#And made it abundantly clear that some of these songs are NOT considered appropriate for radio

[drumlincountry]

I marched with our local Palestinian solidarity group in the st patrick's day parade and it was fantastic BUT someone was using a speaker to play Palestinian music as we went & the Palestinians in the group kept bursting out laughing because apparently the music was the Palestine equivalent of like. Flo Rida.

[staar5384]

champange problems

neuvillette x gn!reader

hurt/no comfort, they/them pronouns, light cursing

this is slightly based off of the song champagne problems by taylor swift🫶🏼

might consider a pt. 2 if people are interested:)

The Opera Epiclese was beautifully decorated from top to bottom. Assortments of Rainbow Roses adorned the hallways, Lumidose Bells hung like vines from the pillars. Stunning satin and silk tapestries dressed the walls in different shades of blue and purple.

Everyone there could tell something was going to happen, though no one knew what. 

When the people of Fontaine received their invitations to the event, it did not state the reasoning for it. It was presented as a formal ball. People were expected to dress and act appropriately, and it was not a place for children.

As the guests arrived, they could see Chief Justice Neuvillette and the Hydro Archon Furina were sitting in the front row of the courthouse. They were chatting, glancing out at the crowd periodically, as if looking for someone.

Then you walked in. 

Neuvillette arose from his seat and walked down to greet you. You smiled at your boyfriend, giving him a gentle kiss on the cheek.

“I’m so glad you could make it,” He said, grasping your hand as he brought you toward the seats he and Furina were sat in.

“I’m glad I could make it too! Everything here looks absolutely gorgeous,” You replied, following him.

Furina greeted you with a smile and a wave before moving from her seat to somewhere backstage.

“So what is this grand party for, hmm?”.

“Oh you’ll see soon enough my love,” He kissed your hand. “Just enjoy the atmosphere and the music. The Melusines should come around soon with refreshments, and the band is about to play.”

You nodded, leaning back into your chair and taking a deep breath. It was nice to have a moment to relax and enjoy yourself. You very rarely got that anymore thanks to your constant traveling, but the work was so fulfilling.

Just as Neuvillette said, the Melusines came out carrying trays of various drinks. One of them stopped in front of you two, two glasses of sparkling champagne was presented. “Just as you requested, Monsieur!” She said excitedly.

Neuvillette grabbed both the glasses, handing one over to you, “Thank you very much,” He smiled as she skipped away.

“This is different from the other drinks,” You gave him a smirk. “Was this requested specifically for me?” You had always been a fan of champagne, more than wine which tended to be the people’s preferred drink of choice.

“How could we throw a party without having everything my beautiful partner desires?” He kissed your temple with a gentle smile on his face.

You returned his smile and sipped the drink, “You also opted for champagne I see.”

“Ahh, I figured I could try to enjoy your favorite drink for a change.”

Neuvillette had never cared for champagne, he made that abundantly clear when you two began dating, but when he saw your face light up at the thought of him sharing your drink of choice, he knew it would all be worth it.

The two of you chatted for a while, catching up on how things have been on both your ends. You had recently returned from a trip to Inazuma, a country you had longed to visit for a while. You were given a commission there, and left about a month ago. You had only returned the day prior.

Neuvillette recounted many trials to you, one in particular standing out. He talked about Fatui Harbinger, Childe, a man you had met once before in Liyue when you were there for the Rite of Descension.

“Ahh I know Childe,” You commented. “We crossed paths briefly a few months ago. He almost sank the entirety of Liyue Harbor.”

“Oh?” Neuvillette raised his brow. “And how have I not heard about this?”

You giggled, “I forgot to be honest. It was so insignificant for me at the time. I left the Harbor only a few hours before to visit some of the ruins. Who would have thought that someone would try to wipe out the nation’s biggest city?”

Neuvillette chuckled, his eyes sparkling, “You tell me the most fascinating stories. I hope someday I can give you a memory as fun and beautiful as the ones you make.” 

You felt your face heat up, “You’re such a flirt, Neuvillette.”

“Only for you darling.”

The band on stage began their show, the audience around them silencing. You glanced over and realized Furina had not returned to her seat.

