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caperingcryptid · 8 months

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Showtunes

@fallenlondonficswap @tjada-works-the-nightshift

(Notes: Wrote this for my part of the secret swap! Hope you enjoy!)

Showtunes

Clarabelle, The Hybrid, and The Fading Music-Hall Singer (1863 Words)

Song was how they bonded.

After a show once, some university know-it-all had pulled her aside to go on jabbering about the beauty of music- to her, of all people! As if she didn't know what it was she was able to draw forth from her own lungs, as if she didn't recognize the beauty in the way air was spun to song like straw to gold.

He'd gone into the technicalities of music language and some peer-review studies that he'd done on the subject, and Clarabelle had done her best not to let her thoughts wander far enough her disinterest showed on her face when he'd said something that brought her out of her daydream.

“Music,” the know-it-all had said, “is the universal language. It doesn't matter if you're from the Fifth City or the Fourth, or- h-ll, even Rubbery, for that matter. You can find a form of it in every society. Makes you wonder if we're more alike with birds than apes, eh?”

Music, the universal language. The thought had hung with her for some time before it was lost to distraction, was buried in the fog of amnesia that was...that place (Clarabelle shuddered to even think of it, though she mercifully had little memory of that time), and only now again had resurfaced.

Clara supposed it shouldn't have come as much of a surprise. Music ran in her veins, as did her sister’s. It was only appropriate, if not sickeningly so, that the progenitor of the child that had been planted within her had been a songster, too.

Not just any child, but the Child. She was holding them in her arms now, feeding them the latest drops of nectar that their other (probably) human parent had brought with them. The Child was not human, but they weren't quite glim-beast, either. The mandibles were inhuman, but the lips forming within were not. The eyes, their other parent's eyes, were bright and sweet with innocence...but their claws had the swiftness and the sharpness to pluck birds from the air and reduce them to little more than a chunk of flesh.

Human, but not. Glim-beast, but not. A chimera. They adored their parent from the occasional visits that they were able to sneak into their schedule, but Clara took special pride in the fact that it was she who was able to bond with both halves of their child’s whole.

If music was the universal language, then Clara was a master linguist. And their Child, she'd found, was already not too far behind.

Clara curled her finger around the little hand, squeezed, and smiled. She hummed a snippet of a showtune that was popular at Mahogany Hall before she'd...had her departure: not the weasel one (dear god no), but something bright and lively and catchy, though not so much that it'd stick around in the brain like gum.

The Child stared moonishly up at her for a moment, considered the tune, and hummed it back in a voice that was almost human. Clara nodded encouragingly, and, beaming, the Child hummed through it again: like a parrot, Clara thought.

They sang it through once, twice, and then fell silent. The first time this had happened, Clara had offered up another tune, only for the Child to reach up and cover her mouth with a chubby hand. They wanted silence. They wanted to think it over.

They wanted, more specifically, to create.

Not one to disappoint, after a second longer, the Child opened its mouth again, venom dribbling down its chin like saliva. Clara dutifully dabbed it up with a leaf just in time for the Child to start. In a clear, almost mournful voice, they sang. It was her tune, Clara's tune, but where she had left off the Child carried on, stretching the sound out into something both wispy and wistful.

Though the Child was still so young, they captured feeling that not even some of the ancient songstresses at the Hall had been able to dream of. A feeling of nostalgia and homesickness set up camp in Clara's chest, squeezing at her heart and bringing tears to her eyes. Home. They'd made up a suitable place to stay here in Parabola, but it was a far cry from the cryptic, sultry air of her favorite London circles.

She had been someone. Not a Someone, but still a someone. There were friends (did they still remember her?) who she'd laughed with over spilt wine and little cakes of face powder. She yearned for companionship like drink and meal. She yearned for the familiar. Most of all, she yearned for a time that had seemed so thoughtless long before, but was now so sacred. She yearned for the freedom of feeling like a person, rather than a pushed-upon pawn.

It wasn't just that insatiable longing that drove her to tears, though. An instinctive part of her knew that her home was not the Child's. Sooner than she'd like, the Child would have to leave to where they belonged.

The tears pricking at her eyes trailed warmly down her cheeks, and, just like that, the dam was broken. She wept against the Child's chitin, holding it close to her chest. She'd lost so much already, and there was still more to lose yet. Hadn't those b-stards taken enough from her? Didn't she deserve a little light, a little love, after the horror that life had dragged her through?

She wept. The Child, song forgotten, reached up to brush her tears with a talon. It cooed a question Clara didn't know how to answer, eyes worried and knowing all at once. Her Child. Their Child. A chimera that didn't quite belong in this world or hers, and that, despite the horror of their carrying, she had loved with a stubborn, burning fierceness from the moment she felt it stir inside her.

Clara sobbed, held the Child a little tighter, then did what she could to pull herself back together. It wouldn't do to trouble the baby so. Though she was proud of the keen intelligence that lit up those eyes, it sometimes worried her, too. She didn't want it to leave her with her worries nagging at it.

As she wiped at her face with the hand not carrying the Child, another hand clasped gently on her arm. Clara looked up into a tired mirror of herself: her sister. Guilt panged through her for a moment. Her sister had suffered, had lost, had been changed, too.

Worst of all, she'd sacrificed. For her. Though doing so only worsened the guilt, Clara braced herself, as if expecting her dearest sister to reach out and strike her. Instead, she smiled oh-so sadly at her, and somehow that was worst of all.

“Clara.” It'd been some time since the Song of Birthing, and her sister's voice was still a dry and ragged whisper. The Fading Music-Hall Singer had very likely thrown her entire livelihood away for her sake, and there was nothing Clara would be able to do in this life or the next to truly thank her for it.

“Clara,” she said again, and winced. Clara took her hand in hers.

“You don't have to speak,” Clara told her. “You shouldn't. The doctor said you still need to rest your voice. Please, don't strain yourself.”

“It's my voice, and I'll strain it if I d-mn well please.” Her sister tossed her hair back like a defiant mare, and a faint smile ghosted upon Clara's lips in reply. ”I wanted to talk to my sister. That's worth a little-“

Her sister swallowed thickly, swallowing the pain down with it. ”That's worth a little sore throat, I think,“ she managed.

”You could always write.“

”I'm not a coward.“

”It's not being a coward if it's- oh, heaven help me.“

The Child, oblivious to sisterly bickering, lit up (both literally and metaphorically) at the sight of its aunt. It reached its hands out, babbling excitedly, and the Singer obligingly scooped them out of Clara's arms and into hers. She bounced the baby against her hip, unmindful of the segmented legs or the way its body curled like a shrimp's.

”Getting big,“ said the Singer. The pain returned to her eyes, mingling with grief. Clara thought, for a moment, of the Child's lost cousin, the Singer's child, and her heart clenched.

”The doctor said they'll get even bigger. By the time we leave, they might even be the size of a calf.“

”Comparing your child to a cow? Cruel.“ The Singer lightly bopped the baby's nose and got a giggle out of it. ”Maybe I should steal them away. Keep them in my boudoir and slip them fruit between shows. They can be my darling little apprentice.“

”If you'd like to spend your time off wiping up venom and wrestling rat corpses away from them, then by all means.“

”Oh, please. All babies are messy. This one's just a little-“ The Singer's voice broak off in a terrible croak. Clara nearly shot up to her feet before her sister motioned for her to stay where she was.

The Singer coughed, cleared her throat with a grimace, and spat onto the ground outside the tent. ”H-ll,” she said. “I'm fine.”

“You're not.” Clara's brow furrowed. “What did you want to talk about, really?”

The Singer looked back at her for a moment, face sobering, before her gaze drifted down to the Child.

“Getting big,” she said again. “You're thinking about it, aren't you?”

Clara was quiet for a moment. The entire tent slid into soundlessness. “We've lost so much,” she whispered. “I...the thought of losing them too is...”

“To Fires?“ They both grit their teeth at the name. ”Or to time?“

”Both,“ Clara admitted. ”I keep thinking how nice it would be to take them home with us. To raise them in our footsteps, and teach them the alphabet, and...“ Her voice broke. ”Let them have a life. With us.”

“We can't.”

“I know.”

They both looked down at the Child, who, bored and full of nectar, had begun to doze against the front of the Singer's blouse.

“Do you think they'll forget me?” Clara looked up at the Singer's unreadable face. “I'm sure they'll be able to...to have a better life. Up there. But if they forget...”

“You're their mother. Of course not.”

The bitter, tired part of Clara wanted to cut in with “I was more their host”, but they both knew that wasn't true. It hadn't been true since the moment she had come to love the Child.

The Singer put a gentle hand on Clara's shoulder again, and she leaned into the touch, closing her eyes.

“It's going to hurt,“ said the Singer. ”And I'm sorry I can't protect us from that, either. But no matter what happens, we'll have each other.“

”We will.“ Clara looked up at her twin, and the surety and burning, protective love there made her confident of it.

The Singer squeezed Clara's shoulder, eyes softening a touch, and she smiled.

”Now, take your kid back. Going to drool a hole in my shirt at this rate.“

#fallen london #failbetter games #light fingers spoilers #ambition: light fingers #light fingers clarabelle #light fingers the hybrid #light fingers the fading music-hall singer #writing #creative writing

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ot7stan4life · 8 months

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“It’s Not Wrong”

Dreamcatcher (OT7) x Female Reader

Word Count: 8,980

Summary: As the 8th member of Dreamcatcher, you struggle with your growing attraction towards your members, because, in your mind, loving seven different people isn’t natural and couldn’t possibly be considered acceptable by any normal human being… so why would they be okay with it?

“It- it’s wrong.”

“You love us, how is there anything wrong with that?”

Warnings: angst, brief mentions of homophobia, mild sexual content

The audience's excited screams echoed around the arena as we all waved our goodbyes, fading only when the lift lowered us beneath the stage, yet never leaving my mind completely. Even when our managers herded us into two separate black vans that would be taking us to a nearby hotel, the adrenaline pumping through my veins and the dull roar of what sounded like waves rushing in my ears from a night of being stimulated by loud music were permanent reminders of the performance we had just put on.

Kcon LA. It was a big deal for a group of our scale. And, after singing in front of a crowd of that size (one bigger than we had ever seen before), I could tell the members were feeling as elated as I was. If the way Bora pulled me down the hall when we arrived at the hotel and shoved me into our shared room with Minji and Siyeon following closely behind was anything to go off of, I'd guess I was about to experience what being on the receiving end of the dancer's excited energy entailed. I didn't know whether to be excited myself or utterly terrified.

Luckily I was able to convince them to let me have the first shower—which they only agreed upon under the promise that I would stay up to entertain them (not sure what that meant exactly, but I was honestly too afraid to ask)—and immediately took the first chance I got to slip into the bathroom before any chaos ensued. Just fifteen minutes later, my sore muscles had been soothed by the warm water and I was drying off, finally allowing myself to wind down for the night. My conflicting feelings for the members had really been getting to me lately, but I was thankful our busy schedule helped keep my mind off of it.

Though, I had a feeling those emotions would become unavoidable sooner rather than later when I realized I forgot to grab a change of clothes from my suitcase. Even more unfortunately, the only towels in the bathroom were borderline too small to cover all of my... assets.

Fantastic.

Wrapping the towel around me as best as I could, I crossed my fingers hoping the members occupying the hotel room had left to get some food or weren't paying attention before I opened the door. Though, my luck ran short not even two steps out of the bathroom when Siyeon began cat-calling me.

"Yah, sexy," she shouted. I froze, looking over at her timidly. "Come over here. Don't be shy." The singer was clearly joking around, but that didn't stop me from blushing at her words.

"What?" Bora laughed at Siyeon's weird behavior. Seconds later, her curious head popped out from behind the wall where she had been sitting to see what the older woman was looking at. I wanted to strangle Siyeon the moment Bora's eyes widened at the sight of me. "Ooooh," she exclaimed, her eyes shamelessly raking over the bare skin my towel failed to cover while a smirk creeped onto her lips.

Attempting to ignore them, I walked further into the room in search of my suitcase. That only made things worse when Minji was finally able to see me and they all started making shocked and impressed noises. "Ooh, so sexy," Minji doted. My cheeks burned being the center of attention and feeling incredibly exposed.

"Omo, jagi," Bora started, "did you come to give us a show?"

My heart skipped a beat.

"Yah!" I shouted in surprise, stopping to look back at her. Actually seeing all of their eyes on me, confirming that they really had been staring this whole time, made my knees go weak. "I forgot to grab a change of clothes, alright?" My voice came out angry, but they caught the hint of a smile on my lips before I could hide it.

Bora started giggling. "Look at how embarrassed she is." Her finger pointed up at me as if they weren't all already looking.

Siyeon laughed, but Minji scolded, "Yah, leave her alone." I nearly fell for how caring the leader sounded, but then I noticed her eyes lingering for a second too long on my bare thighs. She was just as bad as them.

"Oh c'mon, you like it too, unnie," Siyeon said, "don't kill the fun."

"Yeah, the best part's just starting," Bora scooted to the edge of the bed. "I haven't even gotten to touch her yet." My eyes blew wide and I only had a split second to guard myself before the small woman launched from the bed and ran over to start groping me.

"Don't touch me!" I yelled. With one hand holding up my towel, I only had one left to try and block her attacks. This allowed the main dancer to get a few quick squeezes of my thighs and one of my ass over the towel before I ran to the other side of the room, out of her reach. "Stop it," I squealed as she chased after me.

Bora was all giggles while I was full on panicking—for several reasons. Before I could seek safety in the bathroom, the small woman stopped me halfway with a shove. Minji was yelling at us to not get hurt and Siyeon was just laughing as they watched the whole thing pan out. The atmosphere changed quickly though when Bora pinned me against the wall. Even with her being a head shorter than me, I still felt trapped. My pulse throbbed in my ears as I breathed heavily from both the running and the way Bora's small hands had felt against my bare skin.

Miraculously, I had managed to keep the towel on with one hand while the other held cautiously onto Bora as she stood on her tippy toes so that we were nearly face-to-face. Her hands were not as innocent, one at the base of my neck, teasingly traveling downwards while the other lay flat against my stomach, pushing my back into the wall. We were so close that her nose nearly brushed mine when she looked down, not-so-subtly admiring the curve of my breasts revealed by the towel. Her other hand traveled lower, getting a feel for the skin on the back of my thigh.

"You're not even going to give me a little peek?" She whispered just for us to hear, her fingertips dragging closer to what she really wanted to feel. I found my mind fixated on that word: me. It was no longer an us. She didn't care about playing it up for the others. No, it was just her who wanted it now.

Her eyes flicked up to mine, showing me the want deep within them as her fingers gripped the curve if my butt. "Unnie," I gasped, feeling at a loss for words. She had done this stuff plenty of times. The teasing, the flirting, even the ass-grabbing. She was Kim Bora after all. It was to be expected. What was not expected though was the hint of desperation I caught from her in that moment. If she happened to be feeling any fraction of what I had felt for her in the past two years, I knew she was searching for any sort of confirmation or reciprocation of her own feelings from me. And this felt like a confession.

