?”

The question catches the hunter off guard, an unusual question,

“Huh?”

She elaborates.

“If I was turned into a monster, would you hunt me?

Instinctually, a part of them pounces on a yes, of course. She would be a danger to them and everyone if such a horrible thing happened. And yet, they hesitate to answer, as a smaller, quieter voice is the one to break the silence, put the words on their tongue.

“…I don’t know.”

And it, unlike the first answer, feels more like the truth.

The former stranger smiles.

“I'd hope, at the very least, you'd hesitate.”

#fanfic #fanfiction #wip #The earth still sings #snippet #I'm too embarrassment to tag the fandom rn #Mostly cuz this whole story feels so wildly ooc to it #yes this was made vague as to not make it obvious what it was #I know I could just make it an au but anxiety go brrrrrrr #anyways this all of the finished sections I have atm #might post more later #edit: just realized autocorrect changed embarrassed to embarrassment but I'm not redoing all the tags #everwyrm revival

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wvrlock · 8 months

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// Fallahan would be ITCHING to write about Balduran and the Mindflayer Situation, but most importantly he would hear about him and Ansur and go "*nod nod* very good friends" and then go write fanfiction about them

#the moment when i realize #that real people fanfiction is gross but.#but that's very literally what bards do #wyll has fanfiction written about him #and people he's never met sing it in places he hasn't even been to #it's fine it's fantasy we can allow smutty fanfiction of rl people because they aren't actually real in the real world #;about ( fallahan )#spoilers

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thegalaxykatsworld · 9 months

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aaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH

OKAY SO

There was this fanfic I think called

Come what may AND IT WAS A SOMETHING OF AN OPRA OF OBI WAN SINGING COME WHAT WAY AND HIS OTHER SONGS

I HAVE SPENT THE LAST YEAR TRYING TO FIND IT

It’s EMBEDDED IN MY BRAIN AND I WANNA READ IT SOMEONE HELP OR MAKE ME A FANFIC OF MY LOVELY OBI WAN SINGING

EL DE TANGO ROXANNE

I will be in your dept 😭😭💜

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chrismerle · 12 days

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Wait was Alastor still injured during post-reconstruction sing along. What the fuck deer man. At least go to Rosie or someone.

until Charlie fixed his microphone he was, yeah. I doubt he's gonna discuss His Plan in detail in any future fics just 'cause it's not really relevant, but in my head he did kinda loosely plan on going to Rosie later (like, in the next couple days), he just wasn't super gung-ho about wading into the cannibals while they were still keyed up and hungry while he was relatively unarmed and actively bleeding

#ask #downthegenderriver #fanfiction #admittedly that's a very retroactive take #when i wrote post-reconstruction sing along i did not plan on writing a fucking novel #so i was just not thinking about the fact that al was injured because that wasn't what the fic was about #but the autism has me in a chokehold and now here we are

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bleakyblues · 1 year

Link

Chapters: 1/? Fandom: KinnPorsche: The Series (TV) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Porsche Pachara Kittisawat/Kinn Anakinn Theerapanyakun, Porchay Pichaya Kittisawat/Kim Khimhant Theerapanyakun, Pete Phongsakorn Saengtham/Vegas Kornwit Theerapanyakun Characters: Porsche Pachara Kittisawat, Kinn Anakinn Theerapanyakun, Jom (KinnPorsche: The Series), Yok (KinnPorsche: The Series) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Fluff and Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, This is all I have for now, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Tags May Change Summary:

Let it be rendered by your pen, the tale of a man whose parentage deemed him a prince, fate declared a servant and love crowned an emperor.

#kinnporsche #kinnporche the series #kp fanfic #kinnporsche fanfiction #what songbirds sing of to the sun

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hazbinbossbrainrot · 1 year

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Songs used:

Credits go to: TheDragonSaver

Easter eggs:

Octavia’s voice what it would sound like 🥹:

Sound seen familiar? 😏

(Because just quietly, IMO, prefer Bryce Pinkham singing Stolas Sings AKA Owl in a Cage than Sam Haft

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Me:

Feedback (scroll down only if you’ve read it):

• I love how there’s a backstory of Stella and how she at least tried to connect with Octavia and somewhat was more amicable with Stolas as an acting co-parent even though they don’t really love each other; but would do anything for their daughter

* But in my opinion, even though this was really about Octavia and Stella, it would’ve been nicer to have that moment with Stolas as well rather just making a small cameo here and there (I mean canonically he did majority of Octavia’s upbringing — hence why she’s her “daddy’s daughter” — up since Stella had no desire in comforting her at such a young age after having a nightmare as all kids want the comfort of their parents)

• I do feel like Stolas is as “ditzy” or “oblivious” as he had been portrayed as in this fanfic, then again this could either be take from Stella’s perspective and my biased opinion for the latter

I think, if it came to Octavia, he would’ve just as sceptical of his daughter and her double life, because let’s not forget he is a bookworm which means he would have a lot of intellect (okay, yes, he’s not as guarded as let’s say Blitz would be) but I would say their on the same page.

However, I will acknowledge that, in my opinion, that Stolas had SOME obliviousness about the belief that Blitz loves him too in episodes 1x1 - 1x06 (til the end of “Ozzie’s”)

But again he had come to the conclusion that this wasn’t the case after his failed “date” with Blitz after they were both humiliated by As(s)modeus and Fizzarolli (mainly)

• In my opinion, I felt surprised to read that Stolas got angry with Octavia for having a “normal life” and was being a little classist in the making when saying that she “couldn’t” be with someone who was lower of their “class” considering that’s actually what he had wanted for her canonically when he and Stella were arguing (in 2x01 “The Circus”)

* However I will acknowledge that this little detail had been covered when Octavia told her father that he was a hypocrite for doing the same thing with Blitz

Then again, in my opinion, I felt it was weird for me in my heart because I know Stolas would never pull a “Stella 2.0” he just not an elitist that way. he’s too compassionate to do that.

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But other than that, with all my mixed emotions all over the place (in a good way), I can safely say, without shame, that this was the BEST fanfiction I’ve ever read. It was almost like something out of a movie I would’ve watched

I honestly don’t think there will be anything better in comparison to this. I may be a bit biased here but I’d say that this and “Turf Wars” (one of my own with help of a role playing partner) would be my all time favourites for sure!

Now for some positives:

Great work.

Great characters

Great storyline

Great atmosphere

Great taste in music

Great character goals

Definitely a 10/10 + a review from me and share this to your friends, family and followers! 🤩

(And definitely worth reading again!)