Neuvillette placed his glass aside and rose from his seat. He planted a kiss on the top of your head, “Excuse me a moment.”

“But the music just started. You’ll miss it.”

“No worries dear, I’ll be back,” He took his leave, walking out the back doors.

You sighed, focusing your attention on the orchestral display in front of you. Just as you expected, the music was beautiful, as was everything else in the Opera Epliclese. If only you knew what the true reasoning behind this was.

Moments passed and both Neuvillette and Furina had yet to return. You contemplated searching for them both, but stopped when Furina walked up on stage.

“Hello ladies and gentlemen! It is quite the honor to be here tonight as we have such a lovely occasion to be celebrating!”

Whispers and murmurs flooded over the crowd. What could they possibly be trying to celebrate?

“Now, I know you all must be very confused. ‘Oh great Hydro Archon Focalors.’” You rolled your eyes. “What could we possibly be celebrating!’ I can hear your gears turning, and I can promise you this is an occasion none shall forget!”

From stage left, Neuvillette walked on. He almost looked nervous as he approached the front of the stage. Furina handed him the microphone and winked before hopping off to the side.

“Umm,” He spoke softly. “This isn’t really quite my thing, speaking about emotions and feelings and such, especially in front of a crowded room like this, but I believe this is something that should be shared,” His throat bobbed, his eyes flicking across the audience. “Emotions are not, and never have been, my strong suit. They are complicated, hard to understand, and feeling them is confusing,” He said. “But there is one person who has made these emotions less confusing. When I am around them, I don’t need to try to understand what I’m feeling.”

You knew instantly he was talking about you. The two of you had discussed his inability to comprehend human emotions a few times. You had helped him understand his initial feelings towards you, helped him learn to accept his love and care for you. All of these things he has accomplished was through your help, so he says.

His eyes locked with yours, and he gestured for you to join him on the stage. Hesitantly, you stood and made your way to him. The spotlight was bright and hot, making you sweat almost instantly.

Neuvillette took your hand in his, “I can’t think of anyone I would rather spend my life with.”

Your eyes widened. He was going to propose

He got down onto one knee, pulling out a velvet blue box. He opened it, and the ring inside was stunning. A sparkling blue crystal with a silver band. “My love, will you marry me?”

All eyes were on you at that moment as the audience eagerly awaited your response. You were at a loss for words. You loved Neuvillette, you truly did, but marriage? The thought had never crossed your mind, nor were you even truly ready to get married. You had so many more adventures to go on, so much more to see and do. Marriage would only tie you down and prevent you from experiencing those things. 

Your heart throbbed, an ache filling you that you had never felt before. You stepped away from him, shaking your head with tears in your eyes, “I’m sorry, Neuvillette,” You watched his face drop. “But I can’t accept,” As you finished the sentence you rushed off of the stage and out of the room.

Neuvillette watched you leave, the ring box slipping from his hand, and landing onto the stage with a thud. The crowd began to whisper, a mix of emotion swirling throughout the room.

Furina, despite her love for the drama, immediately jumped in at seeing the distress on Neuvillette’s face, “Alright everyone, I believe that is all for this evening. Feel free to get some refreshments outside! Guards, if you could escort our guests out.”

One by one, each person began to leave until the only people inside were Furina and Neuvillette.

She glanced down at him, he hadn’t moved a single inch. His eyes were glued to the floor as he replayed the event in his head, over and over again. You said no.

“Neuvillette?” Furina approached him, gently tapping his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

He snapped out of his trance, picking his head up, “I- I do not know.”

“Well, why don’t we get you back home, yeah?”

The two left in silence, Furina remaining close beside him. People watched the two leave the Opera Epiclese and they wouldn’t stop talking. This news would spread like wildfire, Neuvillette would become the talk of Fontaine.

Outside it was downpouring. The rain was the worst it had been in a very long time. Furina knew why. 

“Even the weather is matching the mood,” Someone said from afar, noticing the Archon and Chief Justice.

“What a shame,” Another person spoke. “Losing out on a good lover such as the Monsieur.”

“They even rejected him in front of a crowd. The embarrassment he must feel… How cruel.”

“I do hope he finds someone better. He deserves someone less… fucked in the head.”