I found myself involuntarily glancing down at her lips. So many countless nights I had spent imagining what they might feel like against mine, overwhelmed by an excited thrill wondering if she'd be just as aggressive in intimate moments as she was normally or if she'd break character, acting more calm and submissive. All these possibilities made my stomach burn and I knew I should stop before my arousal became evident on my thighs, but it was so hard to when she was looking at me like that.

The fact that her and I were not alone was a rude awakening the moment Minji appeared next to us, pulling Bora away just before either of us could lean in and do something we might regret later. Had I not known any better, I might've considered Minji's stern gaze and cocked jaw a sign of jealousy as she berated the younger member for touching me in such a way. But I did know better, brushing it off as merely her protectiveness required as our leader. With no shortage of fussing, the dancer eventually let in, giving me one final once-over before allowing me to grab my clothes and retreat to the bathroom.

When I was successfully clothed, I returned to the room to find the unnie line carrying on as if nothing had ever happened. It had me debating if it was all a dream, but the sting of Bora's firm grip on my sensitive skin still lingered, evidence enough of the encounter. After something like that, they normally wouldn't shut up about it, finding joy in teasing me for days on end. The unusual silence seemed strange. Still, it meant less embarrassment for me, so I gladly ignored it, settling down on the bed Bora was currently on the edge of.

About half an hour of casual conversation had passed between the four of us without anything eventful occurring. It wasn't until Bora started getting loopy from her increasing tiredness that things began to ramp up once more. I made the mistake of joking about her loud voice surely sending everyone in the audience home with hearing problems, resulting in her initiating a wrestling match between us on the bed. She griped at me for being such a 'brat,' grabbing and violently shaking any body part of mine that she could get ahold of.

I couldn't help but giggle uncontrollably at the sensation of her tiny hands pinching at my skin and how easy she was to offend, and now I was beginning to understand why Yoohyeon found it so fun to toy with her. Well, that is... until Bora landed on top of me, straddling my hips with a suddenly very different goal in mind. The abrupt change in mood had my body stilling completely under her. When I dared to meet her stare, I caught a glint of mischief in it that surely couldn't be leading anywhere good.

Like before, her hands pressed down on my stomach to keep my back flat against the bed. Tilting her head to the side, she looked down at me, raising her eyebrows up once before lowering them again. "Your move," she smirked, already conducting another one of her games that would surely end in chaos.

Looking to my left, I noticed Minji and Siyeon watching us with cautious eyes. There was this sort of rush it gave me, just like the concert, that dared me to continue. They had so often tested the boundaries of our relationships, so why couldn't I do the same? Knowing that it would surprise them made it seem that much more tempting. Now that I wasn't exposed and had been handed back the control, I wanted to give them a show.

So, without even considering the repercussions of my actions, I grabbed Bora's hips and pushed her over. She squealed in shock when I ended up on top of her, my body resting between her legs. "Your move." A satisfied smile formed on my lips when I heard the other two members let out mumbles of surprise. Bora didn't allow me to bask in my victory much longer, always insistent on one-uping me. She liked when I got like this more than she'd ever care to admit and was eager to take it a step further.

Her arms previously resting on my shoulders slithered up to my neck and with one firm tug, I was leaning over her, so close that I could feel her breath on my lips. Now I knew I was in over my head. Her beautiful features and her fingers intertwined around the back of my neck locking me into place made it difficult to breathe. Every spark, every chill, every heart flutter that she had ever made me feel resurfaced all at once and seared itself permanently into my chest. There was never any denying that I was attracted to her—I mean, look at her. Who wouldn't be?—but now, as I lost myself in the inescapable pull of her soft, brown eyes, there was absolutely no denying that I was in love with her.

"Your move," she whispered the softest whisper I had ever heard leave her mouth, never once looking away. Her eyes seemed to be communicating in ways that her words couldn't and the expectant, even hopeful look in them had me convinced this is exactly what she wanted.

So, I gave it to her.

The moment my lips met hers, time seemed to stand still. I felt her inhale, forcing her to press further up into me as her fingers tightened at the nape of my neck. My mind went completely blank finally feeling how silky and warm her lips were against mine. They were impossibly softer and her kiss gentler than I could've ever imagined. And I certainly wasn't counting on the fact that she wouldn't want to pull away, holding me there a few precious seconds longer than what I assumed normal.

After what felt like hours, she loosened her grip on my neck, letting me release her lips slowly. The loss of pressure elicited the sound of a light smack, sending an unexpected sensation of pleasure through my body. Her eyes fluttered open to meet mine, appearing dazed and intoxicated by the kiss. Within those few seconds, she granted me a look at the real Bora: the one beyond all the playful, unserious facades she put up. The one that was really as soft and vulnerable and desperate for love as the rest of us were. And knowing that she trusted me enough to give me a glimpse into her heart had me bearing my own for her to take claim of.

However, doubt was quick to take hold of my thoughts when Bora's eyes widened, concealing her initial reaction with an over-dramatic expression of shock. As she laughed incredulously before glancing to her left, I became all too aware of my surroundings. "Jinjja," she yelled, a smile of disbelief painting her lips. I followed her eyes, spotting Minji and Siyeon both mirroring her surprise, mouths drawn open and eyes blown wide.

The weight of my actions came crashing down, suffocating me with unavoidable feelings of regret and embarrassment. How did I really expect this to turn out anyways? Desperate to find an escape from their stares, I hid my face in Bora's neck, clutching her sides as if I could disappear into her.

"Can you believe her?" Bora played it up, pretending like she didn't kiss me back with just as much—if not more—conviction.

"I'm sorry," I mumbled ashamedly, but her neck muffled my voice. God, why didn't I think this through? Reluctantly pushing myself up, I looked down at her shyly. "I'm sorry," I repeated.

Bora paused, her smile faltering as she took in my humiliated expression. I almost thought she was going to reassure me, until a look of uncertainty crossed her own eyes. "Yah," she covered it up, her smile only growing, "look at how red her face is." She raised her hand to point a finger at me like she had done before and laughed. Though she didn't have much room to talk, a pink blush tinting her own cheeks.

"Unnie," I whined, rolling off of her to lay on my back and hide my face in my hands. When would this night ever end?

Following a few more jokes, Bora eventually stopped pestering me about it for the moment. Still, I couldn't ignore the knot that settled in my stomach with the uneasiness lingering in the air between us. Their reaction had been both expected and unexpected. Obviously I knew they'd be shocked, but the three oldest members struck me as the type that would encourage this sort of behavior. In the past I even caught myself wondering if any of them had shared a kiss in the privacy of the dorms out of genuine physical attraction or just pure curiosity. In my mind, it seemed more than probable given the fact that pursuing romantic relationships outside of the group wasn't exactly allowed as well as the inkling I had about at least a couple of the members having a preference for women. Yet, now with all of them appearing avoidant and standoffish after the kiss, I wasn't so sure.

Did I read them all wrong? Did I completely fabricate the concept of them being accepting of that sort of thing because of their touchy and flirtatious tendencies? Most of all though, did I entirely misjudge Bora's reactions to the entire thing?

After all this, I was beginning to think I didn't know anything at all.

—

It was just a few days after we'd traveled back to Korea and I couldn't seem to sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, my mind replayed the kiss with Bora over and over again, encouraging me to over-analyze every single little detail. The prospect that I had crossed a major line was stressing me out, to say the least. Strangely, the whole thing also made me feel sad. That part confused me the most. Maybe I wanted her to tell me it was okay. Or maybe I wanted her to even admit that she liked it. But really, what could I expect her to say with the other two members watching? I wasn't completely oblivious to the fact that she wanted it, but even then, how could I be sure that it meant anything real to her? That it wasn't just playful?

Deciding that overthinking was doing me no good, I left my room and went into the kitchen. It was dark and quiet, the other members having gone to bed a couple hours ago. The dim lights on the bottom of the cabinets illuminated the area enough for me to find the handle of the fridge. When I opened it, bright, blue, artificial light came pouring out, forcing my eyes to squint as they adjusted. I wasn't feeling particularly hungry, but I needed something to satiate my mind. A bottle of water would surely suffice.

As I reached out for one, I felt a whoosh of air and the sensation of hands sliding across my hips from behind. My entire body went rigid as my mind instantly assumed the worst. Even though I had slowly grown used to the abundance of physical affection my members gave me, the timing and scenario had me in a momentary panic.

Before I was able to do anything drastic, arms snaked all the way around my waist and I felt a warm, feminine figure press against my back. "It's just me," the familiar voice of our group's main vocalist said softly near my ear as she rested her chin on my shoulder. I let out a breath of relief, resting my hands on top of hers that had found their way beneath the hem of my t-shirt. Though, it was less calming and more nerve-wracking given my growing attraction to the older woman.

Having her this close allowed more opportunities for embarrassment, or, in her case, teasing. Though, the feeling of her lips pressing gently to my cheek elicited less of a flustered feeling and more of a depressed one. The memory of Bora's response to my kiss suspended permanently in the forefront of my mind, preventing me the luxury of indulging in the idea that little touches like these were glimpses into a deeper truth.

I should've known all along that I'd never be able to have what I truly wanted—never be able to fulfill my heart's deepest desire—but that reality hurt too much now that it had finally revealed itself. Obviously I knew I couldn't have all of them. Giving your heart to two different people with the promise of sharing it equally was arguably unrealistic, so offering it up to seven with that same promise was absolutely absurd. Still, I tried to hold out hope for as long as possible. And the way they all seemed to reinforce their feelings for me on a daily basis only made that hope grow at an alarming rate. How was I supposed to stop my wishful thinking when every thing they did confirmed that it could be a possibility?

"Couldn't sleep?" Siyeon asked, grounding me.

I sighed, feeling exhausted by my emotions, and finally allowed myself to lean back into her welcoming embrace, ignoring the way my heart fluttered at her warmth. "Yeah."

Siyeon unraveled one of her arms from around me to close the fridge door. Missing my opportunity to grab a water didn't bother me as much as it might've had I not gotten a little nauseous from the sickening pain my thoughts brought on. Even though she seemed to be enjoying this quiet moment between us, Siyeon slowly spun me around in her arms. I didn't meet her eyes, anticipating the questioning that would surely follow my admission.

"Jagi," her fingers reached up to brush a hair out of my eyes. "What's wrong?" she said in such a way that had me believing for a split second that she might know what I was going through, but the thought fleeted almost instantly. There's no way she could've.

"Nothing," I replied simply, though even I knew it didn't sound convincing. Clearly it wasn't nothing, but I had already made up my mind that talking to her about it (or any of them, for that matter) would do no good. It's not like she could fix everything and magically make the members fall for me like I'd fallen for them.

Her hand rested on my cheek and she spoke carefully, "I can tell it's not nothing." The tone of her voice compelled me to finally glance up at her.

The look in her eyes was all-too-familiar to me. She worried for her members, sometimes too much, because she cared for us so deeply. And this look told me she knew something was wrong and wouldn't be leaving until it was made right again. It truly was one of the things I loved most about her—her undying protectiveness for her loved ones—but now I was growing to dread it. Fear it, even. Because she had me dangling off the edge of admitting it all to her right there, one slip away from slinging my arms over her shoulders and letting her hold me as I shed every last tear I had stored inside of me.

"It's nothing serious, really." I looked down with a forced smile, hoping she'd just let it go. Though, deep down, there was this desperate cry inside of me, begging for her to continue prodding until I had no other option but to spill everything. All I needed was that one final shove off the cliff to get these unbearable secrets off my chest.

"Y/NN," she said sadly, rubbing her thumb across my cheek. "Is this about the kiss?" Her question made my heart grow ten times heavier in my chest and my eyes darted up to meet hers in surprise. How did she know?

"What, no! Of course not," I rushed out, feeling much too exposed for my own liking. If anything, I was preparing to explain the entire situation to her myself—if I did end up caving. I never could've expected her to know precisely what was bothering me. It made me feel ridiculous. Did I really make it that obvious? But Siyeon wasn't looking at me in a degrading or amused way. In fact, the look in her eyes was so frighteningly sympathetic and understanding that I was almost totally convinced she might even be struggling with the same sort of dilemma. At the thought that I wasn't alone in my suffering, my nose started burning, warning of oncoming tears threatening to fall and expose everything I've tried so tirelessly to conceal. Did she really understand?

"Oh, jagi," Siyeon frowned when she noticed my eyes turn glassy and my bottom lip quiver. The reality that the kiss I was crying over probably meant nothing to anyone else but me made me feel pathetic, yet Siyeon never once seemed to judge me. "Come here," she said, giving me no possible option to refuse her offer of consolation. I obeyed anyways as she gently guided me over to the couch, losing all strength to refuse once the onset of my breakdown approached.

The back of my thighs barely touched the cushions before the older member was pulling me into her chest. That was enough to crack through the dam stifling my endless pool of tears, and now there was nothing to keep them from flowing freely. "It's okay," Siyeon cooed softly, rubbing my back in soothing circles as I cried into her shirt. "I know. It's okay," she reassured and repeated the same phrase over again for the next few minutes, allowing me plenty of time to get everything out.

When the tears began to subside, sobs dwelling to quiet sniffles, Siyeon turned to grab something. I sat up and watched as she pulled a tissue from a box on the coffee table. Without saying anything, she turned to hold my chin and started wiping the tears off my cheeks. As I watched her face, the noticeable shiny glint in her eyes and the way her jaw clenched while she took in my (probably pitiful) appearance hinted that she was likely fighting back tears of her own. Guilt twisted in my gut knowing that I was being selfish burdening her with my pain and not even considering the hurt it might have caused her to see me in such a state.

"I'm sorry," I croaked out, grabbing her wrist.

Siyeon halted her actions, eyes flicking up to mine. "Don't apologize." Her voice was firm, but not angry. "Especially for this."

I shook my head. Why did she have to be so selfless? "You should be sleeping right now, not having to deal with this," I motioned to myself.

She put the tissue down and grabbed my hands, pulling me closer to her. "If you really think I could sleep peacefully right now knowing how you feel, then you must not know me that well." A gentle smile pulled at her lips and her voice softened, "I'd do this every night in a heartbeat if that's what you needed." The sincerity in her words had me on the brink of tears once more. There was no doubt in my mind that she meant every word she said.

I pouted. "Quit it," I mumbled, letting go of her hand to shove her shoulder. "You're gonna make me cry again." My words had her laughing. Feeling a bit more relieved after shedding some of the tears I had bottled up, I was able to laugh with her.

As our laughter died down, Siyeon leaned into me, showing off her beautiful smile. I admired it, feeling a swell of pride in my heart knowing I was the cause of it. It was honestly kind of unbelievable. Here I was, interrupting her sleep and ruining her shirt, yet I was also somehow the one making her laugh and bringing her joy. How could I be so lucky to find myself on the receiving end of such unconditional love? And how could I possibly consider myself deserving after feeling like such a burden?

Siyeon's forehead met mine, drawing me from my thoughts. As if the contact allowed her to hear my thoughts, she caressed my cheek and washed my worries away with three simple words. "I love you." It came out as a whisper, almost like she was telling me a secret. That stubborn spark of hope that I had tried so hard to stomp out the past few days ignited while we shared a moment staring into each other's eyes. The absolute last thing I needed right now was another intimate moment that I'd spend hours on end reading too much into—considering how that ended up with the whole Bora thing—but I could already feel my heart clutching onto those words and savoring the loving look in her eyes as if they were the blood that kept it pumping.