Each voice he heard was a nasty reminder, each word spoken made his heart twist and ache in an uncomfortable way. He tried to drown it out, but it was almost impossible.

“Thank you, Lady Furina,” He pulled away from her. “But I think I’ll go alone.”

“A-Are you sure?” She was hesitant to leave him alone in such a state.

“Quite sure. I’ll see you soon,” He left without another word.

Neuvillette decided to spend the rest of his evening alone, sulking in his hurt, wondering if maybe he could have done something to make you stay.

[coal15]

A few days ago I put up a poll (link HERE) because I had way too many ideas for fix-it fics after Buck and Tommy broke up, I decided to let everyone else choose which sort I should start with. The brain clutter was gumming up my creative process too much to focus. Well, since then an idea came through so vividly I just had to start writing it. I am keeping the poll up though, because I've got so many ideas that if the style of fic I'm already writing wins I'll just start on another one in the same vein, then tackle the second most popular one next. The one I've already started on is rated GA, romantic, angst, some laughs, and it will probably end up being about 3 not very long chapters. Below is an excerpt from Ch.1 of Door to Door

A little while later they were sitting on Eddie’s couch nursing beers in silence. Under normal circumstances Buck would ask Eddie why he was walking around the house in underwear and a long sleeve button-up shirt, but the song ‘Old Time Rock ‘n Roll’ blaring at top volume pretty much answered his question. What guy HASN’T acted out that scene from Risky Business at some point?

“It’s something new, I know that much.” Eddie said out of nowhere.

Buck frowned. “Huh?”

“The vibe you’re putting out, man. I’ve seen you depressed a lotta different ways for a lotta different reasons, but this one is new. So. You ready to talk about it or should we just keep drinking for a while? There is no wrong answer.” 

“He dumped me.” Buck felt his chin beginning to wobble as he spoke. “He actually–and it was, I, I, think, I don’t know, I asked him to move in with me and suddenly his whole mood changed. Outta nowhere. He said he was only my first boyfriend, not my last.” His eyes burned and he started to lose control of his voice, every word less and less steady. “He just took it for granted that I’d fall out of love just because there’s other hot guys in the world I haven’t dated–but I don’t want to! Eddie, I was so ready to just be with him and I don’t understand why–” by that point he couldn’t have choked out a decipherable word to save his life. He doubled over on the couch, and Eddie took the beer bottle from his hands so he could bury his face and sob. 

From what Eddie could glean of the Abby situation Buck got over her gradually, only half realizing it, and the only thing left to do was process what grief remained after the denial finally fell away. He and Ali weren’t together for long enough to merit more than some light moping. The breakup with Taylor hadn’t been easy, but at least then he had the comfort of choosing to end it, and the confidence of knowing he made the right choice. He loved Taylor enough to grieve the end of their relationship, but it didn’t destroy him. As far as Natalia, what was there to say? He latched onto someone, hypnotized by the desire to find a soulmate, and ended it as soon as he realized his mistake. This wasn’t like any of the other breakups. This was new. He patted his best friend’s back, squeezed his shoulders, and waited for the crying to subside enough to ask questions without making it worse. 

It took several minutes.

“I guess the first thing is, do you think he was right?” Eddie asked gently when the timing was appropriate. “I mean, I know breakups suck and you’re hurting, but . . . well, think about it. Carefully. You settle down with Tommy and he’s the only man you’re ever gonna be with. Forever.” He paused to make sure Buck was looking right at him. Eye to eye. “Are you absolutely sure that’s what you want?”  

“Yes!” Buck croaked, wiping his eyes and nose on the back of his sleeve. That is so gross, said a tiny sliver of his brain. Oh shut up dickhead, nobody cares what you think, said the rest of his brain.

“Okay,” Eddie nodded. “And did you tell him that? Like, did you make it abundantly clear you are a thousand percent ready to give up casual dating?”

Buck’s eyes and nose required sporadic dabbing as he considered the question. “I, I think I did.”

Eddie’s eyes narrowed. “Thaaaaaat didn’t sound too confident.” 

“I told him my first and my last could be the same thing.”

“Could be? The first word you ever spoke could be the same as your last word, but it’s not likely. Plus either way there’s a whole lotta yapping in between.”

“Hey, whose side are you on?” 

“Future Buck.” Eddie plucked their beers off the coffee table and clinked them together. “I’m on Future Buck’s side.”

“Hmph. I hope his life doesn’t suck.”

“Um . . . I hate to break it to you buddy, but he’s kinda depending on you right now.”

**********Click HERE for the rest

[silhouetteofacedar]

Fox Mulder, Closet Romantic Ch. 21: Body Talk

Previous Chapter - AO3 - MSR, rated E

Mulder’s thirty years past kindergarten, but the anticipation he’s feeling in his body is reminiscent of the excitement he felt as a child over bringing his new model airplane to school for show-and-tell. Except the context is very, very different.

He’s got an envelope tucked into the inner pocket of his suit jacket, and he’s highly aware of every crinkle it makes as he strides through the halls, making his way down to the basement.

He’d expected to receive a clean bill of health, so the contents of the envelope weren’t a surprise. Even so… he’s fuckin’ thrilled.

“Morning, Scully,” he says cheerily, waltzing into the office and peeling off his jacket. “Another hot one out there, huh?”

“Mhm,” she responds, already elbow deep in paperwork. She’s always got her nose in some pile of documents, his Scully. God, she’s so cute, it’s unbearable. He thinks of when they first met, how rosy and round her cheeks were. He regrets not having done something earlier; he missed out on kissing her adorable baby face.

He really wants to kiss her now, but they’re at work, and she’s made it abundantly clear that At Work Scully is not open to the physical demonstrations enjoyed by Off Duty Scully. Instead he sidles up beside her, holding out the envelope in front of her.

She takes it, clearly noticing that it’s already been opened. “What’s this?” she asks.

“Just a little something, from me to you,” Mulder replies, going around the desk and plopping into his chair. He clasps his hands behind his head casually, grinning at her as she slides the folded paper out of the envelope.

Scully unfolds the page and scans it, nodding to herself. “Congratulations,” she says, glancing up at him. “This is… welcome news. But you didn’t need to bring me the physical test results, Mulder. Your word is enough.”

“Oh, but I know how much you enjoy solid evidence,” he says with a wink. “So, uh… do you have your results back yet?”

“This is definitely not an office-appropriate conversation,” she warns him, slipping the page back into the envelope.

“Sorry,” he says, lowering his voice. “But…”

“Yes,” she says quietly. “Last week. I’m in the clear.”

He smiles even wider at her. “So, given this new information, what do you suggest we do, Agent Scully?”

She holds the envelope out to him across the desk. “Right now, our jobs.”

He licks his lips, nods. “Of course.”

Ten minutes later, she gets up to put a file in the filing cabinet. As she closes the drawer, she lets out a soft cough.

“Friday,” she says in a low tone. “My place.”

Mulder feels a thrill roll through his stomach. “Now how am I going to get a single thing done around here ’til then?” Mulder asks. “All I can think about is-”

She gives him a warning look.

“-You,” he finishes. “Every moment, Scully.”

Scully gives him a little pout. “I’m sorry, Mulder. That must be very difficult for you. You know what you need?”

“What?”

She picks up a stack of folders out of their in-basket and drops it in front of him on the desk. “A case.”

Mulder doesn’t find them an actual case, but he does manage to annoy Scully with conjecture and conspiracy for two whole days until it’s closing time on Friday night.

This could be the most important romantic encounter of his life, and he wants to make sure he’s adequately prepared. He takes a cold shower when he gets home, scrubbing every inch of his body until his skin tingles. He clips and files his nails, plucks some stray hairs, trims a few scraggly ones down south. He almost shaves his face before deciding to leave it be. He suspects Scully likes a little stubble, after all.

It’s a warm evening, so he throws on a gray t-shirt and jeans and bounds out the door with damp hair and crisp, soap-fresh skin.

As a rule, he doesn’t sing while driving; but today, he’s humming just a little.

He knocks on her door at quarter to seven, bouncing on the balls of his feet, trying to shake out a little anxious energy. This isn’t a prom date, he chides himself. Calm down and be an adult.