A breath unevenly slipped past my lips when Siyeon finally pulled away, giving me space. I relaxed back into the couch, straightening myself out and staring down at my hands in my lap to avoid her gaze. She shifted, angling her body and propping her head up with her elbow on the back of the couch to look at me.

"So," she trailed off, "do you want to talk about it?" Her voice was delicate, like she was afraid she'd speak too loud or say the wrong thing that would send me into another breakdown or scare me off entirely.

I hummed in indecision while I distracted myself, playing with the two adjustable strings dangling from the waistband of my sweatpants. The longer I debated it, the more I started to doubt how Siyeon would actually react. What if she just assumed I liked Bora? Or what if she doesn't think it's that at all? How would she really feel if I told her I was in love with seven different people? Any normal person would think I was insane.

Her right hand cut my thoughts short, laying on top of both of mine to stop my fidgeting. "What if I start?" she offered when I made eye contact with her.

I couldn't be sure what she possibly had to say, but, in my mind, it seemed like a better option than going first. So I agreed. "Okay," I swallowed thickly, suddenly feeling the nerves creeping back in. Now I was regretting not grabbing that bottle of water.

Siyeon released her head from her left hand and sat up straight, using both hands to grab one of mine and started softly pinching the back of it. I just hoped she didn't notice how cold my fingertips had gotten or the goosebumps that riddled my skin. "I think I have an idea of what you're going through, and I don't ever want you to feel like you have to hide this from us."

The words hit me all at once and the racing thoughts that followed were overwhelming. I was so busy trying to figure out what she thought she knew, I couldn't even appreciate how sweet her words were. She seemed to hit the nail on the head, but what she said could've applied to almost anything. There was still no way she could've known I was in love with all of them, let alone one of them.

I found myself struggling to respond. "But, this is..." my eyebrows furrowed as I focused my attention on the couch under us, face flushing at the idea of giving away too much. "This is different."

"I know," she responded immediately, as if she expected that exact reply out of me, drawing my eyes up to her. "I see the way you look at us," her voice was cautious but it didn't stop my pulse from racing, "and how you react when we touch you." Oh god, I was so obvious.

I couldn't help but feel embarrassed and panicked all at the same time. "Unnie-"

"It's okay," she cut me off, placing her hand on my waistband. "You don't have to be shy," she whispered, scooting closer. The proximity had me burning up. I had to turn my head away from her in order to focus my thoughts.

Alarm bells were ringing in my mind, alerting me that my secret had been found out. But which one? She couldn't know the whole truth, could she? No. She had to be talking about my attraction to women. "It's-" I hesitated. Was I really ready to tell her? "It's not just that." An unsteady breath left my mouth.

"Jagi, I know. We know," she emphasized. "Maybe the younger members haven't made it as obvious, but surely you've seen the way we look at you, too."

...there's no way. I must've misheard...

"I thought our flirting made it pretty obvious," Siyeon said lowly, slipping her hand under my shirt to rub her fingers against my stomach, but I was unable to react to any of it.

"You flirt with everyone," I mumbled subconsciously, my brain slowly breaking down in its spastic attempt to process everything hitting me at once. She knew.

Her warm laugh filled the room, momentarily startling me out of my mental breakdown, "okay, fair point." Right about now, I was ready to wake up in bed and realize this entire thing was a dream. It even felt like one when I started to get lightheaded. Siyeon leaned in even closer, fingers dipping dangerously below my waistband, inches away from turning this moment into something exponentially more intimate. "But it's different with you," she whispered, making the skin under her hand burn as a fire began to flare up between my legs.

My mind wouldn't give in, refusing to let me accept this as reality and bask in it like I'd wanted to for so long. It all felt wrong. She shouldn't even know, let alone be okay with it, let alone confirm my delusions??? This wasn't right. Where was the lack of acceptance, the judgement, the disgust? No normal person reacted this way. She couldn't actually mean it.

I tilted my head up, searching her eyes frantically for any sign of dishonesty. "How are you so okay with this?" I asked in disbelief. "It's unnatural. Y-you should be freaked out by it!" I stuttered as I felt the emotion choking me up again.

"It's not unnatural at all," Siyeon said, voice laced with sadness once she started to realize how I felt. "And why would I be freaked out by it?" How could you not be? How is it not unnatural?

How could you be so accepting of something that I've hated myself for feeling for the last two years?

"It- it's wrong, Siyeon," I whispered, a single tear sliding down my cheek.

In the blink of an eye, she was grabbing my chin and wiping the sadness away. "You love us," she emphasized softly, staring into my eyes, "how is there anything wrong with that?"

Those words made my heart clench painfully in my chest. They were ones that I needed to hear all along, ones that I should've been telling myself this whole time, but they were also ones that my mind still rejected, over and over again. I looked down. "But what would someone think if they found out?"

"No one has to know except for us. And it wouldn't matter anyways." Siyeon shook her head, closing her eyes for a moment as if looking for the right words to say. When she opened them again, I saw a universe of stars in them as specs of light bounced off their now teary exterior and I felt an equally limitless amount of love radiating from them. "All that matters is that you're happy. That we're happy. And I won’t let anything get in the way of that."

I stayed silent, really, truly allowing myself to soak in her words. She was right. Even my mind couldn't argue with that one. The ultimate goal was to be happy. To make them happy. Why would I possibly refuse when that happiness was right at the tip of my fingers?

Choking back my tears, I tried to keep my hopes low and remain realistic. "How do you even know it's really what the other members want?" I whispered weakly, no longer caring if I sounded insecure. All my cards were out on the table now, there was no point in trying to hide from her any longer.

"Honestly, I don't for sure. That's something you'll have to figure out on your own." She frowned sympathetically. Regret was already starting to sneak in and the idea of being rejected or having to choose between any of them had my heart aching. "But, you know, Bora hasn't stopped talking about you since that night," Siyeon's lips turned up in amusement.

"What?" I blurted out.

"She's been acting like it didn't affect her, but I know it did. She just won't admit it out loud." Everything that came out of her mouth was sounding less and less believable by the second. Had Bora really been thinking about the kiss as much as I had? "And Minji," Siyeon let out a short chuckle, "Minji is so clearly jealous. It's funny how they try to act indifferent. It's pointless, really. They're so painfully obvious." Minji... was actually jealous?

For the sake of my rapidly and unrightfully inflating ego, I hoped Siyeon wasn't making all of this up. Although, the thought of Bora and Minji fighting over me had me feeling overwhelmingly hot and I was beginning to think this was gonna be way more than I could actually handle. I never prepared for this, because it so surely seemed like a massively far-fetched fantasy... yet here it was, very quickly becoming a reality.

Even faster than I realized when I dared to ask, "And you?"

"Me?" Siyeon smiled, leaning in again. I kept eye contact, heart beating unusually fast as her finger traced my jawline. "Honestly, I'm a little disappointed you gave Bora your first kiss." Her low tone of voice left me feeling dizzy. I couldn't even say anything, frozen like a deer in headlights. Taking advantage of my stillness, she scooted even closer, making it hard to breathe. "Mm," she hummed, her lips ghosting over mine, "you really do get nervous around me, don't you?" She smirked and I subconsciously squeezed my thighs together, clenching my jaw in an attempt to distract my mind from the way she was making me feel.

My silence was enough confirmation for her, giving her the last final push to lean in. All the oxygen was sucked out of my lungs at the sensation of her lips meeting mine. I had been waiting for this moment for so long and somehow I still wasn't prepared for it to actually happened. With Bora, it was short-lived and I had been the one to initiate it. But with Siyeon, her own control and choices were variables that I could've never even considered. And the concept that she started this and that she was kissing me out of her own want made this feel so much better than I ever thought it could. The way she kissed me slowly, savoring every single second, and cherishing the taste and feeling of my lips against hers.

I could tell she was feeling the same when I backed away for a second to catch my breath and she was quick to chase my lips. I held onto her shirt as her hands clutched the sides of my face possessively, her thumbs resting on my jawline. I could feel her staggered breathing against my skin—telling me her heart was racing—while her lips captured mine over and over again in a mind-numbing rhythm. Now I was beginning to think her description of Minji more accurately suited herself. It seemed like Siyeon was jealous of Bora and couldn't wait until she finally got her turn to claim me as her own.

Eventually though, air became a problem, causing her to release my lips. I grabbed her hands that were holding my face while we both fought to catch our breath. She looked down at me, instantly smiling when she saw how affected I was. I felt shy under her gaze and released her hands to plunge into her embrace. She held me tightly as I clutched the back of her shirt, laying my head on her shoulder. A small laugh escaped her mouth, "you're cute."

I whined into her shoulder, "I'm not cute."

"Oh, really?" She teased, the hint of a smile still evident in her voice.

I lifted my head to look at her, hoping it was dark enough so that she couldn't see the blush on my face. "Yeah really," I reciprocated her smile, staring her down and probably failing miserably at looking intimidating.

I watched as she dropped her hands to my waist and moved to rest mine around her neck. "Then prove it," she whispered, cocking her eyebrow in the most attractive way possible.

My stomach bubbled with nervous-excitement once I realized where this was probably leading. Trying to fight a smile, I bit my lip as my eyes darted down to her mouth. From my actions, her tongue swiped out over her own lips to wet them. Before she ever even gave me a chance to act, she was pushing me down onto the couch and taking her place on top of me. Her hand reached out to grab my chin and her thumb moved my bottom lip from my teeth.

"Don't do that," she said lowly in a way that made the pit of my stomach burn. "Unless you want me to do this." One of her hands made its way to the inside of my thigh and she squeezed down, making me gasp in surprise. She seized her opportunity to lean in and slip her tongue past my parted lips. The sensation of it swiping boldly across my own tongue had me clutching her neck for support, feeling myself growing slick just inches above where her hand was placed. I was so shocked that I couldn't do anything in return. I had absolutely no idea what I was supposed to do anyways.

She could probably feel my hesitance because she finished with a kiss and pulled back to look at me. I immediately felt the need to explain my tenseness, "I'm sorry, I don't know what to-"

"It's okay," she let out a small laugh and smiled at me. I avoided her eyes, a bit ashamed by my inexperience since she clearly seemed to know what she was doing. "Hey," she whispered gently, releasing my thigh and using her hand to turn my head to face her, "there's no reason to be embarrassed." Her eyes looked so caring in that moment and I wondered how someone could be so perfect.

I smiled, feeling more shy by the second. "I know, I've just never done this before and you clearly have, so I felt the need to-"

She cut off my rambling, "Hey, hey. I know, it's okay," she laughed, finding my nervousness endearing. Her hand started combing through my hair while she waited for me to relax again. "I have to admit, I'm regretting dating that girl in high school right now because the idea of experiencing all of your firsts with you sounds really fucking romantic," she let out a laugh again, and I couldn't stop the massive grin on my face. Now I was convinced she was actually perfect... or a mind-reader, because she knew exactly what to say to make me fall even harder for her. Before she could continue, I pulled her down to steal a kiss. That seemed like a better way to express how I felt about what she said anyways. Plus, it made her laugh happily and steal another kiss back.

Once she was satisfied, she released my lips to finish what she wanted to say. "But now I'm starting to think the idea of me teaching you is way hotter," she said seriously. I laughed lightly, grateful she could so easily make my nerves go away.

"You want to be my teacher?" I teased, raising my hand to brush my thumb against her thick, bottom lip. She leaned into my touch, her lips parting and her nose grazing mine as she struggled to restrain herself. My throat went dry when an intimidating look flashed across her eyes. It was way more satisfying than I expected seeing her have such a visceral reaction to me. Now I was beginning to understand exactly why they enjoyed teasing me so much. If I knew Siyeon was really this affected by every little thing I did to her, I would've been doing it for years.

"Yes," she breathed out against my lips with such desperation that I couldn't help but smirk. "You have no idea how much I want you."

With no time to even process what she just said, her lips crashed back into mine. Now I knew I was reaping the rewards for my teasing when her kisses were no longer slow and gentle. My hands threaded through her hair while she made out with me, and her own found their way under my shirt. With the stimulating feeling of her fingers traveling teasingly up my abs, I made the mistake of parting my lips once more, granting Siyeon's tongue access to my mouth. Still not knowing what to do, I instinctively pushed her away.

"Unnie-" I mumbled.

"It's okay, baby," she said, breathless, "just relax and follow my lead, okay?"

She kissed me again before letting me reply, "Okay." And then she was back at it, swiping her tongue across my bottom lip, silently asking me for permission. So I let her have it and gripped her neck tightly at the way her warm, slick tongue was making all the blood in my body rush to my core.

She kept going, her tongue exploring a different part of my mouth every time it entered before retreating out to be replaced by her lips. After just a couple times, I felt more comfortable, and allowed my tongue to meet hers. Siyeon rewarded me with a hum of pleasure and handed off the control. She let me experiment, practicing exactly what she did to me on her. I quickly learned that the addicting sensation of my tongue inside of her mouth gave me a sickeningly intense feeling of power and had me turned on to such a degree that it was borderline embarrassing. After that, getting to be the one in charge evolved from really terrifying to way too enjoyable. Something about someone as experienced as Siyeon letting me do whatever I wanted to her was so undeniably hot.

When I finally seemed to get the hang of it, we both pulled back, panting heavily. Though, Siyeon wasn't quite finished yet, trading my lips for my jawline. She slowly planted kisses from the edge of my chin all the way to my ear and I could feel her sporadic breaths bouncing off my skin the entire way. It was like she wasn't satisfied unless her lips were on me. She couldn't get enough of me and it had me wondering if she had imagined this moment a million times before just like I had.

"You're being such a good girl for me," she praised suddenly, sending a shockwave of pleasure through my body.

"Fuck, Siyeon," I whimpered quietly out of instinct, though I knew there was no way she wasn't going to hear it with my mouth just a few inches away from her ear.

"Mm, you like when I call you that, baby?" Her voice came out husky as she gripped my thigh, biting down on my earlobe.

I inhaled sharply, instinctively arching my back off the couch, pressing our chests together. "Oh my god," I breathed out, dripping with arousal.

Siyeon groaned quietly at my reaction. "You sound so fucking sexy, babygirl," she mumbled against my skin.

"This can't be real," I said, making Siyeon chuckle lowly as she started kissing down my neck. "I have to be dreaming right now."

She finally stopped what she was doing and leaned back over my face, "Are you saying you often dream of me doing things like this to you?" The smirk on her face made my stomach twist.

"Unnie, please," I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to calm my heartbeat. If I ever wanted it to resume it's normal rhythm, there's no way I could look at Siyeon's face ever again after hearing those words leave her lips.

She laughed lightly, "you're overwhelmed."

"Thanks for pointing out the obvious," I replied uneasily, only making Siyeon let out a few more quiet laughs before running her fingers through my hair again and kissing my cheek, probably hoping it might help calm me down. "How are you not?" I tried to open my eyes but the second I saw her unrealistically attractive features, I had to close them again. "God, this is way too fucking much for any normal human being to handle."