The lock is turning and the door is swinging open and there Scully is, looking soft and inviting and dangerous all at once. “Hi,” she says, giving him a little smile.

“Hi,” he says softly, eyes drawn immediately to the low neckline of her simple wrap dress. He snaps his gaze back up to her face again. “Hi, sorry, I’m-”

“A little distracted?” she asks slyly. She opens the door wider. “Come in,” she says, beckoning.

“I, uh, didn’t bring anything,” he says awkwardly, following her into the apartment. “And now that I’m here that feels kinda thoughtless.”

“What would you have brought?” Scully asks.

He shrugs. “Flowers, wine, something that says ‘I want to get laid but I also respect you’,” he says.

“Well, that’s unnecessary,” she says, going into the kitchen and opening her junk drawer. “I already know that.” She pulls out a small stack of takeout menus. “I’m assuming you haven’t had dinner yet?”

I was kind of planning on having you for dinner. “I have not,” he replies.

She hands him the menus. “Pick a place, we can call something in,” she says. She takes a box of matches out of the drawer and walks over to the fireplace.

Mulder glances over the menus, but he’s mostly watching Scully. She seems relaxed and comfortable, lighting a few candles atop the mantlepiece.

“You want a little music?” she asks, blowing out the match.

“Sure,” he replies. “Surprise me.”

“Promise you won’t tease me for this,” she says, flipping through a stack of CDs.

“Any of those restaurants sound appealing?”

“The Italian place sounds good, but I don’t want my garlic breath to put you off,” he admits sheepishly.

She glances over her shoulder at him, giving him a little smile. “That restaurant usually sends a few mints in the bag; and you have a toothbrush here, if it’s that big of a problem.” She puts a CD into the stereo.

“I don’t mind if you don’t,” he says. “You want me to call it in?”

“Sure,” she replies. “You can order me a chopped salad and some of their spinach ravioli. And get garlic bread,” she adds.

When he hangs up the phone, he sees her standing by her stereo, nodding her head in time to the music. The song is slow and sensual, and somehow familiar. He goes to her, places a hand on her lower back. His spot.

“Marvin Gaye?” he guesses.

“Mm, no. Al Green,” she replies.

“Ah,” he says, nodding. “Never took you for a Motown fan, Scully,” Mulder says, pulling her in by the waist. “You always keep me guessing.”

She closes her eyes, sways in his arms. “I save this one for very specific moods,” she admits.

“And what moods are those?” he asks, running a hand up her back.

She opens her eyes. “I’ll show you later,” she whispers.

She’s looking at him with so much heat and adoration, and her lips are so full and soft, he can’t speak; only lean down and kiss her.

They drift together, interlocking shapes moving through space, rearranging patterns of hands and lips.

“We’re going to get interrupted by a delivery guy again,” Scully says against his cheek.

“Mm… kinky,” Mulder whispers, lips brushing her ear. “This is gonna become a pattern for us. Are you an exhibitionist, Scully?”

“Baby steps,” she says, patting his chest as she pulls away. “I need to leave a few mysteries for you to discover later, right?”

They sit cross-legged on the floor next to her coffee table, knees touching companionably as they eat their dinner.

“You know,” Scully says around a bite of garlic bread, “This makes me think we should go on another picnic. Since the weather is more appropriate.”

“What, sitting on the frozen ground at night in February wasn’t your idea of a good time?” Mulder jokes, tangling his fork in linguini.

“I didn’t say that,” Scully points out. “In fact, that was one of my better birthdays in recent years.”

“Really,” Mulder says, surprised. “Why?”

She absently toys with a hole in his sock. “Because… because I’d had a rough year,” she explains, “And you put thought and care into doing something special for me. And it was perfect, in all its perceived imperfections. It made me feel that for once… you were finally paying attention. You saw me.”

“Saw you?” he asks softly, turning his head to look at her.

Her eyes shine into his. “Yes. You were there for me through my cancer, with Emily… you were becoming more attentive. And I felt like you were considering me, caring for me, knowing what I needed. Seeing.”

“I-I think that’s called love, Scully,” he says, chewing pensively. Part of him is surprised this is even happening; them sitting on the floor in her apartment, eating pasta out of styrofoam boxes, talking about their feelings. Hell, he just said the ‘L’ word without breaking a sweat.