"I think this is the most I've heard you curse in your entire life," she laughed. I just pulled her down into me, wrapping my legs around her waist. She adjusted her head to answer my question. "And I am overwhelmed, my reaction is just less in the form of almost passing out and more in the form of wanting to kiss you." That finally made me laugh and I turned my head to rest it on hers.

It was quiet for a moment while we stayed locked in each other's embrace and I was sure she could feel my heart pounding like a sledgehammer against my rib cage. Her hands now at the small of my back felt like fire against my skin and I remembered back to what she said a few seconds ago.

"Yes," I answered out of the blue.

She tilted her head back to look at me, "what?"

I finally opened my eyes and scooted to the side so that I could turn my head to look at her face-to-face. The image of her in that moment almost made me turn away. Somehow her slightly messy hair and flushed face made her look a million times sexier than I ever thought possible. It definitely didn't help when I remembered everything she had previously whispered in my ear. I took a deep breath, focusing on my fingers resting against her jawline rather than her eyes so I wouldn't forget how to speak. "You asked if that meant I often dream of you doing things like this to me... and the answer is yes," I explained, the nerves now more evident in my voice.

Without even looking at her entire face, the pull of a smile on her cheek reassured me that I hadn't admitted too much. "Good to know I'm not the only one," she mumbled, pulling my gaze to her eyes. She didn't appear to be lying, maybe a bit timid, but definitely not untruthful. Her eyes stayed on mine as we both started to realize how real this was. It was a relief finally knowing I wasn't completely crazy for feeling the way that I did and that she felt the same. Although, the thought of her picturing me in certain situations suddenly hit me and I felt incredibly shy again, reaching out to grab the collar of her shirt so I could pull her into me.

"What?" She giggled as I hid my face in her neck.

"You're going to be the death of me, Lee Siyeon," I groaned.

"Man, and you haven't even made it to the other six yet," she said seriously.

"Jesus Christ," I spoke in English, eliciting the loudest laugh from Siyeon yet.

The concept of having to go through all of this again with six other members was driving me insane. In that moment, I nearly concluded that it'd be better for my sanity if I just stuck with Siyeon (even though that alone was still detrimental to my sanity).

"Come here," she grabbed my neck loosely and gently pushed me back. "You know, you never said it back to me," she pouted. It took me a minute to understand what she meant, but I eventually remembered.

I looked deep into her eyes, finally letting all of the feelings soak in. And, after tonight, there was no doubt in my mind that my next statement was true, "I love you."

Siyeon beamed, looking over at me like I was the most precious thing in the world to her, and pulled me in for another kiss. This one was unlike the others. It was delicate and sweet and I knew it meant so much more than just a kiss. It conveyed everything she was feeling for me in ways that words couldn't. So I cherished it as if it were my last.

The sentimental moment didn't last long though, a less shocked and more disappointed voice breaking through the silence, "I should've known this is what you were up to." We drew apart, both looking up in surprise, unable to conceal our obvious guilt, finding Minji standing a few feet away with her hands on her hips. Even with the lack of lighting in the room, I could make out the expression of disapproval on the leader's face, like a mother who just caught her teenage daughter in bed with a boy. Realizing her eyes were on Siyeon, I felt somewhat relieved that I wasn't the victim of her scolding... until her gaze shifted to me and hardened in a way that sent chills up my spine.

She really was jealous and I had a good feeling I was just seconds away from reaping the consequences of making out with someone who wasn't her.

—

A/N: I might post more parts to this with the other members eventually if I ever find the time to write for it.

**This oneshot was transferred over from my Wattpad account OT5Stan4Life**

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mouschiwrites · 7 months

Note

Heyy love your content

Could u do a Kyle x reader so basically she’s singing and he hears it yeah something like that

Of course! :D

Word count: 923

South Park - Kyle Hears You Singing

The classroom was empty. It had been for a while now, and the boisterous noise of the hallways had faded as well. The only thing you could hear was the sound of your pencil scratching against the paper.

A cramp in your wrist forced you to pause your work. You looked around, not surprised at the empty desks surrounding you, but rather by the teacher’s empty desk. When had he slipped away?

You rubbed your wrist absentmindedly. So you were totally alone. The silence suddenly seemed deafening.

Checking one last time to make sure you were alone, you conjured up the tune of your favorite song. Your lips curved into a little smile as you began to hum, getting back to work with a little more pep this time.

The lyrics rolled off your tongue effortlessly; you didn’t even pause to think. It was as if your voice was a radio, playing the song on its own while you penciled numbers on the page. And, much like a radio, the next song began as soon as you finished the first one.

You didn’t notice your voice becoming louder and louder with each song until your voice filled the room and poured out into the hall. You abandoned the sheet you were working on, using your pencil to drum a beat on the desk instead. You were completely lost in song.

Your voice carried acoustically through the linoleum hallways, making its way to the ears of one Kyle Broflovski. He had stayed after school to catch up on the homework he missed the previous day, and he was just now making his way outside to go home. But he paused when the sound of music—not the kind that booms from a speaker, but the kind that pours soulfully from someone’s chest—caught him like a fish hook. He stopped in his tracks, cocking his head to try and determine which direction it was coming from.

His feet moved on their own, walking at first, then jogging, almost running towards the noise. He didn’t know when it was going to end, but he hoped it wasn’t soon. It was nice. More than nice, it was enchanting.

Like a sailor to a siren he walked, entranced, desperate to know the origin of the noise. At last he came to a classroom in the far west wing of the school, isolated, unmistakable as the source of the lovely song.

He stood breathless with his back pressed against the wall adjacent to the open door. He sneakily edged closer, craning his neck to peek inside.

He caught a glimpse of a h/c head turned away from the door. Letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, he allowed himself to lean on the doorframe, confident now that he wouldn’t be seen.

His skin was alive with chills at each note. Louder and louder the voice was going, high notes coming out in ambitious belts fit for a stadium.

Suddenly, it stopped. Kyle’s ears rang with the sudden deprivation of noise, and he was disoriented just long enough to be caught by the eyes of the singer.

You felt your face go white. Then red. Then it was in your hands, and you turned away from the boy in the doorway.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t realize I was being so loud!”

“No, don’t be sorry,” Kyle waved his hands dismissively. “It was… really good, actually.”

“Oh. Um, thanks?”

Kyle pushed himself off the doorframe, making his way over to you with an outstretched hand. “Kyle.”

“Y/n.”

“Now I’ve got a name to put to that angelic voice,” he grinned. Then, spotting the half-finished assignment before you, he pointed to it. “Math?”

You groaned, remembering your initial task. “Yes. I’m re-doing this assignment because I did not understand it at all. I still don’t, but… hey, I’m trying.” You sighed.

“I could help you.” Not waiting for an invitation, Kyle plopped down next to you and leaned forward, reading over the paper.

You felt your cheeks grow a little hot as you realized how close he was, but you just muttered a little thank you and let him keep reading.

As luck would have it, this Kyle kid was a math wizard. Not only did he help you finish the assignment (and correct your mistakes), but by the end of your little session you actually understood the concept.

You beamed as you picked up the finished paper and dropped it in the teacher’s homework basket.

“Hey, thanks, Kyle. You really saved my grades there.”

“Consider it a thank you,” he said, putting on his backpack, “for gracing me with your music.”

You chuckled bashfully. “So we’re even.”

“So we are. Though…” Kyle looked away, going a little red himself, “there is something I’d like to ask you before I leave.”

“Ask me on the way. We’ll walk together.”

You ended up exchanging numbers while you walked, by Kyle’s request, but with absolutely no objection from you.

You had to part out in the front of the school. Both your faces were subtly flushed, but you told yourself that the nippy autumn air was to blame.

“See you later, math master.”

Kyle winced comically at the nickname. “See you later, siren-song.”

As you walked away, you could tell by the light feeling in your chest that you’d be seeing a lot more of Kyle in the future. Little did you know he was coming to the same conclusion as he attempted to quell the butterflies in his abdomen.

Thank you for your request! And thanks for reading, take care of yourselves guys <33

(divider by saradika)

#south park #south park x reader #kyle broflovski #kyle broflovski x reader #kyle x reader

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leezlelatch · 1 year

Text

Music Box

You visit Terzo in the Veneration of the Relics. Terzo x F!Reader, angst, mentions of death, mourning, resurrection. Rated S for Sad. ~2200 words.

You have the music box made after hearing Cirice for the first time. It’s a simple square box, wooden and painted black. Anyone could mistake it for a jewelry box or random knick-knack you keep on your dresser.

The twinkling tune has become so familiar to you, carrying comfort amongst its cogs and springs. Not so much a rumble that’s calling than a soft voice beckoning you forward. A yearning deep within your heart.

When Papa Emeritus Terzo died, you put it away. Hid it between habits and clothes deep within a drawer, willing the little thing to disappear into oblivion, to merely stop existing. That gentle melody only serves as a reminder of the life that was halted too quickly before its crescendo.

Three lives.

The Veneration of the Relics makes little sense to you. What is a relic but an object? The former Papas on display as mere things to be ogled at when they were people. Powerful men that commanded the Ministry. Eloquent speakers and beautiful singers. Men with hopes and dreams and love for their congregation. A family gone in an instant and humiliated even now. You resent the line of people in the Ministry’s stained glass-lit halls as they wait to enter the chapel to see the new “exhibit” which will be featured at future Rituals as part of the VIP package. It makes you sick to your stomach.

When time draws closer for the Papas to be moved, carted off in trunks bearing their names, it seems like you are the only one left in the Ministry to have not visited the chapel. A gaggle of women and men are often seen crying over the body of the Third. A lone figure stands mournfully over the Second’s. There are flowers left on the top of the First’s glass casket which change every single day although no one sees the person responsible.

Your fellow Siblings of Sin find it to be quite odd, questioning why you won't pay your respects to at least the Third, but you wonder if it is paying respects or contributing to the spectacle? Is it so easy for them to look upon the corpse of a man who smiled and flirted and waltzed around these very halls less than a month ago?

On the night before the tour, you toss and turn in your bed, in the throes of a nightmare. Your mind is a jumble of thoughts, echoes of the past racing around your head. You hear his voice in your ear even now, you see Papa, you see Terzo, kneeling down on the stage, his hand held out to you, drawing you closer, closer, ever closer until you are lost in his gaze. No, no not lost, found. You are found. But he lets go, moving away, and although you call to him, he grows more distant, his image fading. Although you scream for him, he does not turn. Hands wrap around his elbows as he is forced to the ground, and Sister is there, Sister is laughing, and there is a blade, a terrible blade, and…

“NO!” You scream, bolting upright out of bed, your chest heaving.

You clutch your chest as you shake with sobs, your face tilted toward the ceiling as tears stream down your cheeks, wails of immeasurable pain escaping your lips.

“Terzo,” you whimper, gasping in a breath that breaks on another sob. “Terzo.”

Ting!

You pause on a cry, your breath hitching as your eyes search your darkened room for the source of the noise. You slowly unfurl your hands from the death grip on your night dress, and let them lie uselessly in your lap as you stare hollowly at the shadows. Your eyes feel heavy, and you sniffle, allowing your puffy lids to close for a moment, your sorrow far too great to bear.

And then you hear it again.

Your eyes snap open and find your dresser, the wooden piece imposing in the dark, and you stare with a furrowed brow, sure you recognized that faint, twinkling tune. Your legs slide off the bed and you push the sheets away as in a fog, the floor cold against your bare feet. You move, pushing your toes into the hardwood, trying to ground yourself, your head throbbing from your tears. Shaking fingers move to wrap delicately around the handles of the top drawer, a breath escaping you, ears peeled for that sound. Because surely it couldn’t be. Your mind, lost in a haze of grief, is beginning to crack.

You pull it open with a jerk, and yet nothing jumps out at you. Your various clothing items lie in unmade heaps within the deep drawer, and you laugh humorlessly. You lick your lips and blink down at the contents of the drawer, moonlight filtering through the window framing your silhouette. You push away shirts and underwear, digging, your fingers searching, turning to desperation when you cannot find it for a moment, when you’re sure it has been taken from you just as Terzo -

And then you find it. Fingertips graze across the cool top of the music box, a gasping breath pushing through your throat as you wrap firmer fingers around it to pull it out. You bring it close to your chest, stepping back a little from the dresser, somehow feeling like a piece of you has finally returned home. Why did you hide me? It whispers. You keep stepping backward until the back of your knees hits the bed and you drop heavily onto the mattress, the smallest noise echoing from the box as you jostle it - just that hint of a note. Cirice. Church. Meliora. The pursuit of something better.

You slowly look up from the music box, your breath coming heavier as your eyes stare toward your door while your heart lies in the chapel. Standing, and uncaring of your current state of undress, your cold fingers wrap around your doorknob, and you step into the hall. Faces of Papas past, clergy members of old watch you from portraits while you walk down the many halls, illumination of reds, greens, and purples caressing your cheeks from the stained glass windows. If anyone were to see you at this moment, they would see someone incredibly determined. Someone who has made a decision, no matter how much it may hurt. The last person to visit the Veneration of the Relics.

The chapel doors creek open, the noise loud in the quiet of the chapel. A hundred candles light the space, throwing frightening shadows on the wall which curl and beckon to you as you step across the threshold. The glass caskets put a chill through your heart as you see them there in a line before the altar under the watchful gaze of Lucifer Morningstar. One. Two. Three.

The bells toll high above you, announcing the late hour, announcing your presence before the dead. You walk solemnly forward, the pews having been taken out to provide more space for the mourners, however you remain in the center, walking down the red carpeted aisle, your white nightgown brushing against your legs with every slow step. Your gaze rises to the stained glass which covers the entire back of the sacristy, Papa Emeritus Primo, Papa Emeritus Secondo, and Papa Emeritus Terzo gazing down at you as you approach their earthly bodies.

Terzo’s casket is surrounded by flowers, wreaths, cards and favors. There are marks of lipstick, of kisses on the glass, and as you step up onto the dais, you cannot help the watery smile that pulls at your tear-stained face. For he was loved. Is loved. Although Papa found it so hard to believe it for himself. You swallow, a chill raising the hairs on the back of your neck as you peer beyond the glass into his resting face. He looks like he could be sleeping, your friend had said. And while his jaw is relaxed, his mouth slack, his eyes closed, you find his expression anything but peaceful. His paints are lined so carefully on his face, and yet your heart burns with the thought that his true identity is forever hidden behind the will of the Clergy. His eyelids look almost sealed together from the heaviness of the black paint, and your fingertips press against the glass so hard the pads turn white, desperately wishing you could wipe it all away.

“Terzo,” your voice is lost in a crack, and you swallow heavily. You look around helplessly and laugh a little. “I don’t know what to say.”

Your eyes focus on his hands, folded across his chest, the gold nails reflecting in the candlelight. You always wondered what his hands looked like, what they would feel like wrapped around your own. But that was the crux of it, right? You were never brave enough to approach him like the others did. Really, you didn’t feel like you had the right, or deserved to. He was…he is Papa Emeritus III. What right have you to the Devil’s chosen?

Your eyes stray to the stone gaze of the Dark Lord, your heart full of doubt. Was this the Devil’s plan? Why allow…

You huff a small, mirthless laugh.

Isn’t this the same argument you made with God?

Why? Why? Why?

Your eyes turn back to Terzo, unmoving in his eternal rest.

“I don’t know you, Papa. I made up a story in my head that you were kind, and compassionate, that you cared for your congregation. That behind the mask was a man none of us have the privilege of truly knowing. That each time you flirted, or said something completely ridiculous, it was to hide who was really underneath. And despite the Ghost Project, despite the Papacy, despite the Clergy’s expectations, you wanted to be free. I made up all of that. Because that’s what I needed. I needed to take your hand…”

A tear slips down your cheek, falling onto the casket and sliding like a raindrop down the glass. You take in a shuddering breath, the hand not holding the music box squeezing into a fist.

“I needed you to tell me that it was going to be okay. I needed you to tell me that I made the right decision. And now…”

You slam your fist onto the top of the glass.

“Now, I don’t know what to believe. Look at what they did to you! Look at what they did to your brothers. This is…this isn’t what I signed up for, this isn’t right! Terzo, this isn’t…”

Your shoulders shake as you cry your agony into the coolness of the chapel. The moonlight cuts through the stained glass and falls on Terzo’s quiet features. You blink through your tears and simply look at him for a while. You smile gently, clutching the music box to your chest for a moment before placing the little box on the top of the glass.

“I had this made after hearing Cirice for the first time. It brought me comfort. I…understand the whole manipulation aspect, believe me,” you laugh. “But…I would have followed you. I suppose I sound unwell. I just wish…I had the courage to thank you for making me feel like I belonged somewhere. For the first time in my life. I wish I could have saved you, Terzo. I’m so sorry for what they’ve done.”

You gently turn the key on the music box and the sweet tinkling of the music box plays over the man who inspired it. You press your forehead to the glass, closing your eyes tightly.

“Please find peace, Papa. Please be somewhere good. Please be happy,” you whisper, a fervent prayer.

Stepping back, you look at Papa Secondo and Papa Primo, a sad smile gracing your features.

“All of you.”

You leave the music box playing as you exit the chapel, taking the long walk back to your room to reflect. You remember the first time you came to the Ministry, how nervous you were to attend your first mass. The Papas had seemed so terribly imposing then, but you learned to look closer. Primo occasionally snoozed when he wasn’t giving a sermon. Sometimes you could catch the barest hint of a smile on Secondo’s face when he watched his younger brother preach. And Terzo, Terzo was always so loud and boisterous, arms in the air as if he were ready to draw the entire room into an embrace. His eyes would pass over the congregation, and sometimes, if you were lucky, fall on you.

You re-enter your bedroom, and slowly slide under your sheets, just staring at the ceiling as you come to accept that those days in the sun were over. Whatever this new Ministry would be, you would face it, as you have with everything else, and hope…hope that you can feel that warmth again.

As your eyes grow heavy, and you allow yourself to fall into slumber, you hear it.

The music box.

Your eyes snap open and find the door to your room slightly ajar, and you realize you didn’t quite latch it when you returned.

The music box gently plays, growing closer and closer to your door. You remain frozen on the bed, strangely not afraid.

Strangely happy.

Perhaps those days aren’t over after all.

#the band ghost #ghost fanfiction #papa emeritus iii #terzo emeritus #papa emeritus terzo #terzo #papa iii #papa emeritus i #papa emeritus ii #primo #secondo #ghost bc #ghost #ghost headcanons

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stuff-plus-textposts · 26 days

Text

Nothing At All is a Good Song

Nothing At All is a song from How To Dance In Ohio the musical that I really really like. I have this whole animatic to it mapped out in my head, but I haven't got the skill or patience to actually draw it. But the song's singer Desmond Edwards said that they would want to read the outline I've written, so here it is! It's very long and I'm sorry.

I work in a lab at a hospital, and this is about my job.

I walk into the lab, into the break room, and put my purse down. On “It’s not like I’m shocked by the ableist cliches, but they do make me tired,” I reach into my purse and put on a barrette (which I actually wear everyday). The barrette then turns red and becomes a wisp of smoke following me.

“Do I only exist on this planet to make somebody else feel inspired?” I’m grabbing a lab coat from the closet when the wisp flies away from me, I turn to follow it and see one of my coworkers waving at me. Said coworker is drawn with no eyes or nose, just a mouth and eyebrows - everyone in the animatic is drawn like this except for myself. I wave awkwardly back.

“I’m no object of pity, and if that’s what you see, then clearly you aren’t seeing me” the camera circles around me, showing a hallway that looks like I’ve made it longer for dramatic effect but that actually is that long, and then pans around so you can see my face as I start walking down the hall towards the core lab.

I pretend to be my own OCs a lot, so the characters I turn into are my own characters. As I turn into each one, the wisp of red smoke becomes an article of clothing on them. First is Jaimy, who has a big red bow. Then Tris, who has a red ring, and finally Jada, who has a red headband. As the line gets to “today’s look is nothing, nothing at all” I fade back into my normal self with the wisp of smoke at my shoulders, and walk over to my work station. I type at my computer with the wisp curling over my wrists, I grab a pneumatic tube that’s just come in with the smoke curling around the tube and my hands.

“I try to have patience meeting folks where they’re at” I sit at my chair talking to my boss, who is on one knee in front of me because she's really tall. “But this gets under my skin” she stands up to walk away. “Cause if you’re writing about me, then getting to know me should be where you begin” my boss goes over to one of my coworkers, a guy who acts like and is treated like he’s a supervisor even though he’s not, and says something. The two of them look directly at me, then back at each other.

“It’s so condescending assuming the worst” We see my hand reaching towards a piece of paper on a printer, which is me attempting to do an assignment that I’m capable of doing but don’t have permission to do. The wisp of smoke curls around my hand and pulls it back, forcing me to turn away and see my boss. I glare daggers at her but that’s all I can do.

“When I’m Wanda Maximoff” My glare fades and I turn into my OC Taylor, the red wisp becoming a wand in my hand. “I can change my own reality” using the wand, I open up a centrifuge and remove the tubes of blood to float in front of me. Unlike most of the animatic, which is black and white, the tubes are in color. They’ve been spun already so you can clearly see the red blood cells at the bottom, the separator gel, and the plasma/serum on top. Some of the tubes have light green tops and some have gold tops (if you’re curious what I’m talking about, look up centrifuged blood gold top). “When I’m Gaga I’m ready to rehearse” I change into my OC Jodie, stepping forward into a pirouette, the red wisp turns into a rehearsal skirt, and the tubes of blood are still floating in front of me. “When I’m Miles Morales I really do believe I am a superhero in the multiverse” I change into my OC Cytherea and start to float, the wisp becomes glowing red eyes, and for a moment the tubes of blood turn into crystals in front of me. “But todays look is nothing, nothing at all” I morph back into myself and come back down to the ground. The tubes of blood become tubes of blood again and return to my hands. The red wisp goes back to being a red wisp at my shoulders.

“Then come the voices of doubt saying right on cue” we see the core lab, where my coworkers are doing regular core lab stuff, like typing at computers and putting stuff into machines. “This world will never make space for people like you” my coworkers all look at me, now looking angry, and now shaded red. I take a step back. “I see my past rejections framed and hung on the wall” The tubes of blood fall out of my hands, not like I dropped them or anything but just like in a floaty way. I also start to float as the background becomes black behind me, and we see representations drawn in red of various crappy things that have happened to me. This includes F’s on papers, children laughing at me, and mean quotes people have said to me. They scroll by in the background.

“And I wish I felt nothing, nothing at all” I start crying and I curl up into a ball. The background changes to say in giant red letters “Autism.” But then the red disappears from the actual word, turning it white; the red becomes becomes the wisp again, circling around my whole body. “Nothing at all” the black background fades, leaving me in a cloud of red. “So sick of good intentions, that only make me feel small” still surrounded by the cloud. I look up and see the lab in front of me, except I am literally small now, and it is huge. “Your good intentions all add up to” I fall to my knees with my hands over my ears. “Nothing at all” suddenly I am normal sized again, holding the tubes of blood like I was before. I shake my head a little bit and look startled, as if I was trying to shake myself back to reality after zoning out.

In the instrumental break, I walk over to one of the stations in the core lab and put the tubes of blood in the rack. Then I’m seen getting my purse and leaving the lab.

“That’s why tomorrow night I will not be at the formal dance” we see me driving home, coming inside, and walking upstairs to pull out my laptop. “though I’ve worked hard to get there all this year.” The red wisp settles around my shoulders, still weird and wispy but not floating anymore, just resting. I take a deep breath and open my laptop. “That’s right, tomorrow night I will be doing my first livestream” I open up a zoom meeting entitled ‘Ableism in the workplace’ and click join, “to discuss the controversy further here!” I wave at the people in the meeting, and you can see the clock behind me displaying the time 5:30. “Cause the whole conversation” we see a girl wearing noise cancelling headphones talking on the screen. “Needs a huge overhaul.” We see a boy talking on the screen. “And if we simply do nothing.” I wave again, and you can see that the clock reads 6:30 now. I close the laptop and look sad. The red wisp starts to float again “nothing will change at all.” The wisp becomes a single red tear which falls down my cheek.

In the final instrumental, I wipe the tear away. My hand stays on my face as I move it up to rub at my head, like I’m pushing my hair away from my face. When I pull my hand away, the red is gone and it has turned back into the barrette that I put on at the beginning. I set the barrette down on top of my laptop, alongside my employee badge, and stand up to walk away. The end.

Don't worry though, this makes my job sound awful, but it's actually really cool and most of my coworkers don't suck. This is a picture taken for lab week a few weeks ago, I'm the white girl sitting in the front :)

@wakanda-never I hope you like it! I know it isn't exactly what the song is about, but it's what it makes me feel. Thank you for everything you did with HTDIO, it's one of my favorite musicals ever because it makes me feel so seen.

#How to dance in ohio #HTDIO #This is long and I'm sorry #But when an awesome Broadway actor tells you that you should post something #you've gotta post it #sorry I don't make the rules

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cherryrainn · 11 months

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Hi! I want to say how much I enjoy reading your fluff AND angst stuff. Emphasis on “and” because I usually don’t like angst, but your writing is so captivating that it really sends me through the motions. You’re really good at representing those sensitive topics.

Here’s my request: can you write please a greedler x fem!reader where he’s at the height of his wealth, and the reader is a popular singer/songwriter? Then he goes to one of the reader’s performances, he’s secretly impressed, and befriends her. He’s all confident around her until he slowly realizes that his walls are coming down because he’s falling in love with her. (I’m sorry this was really specific lmao)

thank you sooo soo much, i try my best hehe. thanks for the ask

☽ ༚ ༵ ۰ ✧ ۰ ༵ ༚ ༵ ۰ ✧ ۰

— moonlight serenade

onceler (greedler) x singer reader

onceler, at the height of his wealth and power, reveled in his opulence and greed. his extravagant lifestyle and relentless pursuit of profit were legendary. but deep down, beneath the layers of arrogance, there was an emptiness that he couldn't ignore.

whispers of your talent had reached his ears, igniting a curiosity he couldn't quell. as the rumors of your extraordinary performances grew louder, onceler's interest intensified. determined to witness your artistry firsthand, he arranged for the best seat in the house at a renowned concert hall, where you were set to perform.

onceler entered the opulent venue, his steps purposeful and confident. his eyes roamed the grand hall, taking in the ornate decorations and the anticipation buzzing in the air.

onceler ascended the winding staircase that led to his private box. the rich, velvety curtains parted, revealing a sumptuous chamber with plush seating and a breathtaking view of the stage below. he settled into a cushioned armchair, his attention fixated on the single spotlight that bathed the stage in a glow.

as the lights dimmed, the audience hushed, and a wave of anticipation washed over the hall. the strains of music filled the air, and then, like magic, you emerged, your presence commanding and magnetic. onceler's breath caught in his throat as the spotlight illuminated your figure, poised and radiant.

your voice, like a siren's call, captivated everyone in the room. it was a mesmerizing blend of power. onceler felt the vibrations of your song resonate deep within his chest, stirring long-dormant feelings he had long forgotten.

with each note, onceler's admiration grew. the richness and clarity of your voice enchanted him, and the emotions you poured into every lyric touched a chord within his hardened heart. he found himself swept away by the beauty and artistry unfolding before him.

as the final notes of your performance faded, the audience erupted into thunderous applause. onceler joined in, clapping his hands together, his gaze never leaving you. he knew then that he had to meet you, to unravel the secrets behind your enchanting melodies.

using his influential connections, onceler secured backstage access, feeling a mix of anticipation and nervousness. when you emerged from behind the curtains, a smile lighting up your face, he couldn't help but feel a surge of awe and intrigue.

"hey, y/n," he greeted, his voice filled with genuine admiration. "that was absolutely incredible. your talent is off the charts."

you thanked him warmly, your eyes sparkling with appreciation. "i'm glad you enjoyed it, onceler. it means a lot coming from someone like you."

days turned into weeks, and onceler became a familiar face at your performances. he would find himself in the audience, his gaze fixed solely on you. gradually, he shed his layers of arrogance and greed, revealing a vulnerable side he hadn't known existed.

at first, onceler approached you with his usual air of confidence, eager to engage in conversation and learn more about the person behind the captivating performances. he relished in your wit, your charm, and the way your eyes would light up when discussing music.

but as he spent more time in your presence, he noticed a subtle shift within himself. the walls he had built so carefully around his heart began to crumble, revealing the vulnerability that lay dormant beneath. onceler found himself longing for moments alone with you, moments where he could let his guard down and truly be himself.

one evening, after yet another enchanting performance, onceler invited you to join him for a quiet dinner at a luxurious restaurant. as you sat across from each other, the soft glow of candlelight casting an intimate ambiance, onceler couldn't help but feel his heart fluttering with nerves.

he observed you, taking in every detail—the way your eyes sparkled with laughter, the gentle curve of your smile, and the passion that radiated from your being. with each passing moment, onceler realized that he was slowly falling in love with you.

as the night progressed, conversation flowed effortlessly between the two of you. oncelerfound himself opening up about his past, his dreams, and the fears that had haunted him for years. it was a vulnerability he had rarely allowed himself to show to anyone else.

you listened with empathy and understanding, creating a safe space where onceler could let go of his guard. he began to see that beneath the layers of greed and ambition, he was just a man yearning for connection and love.

days turned into weeks, and onceler's affection for you deepened. he found himself going out of his way to make you smile, to surprise you with thoughtful gestures, and to support you in your career. his once selfish pursuits now centered around making you happy and seeing your dreams flourish.

but as his walls came crashing down, onceler couldn't help but feel a pang of fear. love had always been a foreign concept to him, something he had deemed unnecessary in the pursuit of wealth and power. now, it was consuming him, overwhelming him in the most unexpected ways.

one evening, as you walked through a moonlit park together because he asked to, onceler's steps faltered. he turned to face you, his eyes searching yours for reassurance.