“You’re right,” she says, leaning over and resting her head on his shoulder. “It is.”

Supper completed, containers emptied, candles burning down to stubs on the mantle, Scully sitting across his thighs as they kiss slowly. She was right about the mints, it turns out.

“Mulder, I’m a coward,” she sighs, running her fingers down his jaw. “I’ve been in love with you for years and I still haven’t said the words.” She presses a kiss to his lower lip. “Even though I know you reciprocate.”

“Take your time,” he replies, carding his fingers through the hair at the nape of her neck. “I already know. And you technically did just say them,” he adds. “Besides, there’s more than one way to have a conversation.” He smoothes a hand over her kneecap, inching a finger beneath the hem of her dress.

“Mulder,” she murmurs into his neck, his name sweet in her mouth. “I’m ready. I want to be with you tonight. Completely.”

He can feel his pulse throbbing beneath her lips. “I… God, Scully, I want you so badly,” he sighs. “I can’t think of any other words. I'm all out.”

She kisses his nose, untangles herself from him to stand. “Come on,” she says softly, holding out a hand. “I think it’s time for a different kind of conversation.”

[archerdaryl]

London in Your Eyes.

After pulling your name for Secret Santa, Daryl comes and finds you at the Christmas fair. Inspired by Last December by Nina Nesbitt.

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader Tags: cute christmas vibes, sfw, a lil sad a lil fluffy a lil slow burn?? Word Count: around 3k Notes: This is my very first fanfiction I’ve written in literal years -- I’d love to hear what you guys think as I’m a little nervous but I hope you enjoy it!!

Against the soft blankets of snow that had long settled since the beginning of December, flashes of red and green could be seen wherever you looked from the guard tower. Amongst them were shadows you recognised, the figures of the people weaving themselves in and out of various stalls that had been set up for the Christmas fair.

You wanted to object to it the first time The King brought it up, especially after the events that occurred at the original. It seemed futile, you weren’t sure you could take another massacre, and it was too God damn cold to be lingering outside. And yet, you folded.

You couldn’t argue with hope. And if Ezekial was good at anything, it was inspiring just that.

Snowflakes had begun to dance in the evening air once more as you diverted your attention back towards the forest that surrounded the walls. You could hear Luke sing what sounded like a song you used to know but couldn’t quite make out as he made his way to his stall where he had wooden instruments up for trade. Down the same lane were various baked goods and crafts made by different members of the community. The kids even had their own art stall, endearingly decorated with looped paper covered in paint and cotton wool shaped into snowmen.

Ezekiel had asked if you wanted to contribute anything. You declined, not because you didn’t want to help but because playing pretend had never been something you were good at -- even as a kid yourself. And especially at Christmas time.

Of course, you played it off a lot more casually than that. You weren’t one to divulge the details of traumas that no longer mattered in the grand scheme of things. After making fun of your lack of artistic talent you insisted on keeping watch for the majority of the evening so that everyone else could enjoy what the fair had to offer. You knew where you stood in that tower. You couldn’t feel the tip of your nose and you had to keep bouncing your knees to maintain circulation, but you felt secure.

You brought your gloved hands up to your mouth and huffed, allowing the warmth to wash over your fingers. You had been up there for several hours now and the most exciting thing to happened was a walker in a hard hat causing a scene by clanging its head against the metal walls. Someone else manning the perimeter had dealt with it, taking what little entertainment you could have had away from you, but at least no one had to worry about an oncoming herd.

“Hey.”

You turned swiftly towards a voice drenched in a Southern drawl, eyebrows raised in surprise knitting themselves together.

“You need to stop doing that.”

“Doin’ wha’?”

“Sneaking up on me.”

Daryl Dixon was one of few people who got the jump on you and it was equal parts annoying and endearing. You stood upright from the post you had been leaning on and took a couple of steps towards him, eyes adjusting to his height as you did so.

“Didn’ mean to.” He confessed, “Thought you might be bored.”

“Maybe a little.” You sighed, “I’m mostly just cold.”