"i never thought i'd find myself in this... spot," he confessed, his voice filled with a mix of vulnerability and hope. "but i can't deny it anymore. i'm falling in love with you, y/n."

your gaze softened, and a tender smile graced your lips. "and i with you, onceler. it's not about the wealth or power you possess. it's about the person you are underneath it all."

in that moment, the weight of his past desires and greed seemed insignificant compared to the love he had found in you. onceler realized that true wealth was not measured in material possessions, but in the depth of connection and the happiness he shared with you.

from that day forward, onceler embraced his newfound emotions, dedicating himself to nurturing the love between you. together, you embarked on a journey where greed was replaced by generosity, and the pursuit of love became the greatest treasure of all.

#greedler #the lorax #onceler #x reader #reader insert #y/n #onceler x reader #fluff #ask #greedler x reader #singer reader

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searsage · 7 months

Text

Skorri sat in place hidden behind one of the many pillars of the keep, across the hall she could see Lady Efrideet following suit, hiding in a similar spot behind a pillar just shy of the stairwell.

Her lovely ivory and bronze armor glinting gently where the stray light caught it, it made the singer's heart skip beats.

She looks beautiful and excited, just as excited as Timur, the warlock had been glowing for days, it was great to see his mind free of the stress that often plagued the him, never had he seemed so young.

Down the hall she could just make out lord saladin's silhouette, he was frowning like always but even skorri could see Timur's vigor had infected him as well, he too was invested in the mischief about to unfold before them.

It seemed everyone's spirit's were high, for once things were unexpectedly looking up for the iron lords.

Beautiful music filled the echoing halls of Felwinter peak, it shattered the dreary ambiance, Tchaikovsky's symphonies filled the silence, their notes chasing each other around in timeless loops.

The delightful trap was set and now all that was left was for the iron lords to wait, and to Skorri's surprise and Timur's pure delight they didn't have to wait long.

The drowned out sound of a bed chamber doors creaking shut could just be heard just trickling through the obnoxiously loud classical music, across from her skorri can see Lady Efrideet brimming with mirth and excitement, as lord Felwinter emerges from the staircase true to Timur's predictions.

She finds herself holding her breath as the curious iron Lord descends the staircase, his right hand is full of paperwork, no doubt charts and data sheets but he doesn't bother setting them down, instead the curious Exo immediately heads for the antique record player, there he hovers around it for a good while, curiously looking about, but obviously too infatuated by the machine to thoroughly scope the parameter for hiding iron lords or even question the suspiciously empty common space.

Eventually he reaches his hand out, metal fingers plucking the nail up and setting it back two tracks, his head tilted elegantly downward as he listened to the mystifying.

He looked like an artistic sculpture, standing so still near to the table, the machine who was all sharp edges and elegant posture, for once looked..at peace..

Fleeting light crept in from the windows, illuminating the thick faded fur of thr robe against his back and catching the horns of his well worn helmet.

He looked utterly radiant in his little moment of private peace, skorri could practically feel Timur's soul leaving his body, and silently hoped the man had the strength to go through with the prank he himself orchestrated.

Again Felwinter set the nail back, the exo had no doubt found his favorite song, his finger tapping against the table once, twice before the iron lord finally pushed away with all the reluctance of a sailor under a siren's spell, slowly vanishing into the nearby study, to no doubt deal with the moutain of charts wedged under his arm.

This was her cue.

Her heart slammed in her chest as skorri darted out from behind the marble piller, to her left Lady Efrideet was practically vibrating in place, quickly motioning for her to go forward before the iron lord returned.

Skorri swallowed her apprehension, if she was caught it was game over, with a brief scope of the room and hall leading to the study Felwinter had retreated to, she dashed forward swiftly closing the distance between her and the record player.

The moment her nimble fingers plucked the needle from it's track the melody adruptly died, instantly the room was all too quiet and Skorri felt her heart freeze under the weight of apprehension.

"Pssst!"

The singer jolted as a small sound jumpstarted her reflexes again, it was Timur, the man was waving wildly, pointing from the study door to her hiding spot, quickly she replaced the record, leaving the nail idle and carefully placing the pilfered record on the table, then she darted out of sight, sighing in relief as the shadow of the piller cast a cool concealing shadow over her.

Luckily for the songtrist she had made it just in time!

It was mere seconds before Felwinter's silhouette reemergred from the study, his peculiar ram helmit pointed towards the idle player

#destiny #destiny 2 #lord felwinter #Lord Timur #Felwinter #Felwinter/timur #Lord skorri #Wip #Draft short #AMS #Comedy #Fel doesn't like crappy music.#He takes after his dad lol #Iron lords screwing around

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witch-oftheflowers · 2 months

Text

Opera Love

Jake Lockley x Morgana Aradia

One shot story!

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The Opera house was filled with people. As the guest for the night flood through the large stadium. Looking around and seeing the vast details of the old building.

The soft singing filled within. Welcoming in this night guest. And many were confused as they heard the performers voice echoed in the chamber.

It set the scene for ease and calm to come. As many got to their seats and settled in for the next few hours of an amazing concert of classics.

It started with the curtains rising. The symphony on full display as they started their sets. Multiple just classical music. It wasn't a night for just Opera. But to ease those interested into the beloved scene of classical music.

Once they started the opera portion. Ave Maria was the first song.

And Morgana Aradia was the performer they picked. Most only came to get the glimpse of the woman. Her sea of black curls swaying as she wore the shimmery dress. The ruffle sleeves moved along as she sung the somber sounding song. Her voice projected clear and loud through the hall.

She was slow as she softly swayed in her spot. Her hair was graceful as she got into the almost seven minutes Aria.

And for a lucky man he watched her from behind the curtains to the side.

Jake smiled fondly as he admired his wife sing. His eyes were shut for once as he enjoyed her sweet voice. As the song trilled to it's end. He noticed the crowd eager to cheer for the woman. As she was graceful in her right.

As the last notes of the piano faded out, the crowd was respectful till the claps and whistles filled the hall. And this their first song was over.

Morgana scurry to the side as they were getting set for more music. She smiled as Jake pulled her in for a hug. Her mic was off as she was set for a few more songs.

He pepper kisses to her face and lips as he whisper sweet words to her. He stole her away back as she got her makeup fixed and the other singers were getting ready for their turns.

"Perfecto like always mi luna..." He'll whispered as he gave her more kisses. Once they got her dressing room alone. Pulling her in as he savor her sweet hums of approval.

"Shush... It's just my thing..."

"A thing you've done for so long.. come on mi amor. Give yourself more credit..." He'll softly pinch her cheeks as he smiled at her bubbly attitude. A vast contrast to he usual seriousness.

As a few songs played on they walked back to the main backstage. Getting her set up again for another song.

Queen of the Night.

As she scurry from the back. And she was given the que. She started as the orchestra joined her in.

Jake always loved her range she had. And loved to prove it when she could.

Hearing her higher pitch tone set his heart fluttering. And his ears a tad ringing as he saw her sweet smile as she was dramatic in her performance. Causing the crowd to feel it as she sung along.

Once it ended out a few more cheer in glee. She smiled as she only had a few more to do. Besides that she was just here for the music. She herself enjoyed the performance of the large orchestra. And hearing it reminded her of her youth.

Jake and her would watch from the side. Hand in hand as she would softly whisper about this song is her favorite. No no this one. And she'll savor the sounds as they got a personal front row to this.

Once it was over. Three hours had gone by. The whole team got out as they lined up performers infront as the orchestra stood from their spots. And gave one big bow as a thank you

The house was filled with cheers and delight. As the night was something to remember for many.

And as Morgana was lead to the side. Able to undress out her favorite dress. And able to slip away into the knight with Jake besides her. His arm wrapped her his wife's waist as they known many nights like these would come and go. But it didn't mean they didn't savor these nights in the big opera house.

#moon knight fluff #jake lockely x oc!#moon knight x oc #moon knight oc #moon knight fanfic #moon knight #moon knight jake!#jake lockely x oc #jake lockely #jake lockley #oscar isaac characters #marvel oc #oc fanfiction #oc x canon #oc #rosie writes #rosie rants

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dross-the-fish · 9 months

Note

Would it be alright to see a picture of Theo doing theatre? Any scene/play you think she’d do. Thank you.

Have a doodle of Theo as Romeo Montague

It should be noted that Theo would not actually have been cast in a legit production of a Shakespeare play, rather she would be doing a low-brow spoof in a dingy music hall. Music Hall was similar to Vaudeville in the US and focused on sketches and songs rather than full blown plays and was considered entertainment for the lower class. In 1918 Music Hall in Britain was fading as form of entertainment and being rebranded as "Variety" which was considered slightly more respectable. Acts ranged from contemporary songs, skits, magic, and ventriloquism. They were usually comedic and sometimes bawdy. Theo specifically was a singer, dancer and male impersonator.

#OC #Theodora Kipp #Crossover AU

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thedeafprophet · 6 months

Text

Locket Depicting Twin Sisters

Felt inclined to recreate this item <3

#workin on this today inbetween integrals and wave equations lmao #we interupt your usual villain postin #the jewlery clara is wearin is supposed to be moon pearls btw #my art #fallen london #light fingers #clarabelle #the fading music hall singer

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theageoftheunderstatement · 2 years

Text

Arctic Monkeys’ Interview on Ruta 66 Magazine, October Issue 2022

Translated by RatioMonkeys on Twitter

I ain’t quite where I think I am… are you?

The matter requires complete confidentiality, so it doesn’t leak into the treacherous ocean that is social media. The interview with Alex Turner will be in London, towards the end of July. The Car -code title: Suffolk Punch- won’t be published until October 21st. If listened in another device other than the original, the copy will self-destruct. Agents in the service of Her Majesty will descend upon the journalist from Ruta 66 at the slightest indiscretion. Shhh…

And here I am, before Town Hall Hotel, in Bethnal Green, taking one last puff of a cigarette before deciding to enter and face the frontman of one of the most successful British bands since 2006, when they released their debut album of a title that already indicated its idiosyncrasy, Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I’m Not. That was not the first step, but the conclusion of two dazzling three years in which their fans, and the internet multiverse, had put them on the pedestal of valuable substance, a young rock band that, paradoxically, believed in the old principles: composing big songs, gathering those songs on a vinyl that enhanced them, playing them before crowds that would sing them at the top of their lungs.

“When I am in London, I stay here,” says an educated, youthful Alexander David Turner, recently showered, in designer jeans, summer jacket, comfortable boots. “In 2007, when I still lived in Sheffield, we created one of the Arctic Monkeys’ records here, in Shoreditch. Since then we always stay in the neighborhood, and in fact, I lived here for a couple of years. There is a nice park…”. Out of place as the international star that he is, the frontman of the Arctic Monkeys resides in L.A., as another northern English attracted by the Californian sunshine and the epicenter of spectacle. “I am not there as much as I was a couple of years ago”, he explains. “Well, I was in there months back. I am looking for a place to stay…”

The suite in which we are in, as the entire hotel, exudes a timeworn classic style that cushions luxury: 70s furniture of varnished wood that doesn't hide its scratches and fading but spotless vintage rugs. Sitting before coffee and scones, during the first hours of the morning, we enter the scene. Alex, amiable and shy, far away from the public image of a difficult interviewee or god-like singer, expresses himself in a choppy manner, as if his reasoning were questioning the words that he pronounces. At 36 years of age, he is seemingly cultured and has his own opinions. The sixty-something chronicler sighs with relief.

The Car is a brave album, without great outbursts, a trip that starts flat and that discovers its peaks and valleys as it goes. This tendency started in Tranquility Base Hotel + Casino, where you started writing on the piano…

Certainly, the previous album started taking everything in a direction that… [thinks]. Well, the truth is I don’t think you can go backwards in music. And even if the listener expects a big smash, I think I’ve probably made the effort for it not to appear anywhere, because that’s the way I think it should be. But you don’t have to feel it like something that’s unnatural, on the very contrary, I think the album sounds open, even more than the previous one, where we started to open ourselves more.

When you released Tranquility Base, some fans demanded you on social media to go back to the studio and re-record it with guitars. But an artist must take risks, and I don’t see any other band from your generation that has evolved so much.

I hope so! If I think about our attitude when we were 17 and we played in a garage, you know, a group of guitars, drums and bass, I see that it all had to do with the instinct of “what can we do with this”. When you start you barely know how to play guitar, but you hear this voice that tells you that this is what comes out when you play altogether with your mates. It all relies in a sort of presentiment. And I think this is still true in everything we’ve done so far, that voice that comes from somewhere and keeps talking to you, that sort of instinct that forces you to move in a certain direction.

So, basically, you follow your instinct…

Absolutely, yes. I certainly do at a creative level. And it’s not always the easiest, to follow your instinct, either on the creative field or on your life. Your mind interposes between what you really feel and what you think you should do. But it’s also true that, when you do pop music, sometimes it’s easier to follow your instinct.

From the outside, people may think that when you started you were wild, heavy, and now more sophisticated. But you have to remember that it’s not only about volume, but also about feelings, and these can be as effective as a guitar riff…

I completely agree with you. Sometimes even more, I think. You have to recognize that… [mumbles]. Because if now we tried to do the kind of music we did ten years ago, it wouldn’t seem like the right thing to do. We can turn the volume up for five minutes, but you don’t have the same kind of inspiration in that sound as if you go to the next place that you reach when you write the rest of the song. You can always go back to the big dramatic effect, I think it’s something I still seek, but hoping to do it in a different way. (*Translator note: Most of this paragraph doesn’t make sense in the original article in Spanish either. It looks like he said a bunch of nonsense and they transcribed it word by word*).

You can always go back to that initial energy, sure.

Yeah, of course, I hope so… Recently we’ve been rehearsing altogether for two weeks, playing old songs out loud, and we had a great time. You know, lifting our guitars up in the air and making a lot of noise. We still enjoy ourselves with our loud guitars and we could take this into the recording studio. Perhaps someday we will.

Does the rest of the band share this presentiment you talk about? You have been together for a long time and you are a solid organism, even when you are the main songwriter.

I think the answer is yes… Certainly they all share that presentiment and, even if it wasn’t like that, I’d say sometimes not only they share it, but also if they see that I’m unsure about whether to follow my intuition, they’ll most likely encourage me to do so, to go in the direction that I’m not brave enough to follow. I remember times during the recording of this album where I was the first one to let my mind get in the way and tell myself that perhaps we weren’t doing the right thing, but the rest of the band would always encourage me to follow that road. And I think this is one of the reasons why we are still together.

I don’t think there’s anything bad about being unsure either, otherwise you take the easy route, you do an album that sounds like the previous one, you sell music, you don’t create it…

Exactly. You are absolutely right.

How is your internal dynamic? What does each member contribute?

When we started and we played in the garage it was different, because the way we’ve recorded the last two or three records has been different. We don’t play all together in a room anymore, although we did it in the previous record, but this time the contribution of each of us has been more fragmentary. I remember that during the recording I spent some time with each of the band members, individually, one on one, to try to use some of their musical ideas, more twisted stuff.

For example…?

In the third song of the album, “Sculptures Of Anything Goes”, we worked together with Jamie, the guitarist, and he’d just acquired a Moog synthesizer. He was experimenting with that machine, creating a loop with the drum machine that inspired the song and he took it far away from the original idea. After some time, it went back to its origin and what ends up in the album is the sound of that idea summed up with the resulting song. Jamie contributes, apart from the stimulus, a will to grow, evolve and push the boundaries of our music. He’s the kind of musician who likes to experiment with the sound of an instrument, to manipulate it, rather than just playing it. That’s what he contributes to the group.

You’ve said that you like to write a song in the moment, without thinking about it too much, but in the last two records the process has been more elaborate. Isn’t that more tiring and mistaken than just to write it, record it and that’s it?

I haven’t worked with such immediacy for a long time. I like that idea of doing something that quick right now, today! [Laughters], but for some reason it hasn’t been like that. I think you just have the opportunity to do it a few times, perhaps during a long time, I don’t know… And I think I might do it again, but I believe that when you realize that you’re not doing it, it’s too late. And you think ‘I’ve done it for some time, but it has no use anymore’…

Obviously, there are no traces in “The Car” of those young Arctic Monkeys who brok through the British scene with fierce guitars and echoes from 1979 singing about teenage angst and living in the suburbs with big hits like “I Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor”. Alex Turner has already said it: it´s their instinct, that force of destiny that made Alex Turner take another path on his side Project “The Last Shadow Puppets” , travel with the band to the Mojave desert and collaborate with Josh Homme for “Humbug”, finally take over America with “Suck It And See” or dress like a rockabilly for “AM”. The fact that he doesn’t conceive writing another “No. 1 Party Anthem” and that he portrays his burdens over silky funk, string arrangements and high-graduation ballads, is due to the fact that he knows that, in the art of songwriting, standing still equals to rusting, falling into irrelevance, failing.

You can sense from the lyrics that you’re trying to expose your intimacy without exposing yourself too much. I find it more gratifying than the obvious pop narrative: you offer all the pieces for the listener to construct what they imagine. Do the lyrics come out spontaneously or do they require a slow elaboration?

On one side, yes, they come out spontaneously. It’s something that happens in time and, as in other areas, a sort of writing style develops. Then, at some point, you find out what that style is and you can play with it. I like what you say about the pieces in the puzzle. I like the idea that the other part of that puzzle is the music, that the melody completes the lyrics, that you can feel that harmony between lyrics and music, a whole. The lyrics are just a piece of the puzzle, not something you have to decipher, but something that goes together with the music…

I am one of those who think that the listener is the one who completes the song. Big songwriters have confessed to me that they understood their lyrics decades after having written them. They’re a product of the subconscious…

I saw an article about Nick Cave in a magazine, about that wonderfull conference he wrote and developed, “The Secret Life Of The Love Song”, in which he talks about this. I found that idea fascinating. I think it’s absolutely true. Some of the things that come from that instinct we were talking about, from that poetic voice that we don’t completely understand and that we haven’t fully processed or thought, they find their way into your artwork. It happens a lot of times and you realize what it means long after; you remember the real life events that made you reflect and inspired you to invent it. I take the album’s lyrics with me [he takes them out of his jacket’s pocket] and I re-read them trying to make them make sense. We could compare them with the ones you brought [Laughters].

You seem to write about failed relationships, with poignant irony and a few drops of sadness; problems with your loved ones, with daily routines, with the outside world…

I think there is a certain level of search that never gets out of reach for the lyrics in some of my songs, although perhaps in this album it’s all more open to the outside…

You’ve cited poet John Cooper Clarke as an influence, are there any other authors that left a mark on you? What did you read while you were working on The Car?

There was a moment in time where I knew the answer to this question in relation to the songs that appear in our records. Right now, it’s harder to draw a line between what I was reading back then and what ends up on the album, but perhaps it’s there, I don’t know. When I started to write these songs I read Raymond Chandler, Phillip Marlowe’s novels, although I don’t see that on the album, but “The Long Goodbye” is mentioned at some point, the idea of The Long Goodbye appears. I was enjoying Phillip Marlowe…

In these lyrics, there’s a similar use of the sharp phrase in which Chandler was a master…

Yeah, and the attitude in Marlowe’s character. An attitude that I think is well represented in Robert Altman’s film, the way in which the character acts with his cat, I don’t know… Something I haven’t talked about is a book that perhaps is the one that holds the closest relation with the album, “In The Blink Of An Eye”, which talks about cinematographic montage, by Walter Murch…

Apocalypse Now… Coppola’s editor!

Exactly… Someone recommended it to me a few years ago, it’s a short book. I read it and found it very interesting. That work fascinates me, cinema montage, the way he describes it. At the beginning he explains his work at Apocalypse Now, the big amount of material they had and the long time they worked on the film’s montage, a lot of hours every day. What he tells is very interesting, how they did lots of cuts and undid them later. Do the maths, they worked for two years to end up with a single montage. There are a lot of things in that book that touch me directly, not only on a creative level, but also personal and beyond. Very interesting.

In The Car, was there a lot of material you had to select or discard?

Not on an Apocalypse Now level [Laughters]. But there was a bit of that. And to be honest I enjoyed the fact that the edition took us so long. We allowed things to exist, we edited them and then undid what had been done. There’s a thing he mentions in the book, a dinner with some friends of his wife. He explained what he did for a living and someone said: “So your job is to cut out all the bad stuff…”. At first he got offended, but then he understood that in some way it was like that, but that the hard part was to be able to see what was the bad stuff. The idea is that montage is not so much about gathering the fragments of something, but about discovering a path through the story you’re telling. There are a lot of things like that in the book.

Well, it’s also about the story flowing at its own rhythm. If a very good passage of what you have written doesn’t contribute to the progression of the story, it has to be discarded…

Yes, and sometimes it’s hard to cut it out. There are songs that contributed to this album but that are not in it anymore. There’s one I can’t take off my head, and I want to find the way to release it at some point, because I feel that it was almost like the pattern for the whole record, but in the end there was no room for it, it made everything feel, I don’t know, cumbersome.

Success is a double-edged sword and Alex Turner knows it well. Arctic Monkeys’ fans love to go to unheard lengths, but the band is always under suspicion by the specialized press. They have been in opportunistic politicians’ mouths who have compared them to the Beatles, and have been cautioned for banting at awards ceremonies, or merely for winning awards and showing up to receive them. They are still on their merry way, limited by that Sheffield rookie band with a strong Yorkshire accent, who listened to The Smiths, Velvet Underground, Oasis and The Strokes, while dreaming of leaving that loop of performances in pubs and dancehalls, which occurred steeply despite being denied to appear on live television. The Car places them on another level characterized by risked maturity and songs with a sophisticated excellence which underlines the ever-rough entrance into the adult world, love hangovers, and life traps. It will be curious to see how they are received by the public… and by critics.

On a sonic level, the album has many layers, lots of textures that need to stand out or hide. Is it here where your producer James Ford, who’s worked with you for a long time, helps with decision making?

He’s someone I trust much better than myself [Laughters]. That relation has gone through a lot, we’ve worked together a lot, and that leads to a mutual comprehension that is unmatchable. He is a part of the whole process, but I think that, on the topic of what needs to be discarded, here we’ve done a better job than we ever did. We’ve been capable of allowing everything to be the way it should be and have its own space. This was, I believe, much harder to do in the beginning because there was this feeling that everyone had to play all the time, while now we all take some distance and it’s probably more effective, since it allows things to flow their own way.

Is it because of the experience you’ve accumulated over all these years?

I think that has something to do, but also because these compositions allow and also insist in that it’s done taking turns. I feel it’s almost as if they were written like that, to be developed slowly, and the rhythm they are worked at is very important. It’s also important to have a vision of the big picture.

Let’s talk about how your voice has evolved. David Bowie, of course, would be a referent. Jarvis Cocker, Brett Anderson… How have you been improving as a singer?

Yeah, they are all references, of course. It’s true that my voice has changed. There’s a physical reason, your own growth, which alters it. But I think that’s the less important part, for I feel your way of singing has to match what you are trying to express. It’s hard to explain this with words. I think the sound of the voice helps, along with the melody, to the totality of the song.

Now you use it as an instrument, which is what great singers do: Sinatra, Nina Simone, Bowie, Marvin Gaye…

Once again, it’s a part of that puzzle you were talking about. The way you interpret a song is everything; sometimes you can make it mean different things depending on how you sing it. Those great singers you mention are technically very good, but in the beginning I didn’t care that much about that, and I’m happy that it was like that because our music didn’t require it. But I reached a point where I wanted to be a good singer. Nat King Cole! That song of his, “Where Did Everybody Go?”, I think it’s connected to all of that.

Do you suffer the syndrome of fame and success? You don’t look like the kind of person that feels comfortable with that, and it’s visible in your songs.

Well, sometimes I’ve had difficulties with some aspects of it. For me it’s a weird situation, although I don’t get chased on the street. They might stop me in some places, but normally it all goes well. And on the lyrics, since they are getting more open, I think there might be some of that, perhaps I’ve let some ideas related to that in my songs, things that I ignored in the past, because, well, who cares. But I don’t think that’s necessarily true nowadays, you can find a way to put it into a song.

YOU ONLY CALL ME WHEN YOU’RE HIGH

“Don’t get emotional, that ain’t like you/Yesterday’s still leaking through the roof, but that’s nothing new/I know I promised this is what I wouldn’t do/Somehow giving it the old romantic fool seems to better suit the mood”.

That’s how “The Car” starts, on the first verses of “There’d Better Be A Mirrorball”, preceded by dry hits of stentorian Philly Sould, confirming that the young man that wanted to be like The Strokes today aspires to the melodic depth of a crooner. Recorded at the Butley Priory Studios, Suffolk, and on the French La Frette, produced and mixed by James Ford, the band’s seventh studio album continues in that new style -atmospheric, confessional, solemn, poignant- with which the Arctic Monkeys surprised their fans on Tranquility Base Hotel + Casino.

The funk riff and Bowie vibes from “I Ain’t Quite Where I Think I Am”, the futuristic soul anointed in Moog of “Sculptures Of Anything Goes” -co-written by Jamie Cook- or the sustained euphoria of “Hello You” keep the pulse of an album that delves between raw and sophisticated, intimate and spectacular. A lagoon of brilliant surface and fathomless depths navigated by half times that catch you gradually. “Body Paint”, with those McCartney vibes, sounds as vaguely autobiographical as the rest (“For a master of deception and subterfuge/You’ve made yourself quite the bed to lie in/Do your time travelling through the tanning booth/So you don’t let the sun catch you crying”).

Ominous ballads follow, like “Big Ideas”, or the insidious, chimerical “Jet Skis On The Moat” and “Mr. Schwartz”, both co-written by Tom Rowley. And without understanding how we ended up here, “Perfect Sense” farewells a subtle, enigmatic collection where we shuffled between the bitter outcome of his penultimate romance with an American model and the nuisances of being, oh, a celebrity: (*Note from the translator: here goes a lyric snippet from Perfect Sense, but it’s written in Spanish. It’s stupid because it’s the final bit of the song, but they didn’t put the original version anywhere. What follows is a literal translation*). “Sometimes I wrap my head around it and it makes perfect sense, keep reminding me that it ain't a race when my invincible streak turns into the final straight, if that’s what’s needed to say goodnight, be it that way”.

#interview #translation #ruta 66 magazine 2022 #arctic monkeys #alex turner #the car era #it's a five-page interview and bless the translator for being so fast

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half-life-citizen · 7 months

Text

Happy early birthday, @thedeafprophet, hope you enjoy! (hopefully not too ooc either)

For the @fallenlondonficswap 2023

Hephaesta was strongwoman, worked at Mahogany Hall for, well a while now, not exactly sure how long; but she had come to like the work, like who she worked with specifically, the crowds she didn't really care much about; It's not that she didn't like the people, rather the opposite, but it tends to make you feel separated. Like an other.

She became friends with the two sisters, not fast friends, Hephaesta first found them annoying, like a bat that would try to perch on your head for hours on end, but she warmed up to them.

It did take her a while to distinguish which one was which, but as she got to know them, the differences were obviously there.

It was good, for a while, shows kept filling seats, Hephaesta age well; but the same could not be said for the sisters.

Clara went missing, her sister had come to visit her, heard someone talking to her, and like that, the other sister went looking for her, all Hephaesta managed to to put together afterwards was something about the forgotten quarter, and a master.

It had been months since she'd seen either of them; she'd began to have lost hope, nothing from either from them.

Hephaesta had just finished a show, someone had brought in a barrel for her to lift, nothing major. But when she was walking backstage she saw him, a stout man desperately trying to seem like he belonged where he shouldn't, but he looked harmless enough, so she gave him a hard stare and moved on.

The next time Hephaesta saw the man, she was offering him an autograph, he introduced himself in a short and unfriendly way, but obviously still wanting a conversation, she originally thought it was an autograph, but what he really wanted to speak about was the fading music hall singer, he had claimed to be a friend from the surface, Hephaesta agreed to tell him her last known whereabouts, but only in veilgarden, at the singing mandrake.

The conversation went smoothly, the man, Alex was his name; reminded Hephaesta of herself, headstrong, but obviously caring, he oozed worry when he talked about what he had seen, and Hephaesta divulged all she knew to the man.

She went back to work at the hall, but only a short while after she had heard news, one of the sisters had been found, nearly beaten to death in the forgotten quarter.

Hephaesta had rushed to the site, finding a clammy, but still warm body, a locket missing from around her neck, and severe injuries from blunt objects, presumedly hammers, her legs were completely done in.

She had carried her back to her apartment, and waited for her to return from unconsciousness.

She was by her bedside, reading a penny dreadful when the colour began to return to the singers face, eyes fluttering open, then locking on Hephaestas face, the singer apologised, and began to weep.

She had figured out what happened, the man she had met previously, Alex, had helped the singer, eased her as she faded, she believed she would die, to never return to the surface like she had planned, she was so deathly afraid of being trapped.

Alex arrived in a rush, concern uncharacteristically present on his usually gruff face as he listened to the tearful apologies from the wounded singer, she explained how she found her sister in a state, maddenend and pregnant with some monster, her voice raw from the constant singing it had subjected her to.

when she was talking, the sorrow had turned to anger when she spoke of this; of how her sister was gifted with glim jewellery and plied by honeyed words ,and for her trust?

She had been subjected to a horrible, and completely undeserving fate.

At the end of the story, the lonesome twin had finished crying, a hateful look on her face as she mentioned men who were after her, who put her into this state.

"Clay men, two of them", she spat, "they pulled me from behind a wall and they just didn't stop until I stopped screaming."

She mentioned her dream to Alex, to return to the surface, to be free of this place, it had cost her her sister, nearly her life, she would never be able to walk right again, the damage too severe on her right leg; death would have fixed it, if she had died that day, mended her bones as it returned her to life, but that never happened. She lived and she was glad.

But the singer was scared, not just for her sister, for Hephaesta, but for herself, her own future, she'd need money, for transport, for lodgings, for real medical treatments on the surface, not in some pit in the ground that had caused her so much pain, she just needed to get away.

Alex, unsurprisingly to Hephaesta, obliged her, he had known someone who smuggled him down, with two others, they could be trusted, he assured, they knew what they were doing.

The singer beckoned him close, and whispered a name into his ear, poor Edward.

It wasn't the last time he visited, far from it; the singer was still recovering, bruises beginning to fade as Hephaesta sat by her sickbed, reminiscing on the times at Mahogany Hall, talking, and sometimes; they'd try walking from one end of the room and back.