He watched you carefully, one hand fiddling with something in his jacket pocket while the other swung at his side holding a large flask. Your cheeks and nose were pink and he found himself indebted to the harsh winds that were to blame.

“Is that-”

“Mulled wine.” He interrupted, “Whatever tha’ is.”

The pair of you had been dancing around something unspoken for the past year, aware but unwilling to cross a line that could ruin the comfort you found in each other. That and you had both seen what happened to people who got attached to others. It was uncharted territory neither of you had ventured into with anyone for a long long time, and though he often daydreamed of you like a teenager and you were constantly worrying about him, the risk seemed too much.

“You’ve never had mulled wine?” You asked curiously, taking the flask he handed to you and shivering slightly as you wrapped your palms around it, “It’s really good actually. And hot.”

The question may as well have been rhetorical. The pair of you hadn’t shared a great deal about your lives before the dead took over, but he had told you enough that you knew Daryl was raised on beer and moonshine. You cared for neither, admittedly. Gin had always been your vice.

“Besides, I thought you liked to drink alone Dixon.”

He exhaled in amusement but didn’t offer a retort. Instead he stepped towards the cabinet at the back of the watch tower and retrieved a large blanket. Your mouth practically dropped to the floor and he fought a smile from creeping onto his lips.

You hadn’t even thought to check. Your cheeks grew even pinker.

“C’mon. Ain’t’ nothin’ happenin’ in the next ten minutes.”

With furrowed brows you looked back out onto the forest, studying its movement and mystery. Chances are, he was right. Nothing had happened so far and nothing likely would, but that didn’t stop you from worrying.

“Don’ make me take back tha’ wine.”

“No! Don’t you dare.” You whipped your head back towards him and narrowed your eyes. “It’s warm.”

“So’s this blanket. Come on.”

You made a point of rolling your eyes as you followed Daryl out onto the deck. Before you could complain about the cold (which honestly wasn’t that much worse than inside the tower) Daryl had shook out the blanket and wrapped it around your shoulders. You mumbled a thank you as he lowered himself to the ground and allowed his legs to swing free over the edge of the deck. You followed suit, the flask of hot mulled wine still between your hands acting like your own personal furnace.

It was darker now and hundreds of lights had been switched on so that people could still find their way around the fair. Even you couldn’t deny the wonder and whimsy of it all. Kids were throwing snowballs, families were laughing and making memories that were worth something. There was makeshift tinsel and decorations all over the place and the rich scent of pig and apple sauce hung in the air. In the sweet silence you shared with the archer, there was a moment you forgot where you were. The world you now lived in was an afterthought, and the Christmas fair was an almost perfect picture of somewhere you yearned to be.  

Daryl noticed the unmistakable twinkle of mourning in your eyes before you could even try to force a smile. He reached for the flask and took it from you, unscrewing its lid and pouring you a cup of mulled wine. He took a swig straight from the bottle and though he furrowed his brows and smelled the contents immediately afterwards, he didn’t complain.

“Ain’t ever seen nothin’ like this.” He offered.

You took a large sip and closed your eyes, savouring every note that swam across your tongue.

“I have. A long time ago.”

“Yeah?”

Your eyes flit open and you looked right at him. In what little light was left you could see his lips were already slightly stained red. You didn’t doubt your own were the same. He watched your mouth as you took another sip.

“My family was close. Always saved up their holidays so we could get a long Christmas together.” You found yourself lowering your gaze as you spoke, soon returning it to the hustle and bustle before you,  “Spent a couple years in London. They had markets just like these. Winter Wonderland I think they called it. Never thought I’d see anything like it again.”

It was abundantly clear from the very beginning that the pair of you had led very different lives before the world went to waste. He liked talking about his past even less than you did and for very different reasons too. You never pushed like some of the other’s did. In the end that was likely what pushed you both together.

“It’s funny how shit like that sneaks up on you.” You continued, “Every time I think I’ve moved on or let something go it just… I don’t know. None of this should even matter anymore.”

“You got a past worth rememberin’.” You felt a large hand tug at the blanket hanging around you, pulling it to make sure it didn’t fall, “Ain’t no shame in that.”