Alex was a lot more comfortable with the singer than Hephaesta, he originally approached her like a stray cat, testing the waters as he tried to avoid her, but as the visits continued, he warmed up aswell.

The singer was asleep in her bed, a bottle of cheap gin nestled in her grip as Hephaesta and Alex talked, of growing up in rough conditions, Alex talked about his family, his sister, Jamie and josephine; the struggles he had to face as he grew into who he was today.

Hephaesta opened up too, she explained how her father was a cheater, a murderer, who finally had enough of her after she, too young to know the meaning, protected her mother during a stupor of his.

Her father had enough, and abandoned her the first chance he could get.

She grew up on the streets, just like Alex, she spent most of her time before entering the neath running simple jobs, going from city to city, eventually settling in the neath, after she had filled out her form, a strongwoman!

As they talked deep into the false night, a bond was formed, stronger than steel.

He came by less frequently, as the singers condition improved, she could walk distances, but not without a cane, most doctors said the damage was permanent, but she was alive.

One day, Clara and her sister were gone.

Taken, by a man in a blood red maks forced in a frown.

Hephaesta was livid, angry with herself, for not being able to help those who mattered to her, to let them both get hurt again.

Alex came at first notice, believed Hephaesta immediately, he knew poor Edward, the man in the mask, and he knew where the sisters were, a building called the orphanage, filled with confused patients and orderlies who would do the bidding of whoever owned the horrific place.

He told her of a plan to get inside, a route planned by a woman who's husband had been trapped inside, just to be safe, Alex told her of the way, just in case.

Alex didn't return that night, or the next.

Or the one after that, at first, Hephaesta wasn't worried, he was a capable and resourceful man, cunning as a fox.

But the thought nagged at her, what if she failed him like she failed the twins?

What ifs, crowded her thoughts, worries weighed her down more than any weight could.

Alex had heard them too late, heavy footsteps unheard until they rushed him, heavy arms wrestled him to the ground, a forearm around his neck as he saw poor Edwards face looming over him, blue eyes looking directly into his soul.

Alex awoke, pine boards lined with velvet surrounded him.

He began to hammer at the ceiling, arms barely even being able to move above his stomach.

He starts kicking his feet, his boots barely moving as they uselessly tap against the velvet covering.

He squirms violently, thrashing around, nails scrabbling, tearing away some velvet from the coffin, but there's too little space.

He can barely move his head, the effort exhausting him, his breathing begins to pick up, the air feels stale, warm as it goes into his lungs.

He begins to cry, in shock, realising what he's done to himself.

Hephaesta had been looking for hours now, she had followed the steps left out by Alex's instructions, and she turned the corner and gazed at the orphanage.

The way there hadn't been nice, but most people avoided her, assume she was supposed to be there.

She walks, sticking to darker patches of the road as she approaches the orphanage, when she notices something.

There, in the distance, a familiar flat cap lays on the ground.

Faster than she could have imagined, Hephaesta bounds over to the hat. Not giving a damn on who spots her.

Alex couldn't breathe, his vision was spotty, his chest pressing against the ceiling as he struggles to take in oxygen.

He closes his eyes and waits, to open them and see the boatman.

The only sound in the coffin is breathing.

Then he hears rapid, heavy footsteps.

They stop right above him.

Hephaesta stares at the hay in her hands, worn out and covered in lint, she stares at it with a cold gaze, kneeling on the dirt as she processes it.

Then she hears it, a hoarse screaming. Dulled by… something?

She looks around, trying g to locate the source of the muffled shrieks.

Then she notices it.

The hat.

The patch of dirt.

The screaming.

Hephaesta starts clawing at the dirt, scooping up handfuls of loose dirt as she digs, desperately trying to find her friend.

She needed to find him, here, now, in the courtyard if a horrible, horrible place; she needed to find him.

Alex had stopped screaming, dried tears had run down his face, the heat was unbearable, he couldn't breathe.

He felt his life leave him.

As he lays in half-death, waiting for the boatmans visit, he hears the boards above him crack, and then, a leather boot, laced up to the ankles smashes Alex in the gut.

He nearly throws up, yelping as the unexpected blow connects, as a voice above him reassures him, sounding more glad than he is to be alive.

As the velvet is torn from above his face, he sees Hephaesta; tears running down her face as she pulls him out of the coffin, and lays him on the cold dirt.

The last thing Alex sees before passing out completely is her, cap in hand with a smile that could pierce the sun, gazing at him.

Hope you enjoyed it. I tried to sneakily ask you questions about what Alex would do on your blog, too! He was an absolute blast to write, and I hope I did him justice

#fallen london #fallen london fic swap #thedeafprophet #the deaf prophet #Half-life-citizen #half life citizen #:)

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bhaalsdeepbat · 8 days

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I planned a disabled Bard for a Curse of Strahd campaign and I am SO excited. I just wanna share some of my backstory bc I'm really happy with it. I'm exploring disability on a personal level, but also how that spans generations within a family and how that can impact the success of that family in a society that puts coin above all else. and the internalized ableism that forms when your worth comes from your productivity output.

I'm also going for a Southern Gothic vibe, so Sid and Ambrose are a folk band. it's fiddle playing hours.

Sidra “Sid” Starling was an only child to a single mother working as a courier in Athkatla. Sid’s mother – Lucy Starling – was from a working family and grew up working any job during the day and playing her fiddle in the evenings. It was a labor of love, one that took its toll on the young woman as she pushed herself to claw her way from poverty through the force of her music. Lucy was talented, but talent was not enough in the City of Coin. She didn’t know the right people to play in the right places, and eventually had to give up on her musical pursuits shortly after having Sid.

Lucy settled into a job as a courier to maintain necessary stability, now that she had her own child to look after. Most of her deliveries were within Athkatla, but would sometimes be sent on trips to escort particular goods that could only be trusted with her. Over time, these trips became harder, and then even the deliveries within the city were taking their toll. Sid noticed their mother’s decline, but was too young to understand. They simply watched, until one day, their mother left on a delivery, only to never return.

Lucy Starling perished, leaving Sid with nothing but grief, a bit of jewelry, some of Lucy’s clothing, a handful of family heirlooms, and the violin her mother lovingly played lullabies for Sid on as a child. The very same violin that had entertained the taverns of Amn for over a century before Lucy’s name faded to obscurity. It was a violin Lucy had inherited from her own caretakers. It was one of the few things their family had kept from their roots in the Feywild when they fled to toil for coin in Amn.

Sid spent their early years working for various artists in any way they could to keep a warm bed and a roof over their head. A natural jack-of-all-trades with a particular talent for music making, Blythe watched and absorbed everything they could from the masters they worked for. It didn’t take long before hard-work, dedication, and natural talent pushed Sid to become better than the very masters they had been working beneath.

Life in Amn was difficult. Money was Lord and Law. It was something Sid had quickly come to understand as they watched the masters they worked for rip each other down in a bid for more attention, more money, and more notoriety. Sid knew they would need to be capable of more than simple mimicry for a leg up in this world.

One year, as the adolescent elf finally inched toward their age of majority, they attracted the attention of an elf touched by the Feywild who was passing through from the stained glass halls of Neverwinter. The Fey was a singer and harpist by the name of Constance. Winter’s cold grip held her beneath the morose veil that followed the Fey. Her pale skin was tinged blue beneath the sparkle of frost dusted across her skin like blush. She was known as the only snowfall to touch upon Neverwinter.

The beauty and craft of Neverwinter was always a dream for young Sid as they gave their labor to the Brightest Stars of Amn so those artists could shine. The promise of spending time actually learning the craft – not cleaning up after another artists’ creative session – was enough to make Sid jump at the chance to mentor beneath Constance. They packed their things and fled the capitalistic hellscape that was Amn for the promise of Wonder and Justice that Neverwinter presented.

This is where they met Ambrose.

Ambrose was an Elf born in a small town outside of Neverwinter. As an infant, she was left on the steps of a Temple of Oghma, where she was reared by Sister Zita, whose charge Ambrose was left in. Sister Zita raised Ambrose with a hunger for knowledge that was insatiable. She devoured every book she could find, absorbing any and all knowledge, regardless of whether or not it was of a forbidden nature.

As a child, she could see the high spires of Neverwinter hidden behind rocky crags that separated her small town from the cosmopolitan city. Like Sid, Ambrose had a natural talent for music that she couldn’t nourish the way she wanted. Her art had to be practiced and studied around her work and studies. The Temple of Oghma required her to keep up with her studies – to embrace the very knowledge Oghma wanted his followers to chase – and to provide a service to the community.

Like any other church, this one had its own corruption. The services provided by the orphans left at the Temple of Oghma were part of a deal between the Temple and the town to provide cheap labor to the wealthy. The money the children made went straight to the Temple, leaving the children unable to build anything for when they were ready to leave the Temple to make a life on their own.

Ambrosia was a child working as a stable hand and playing in the music hall with other working class musicians. She learned to play banjo from one of the senior men who saw her talent before anyone else did. He passed as much of his own knowledge onto her, knowing full well she could make something of herself with the right mentoring.

Ambrose became the town’s prodigy, attracting Constance’s attention as tales of the town’s very own stable hand-turned-Songbird reached the chatter of artists in Neverwinter. It didn’t take much to convince Ambrose to pack up and leave, with the promise that with Constance’s guidance, her skills would be insurmountable. It was a tantalizing promise that caught Ambrose in its honeyed trap.

Ambrose had been living with Constance for a few years when Sid joined them. The two initially did not get along, but after a few months, Sid and Ambrose became inseparable. They did everything together. They became extensions of one another. Where Sid struggled, Ambrose would work hard to fill the gap, and vise versa. Their bond quickly became romantic, though the two did not admit feelings for a long time.

Eventually, under Constance’s tutelage, the two became known for the way their voices and music harmonized.

As the two reached the end of their apprenticeship, Constance offered them both a deal to guarantee their success and notoriety. Constance was actually a Hag in disguise, though Sid and Ambrose were unaware. They continued to be unaware of her true nature when, motivated by Sid and Ambrose’s mutual proclamation of love for one another, the two packed their things and fled, eager to start a new life together.

Things were fine for the first several decades. Sid and Ambrose lived a life of leisure and excess. They traveled across the planes, playing music wherever they could. They started playing on street corners and in alleys, but eventually impressed the right people, who opened their doors to allow the two to play in taverns, theaters, and eventually opera houses. They were a folk duo that moved the masses with their haunting vocals that accompanied lyrics of strife, struggle, and sentimentality.

Sid and Ambrose were committed to their dream. They overworked, sometimes playing day and night, both to spread their art and to supplement the luxurious lifestyle they had come to enjoy. Finally, every cent they earned was theirs to spend, and the two surely spent it. It was a vicious cycle requiring them to work even more, but they were happy despite the toll of the labor.

One day, several decades after Sid began noticing a decline in their dexterity. They could still play beautifully – they would never forget how to play the music that was part of them – but if they played too long, Sid’s trembling fingers became clumsy as they glided across the strings of their fiddle. Ambrose tried to assure Sid that they could stand to play less, but the idea of working less after so long didn’t sit well with Sid.

Sid sought medical help, only to find there was nothing that could be done. There was no curse to remove, nor was there any illness that medication could target and cure. Sid’s body was simply developing the same symptoms of the disability their mother had developed.

The same symptoms that led to their mother’s untimely death trying to keep up with the demands of her job.

Ambrose knew all of Sid’s fears. When the news was broke, she didn’t need Sid to tell her how they felt. She knew that one of her partner’s worst fears were realized. While Sid tried not to spiral by refusing to entertain the idea of living a life that was built around accommodating their disability, Ambrose quickly gave up trying to find accommodations and began looking into a cure.

Ambrose knew of a ritual that was supposed to freeze a person’s life to that very moment the ritual was completed, effectively making them immortal. She had stumbled across the ritual while pursuing Constance’s library. The large library had been Ambrose’s playground with nothing off limits to her. She was naturally curious, eager to devour any knowledge she could find, even if it was forbidden.

She secretly spent the next several months researching The Ritual of Consociation. The two scaled back their performances to an amount that freeing up time for Ambrose to tell little white lies that gave her the freedom to research in secret. Sid had to use that free time for rest and self-care in preparation for their next performance. It was frustrating having to put so much time into caring for the body that was failing them just as their career was beginning to truly take off.

The ritual was clearly dark and required a sacrifice that was unclear. Ambrose was ready to give up her search when Sid found her notes. It was after a gig they had to leave early, the tremble in Sid’s fingers impossible to play through. Ambrose woke in the middle of the night, the bed too cold where Sid’s body should have been. When she found Sid, they were seated on the floor, Ambrose’s notes neatly spread out with a delicate touch.

Sid was engrossed in her research.

Ambrose begged Sid to drop it, but after many fights, and even more debates, Ambrose folded. The two spent a few months collecting everything required, then performed the ritual under the absence of the moon’s glow.

Sid can barely remember anything from that night. They remember holding Ambrose’s hand. They remember the soft press of her lips against their own. They remember the last time they were able to look upon her face. They remember the fear twisting her pretty expression, the blood staining her long curls, and their own despair as they watched their beloved be consumed.

The Ritual worked. Sid was in a permanent stasis – frozen in time so long as they fed the insatiable yearning stirring deep within them. The painful stab of hunger became an uncomfortable friend as the Elf’s dietary requirements fundamentally shifted. Sid must consume the life energy – the essence of a person – or else their body would begin the painful process of shutting down before finally giving out, making Ambrose’s sacrifice futile.

Sid spent the first few years lost as they adjusted to their new reality. They were unable to play any music for a while. Their violin was a reminder of everything they lost. Their mother. Their career. Ambrose. They tried to focus on figuring out their condition; the ritual had fundamentally changed them, giving them advantages along with the curse of needing to feed on the living.

Sid had to feed and with the feedings came the haunting. Anyone who died, consumed by Sid’s hubris and hunger, became tied to Sid. Their voice and the outline of their essence followed them, a constant reminder of their parasitic nature.

When Sid finally began to play again, the voices began to quiet. Unknown to them, each note rung from the violin’s chords released the souls, no longer tying the dead to Sid.

Sid eventually meets two other bards who were also monsters trying to exist in a hostile world. The three became close knit. It was these three monsters against everything else. They formed a trio – S.I.R. Berus Gárbáge – to allow them to travel freely between towns.

My DM is going to throw a surprise in for Sid where their mom is actually tied to the violin still. Like, her spirit is there guiding Sid and will eventually be able to communicate with them. she is also why the spirits aren't being totally consumed by Sid, but released to their afterlife.

two of the other players are also going to be bards and our three bards will be in a band together. It will be S.I.R. Berus Gárbáge. the S.I.R. are their initials and that + Berus is a play on Cerberus. They're three heads, three monsters who found each other after discovering they were monsters, and it is now these three against the world. Their freedom, their needs, their wants above anyone else's.

i still need to flesh out how these three meet, but we are getting on a discord call in the next week or two specifically to get that set in stone. I'm hoping our pied piper bard will name them Rhyme Beats. the bards initials will spell S.I.R. xD

#bat rambles #bat plays tabletop #sid starling

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