In truth, Daryl enjoyed listening to you reminisce. It was a rare gift you offered him, one that he would have found annoying from anyone else considering the stark differences in your upbringing. But you spoke about your past like you were telling a story, keeping that little bit of distance so it didn’t wash over you all at once. Whether you knew it or not, you handed him another puzzle piece every time you let him in. He could sit there and listen to you for hours. He wanted to.

A calloused hand found its way into his jacket once again, fiddling with a small object wrapped in aluminium foil. Now didn’t seem appropriate. They still had time.

“Aren’t you cold?”

“Nah.” His cheeks said otherwise, “Wines doing the trick.”

You pulled your legs up and shimmied a little closer to him to him anyways before forcing your arm through his. He didn’t object, not even when you leaned on him a little.

“What other shit did they have in London?” He pushed.

“Mulled cider. That’s probably more up your street” You took your last sip before nudging him to top the cup up, “I used to love these little pancake balls covered in Nutella, strawberries, and icing sugar. Wasn’t Winter Wonderland unless I was covered in chocolate by the end of it.”

Daryl slowly lowered the side of his head down onto yours. It didn’t feel like too much, like you’d suddenly catch yourself and make excuses to go back on watch. Instead, you kept talking, and Daryl kept fiddling with the gift in his pocket.

“I remember it being loud. Music and people everywhere. And it was cold, but never as cold as this. Didn’t really snow there, which I always thought was weird.”

“If you wan’ loud I heard Luke and Jerry were gon’ go carollin’ later.”

A chuckle escaped you as you took another gulp of wine, “You know what, I think I’ll stay up here.”

Comfortable silence took over as you both watched the fair. It had barely quietened down, even though a lot of people had begun their ride back to Hilltop or Alexandria. It was the first time in a long time that there wasn’t a human threat to worry about, so why wouldn’t people make the most of a time like this? You only wished you could let go like others could.

“Oh, shit.” You sat up suddenly, “I forgot about that Secret Santa thing Jerry made us do.”

“Who’s name d’ya pull?”

“It’s supposed to be Secret Santa.” You paused and sighed, “I pulled Jesus. Is this irony? It feels ironic. I’ll figure it out.”

A smirk tugged at the corner of Daryl’s lips as he leaned forward onto the wooden barrier keeping them from falling if either of them were to take a wrong step. He felt something gnawing at him in the pit of his stomach, and he swallowed hard in a futile attempt to get rid of it before clearing his throat.

“Who’s name did you pull?”

“Like ya’ said, it’s Secret Santa.” He grumbled.

You rotated yourself slightly to face him, allowing just one leg to hang free from the deck whilst the other was bent at the knee. 

“Don’t be an asshole, Dixon.” You pleaded, “Tell me!”

“Mind ya’ business.”

“Unless it’s me I don’t see why you can’t tell me.”

Daryl stayed quiet and you couldn’t help but laugh in both amusement and disbelief.

“You’re kidding. Did you really get me something?”

“Will you shut up? You ain’t even s’posed t’ know.”

He finally turned his head to find you unable to suppress the grin spreading across your face. Your eyes were twinkling again, but not with the sadness of earlier. That paired with the blush on your nose and cheeks from the cold and your little hands clinging desperately to the blanket around you made it impossible to say no. That gnawing feeling grew and he took a large breath before retrieving his hand from his pocket.

“Don’ tell Jerry.”

He passed you an strangely shaped object covered in aluminium foil. You took it from him and beamed. You weren’t sure why you were surprised he actually got you something. Maybe it was the fact he thought to wrap it at all, or that he was trying to follow the rules so it really would be a surprise. Would you have ever known it was him if you hadn’t pestered him in this moment? You held the gift in your hands as if it could break at any second whilst your heart was attempting to beat itself out of your chest.

“Do you want me to wait?” You asked, just in case, “I can open it later.”

Daryl shook his head and grabbed the flask again, taking several gulps to warm up his insides. He couldn’t take his eyes off of you, studying your features carefully waiting for a sign of repulsion or embarrassment. It never came and without realising it his own features softened.

“It’s yours. Sorry I couldn’ find any paper.”

“It’s shiny and it serves its purpose.” You responded without hesitation, “It’s perfect.”

You carefully unfolded the foil in a futile attempt not to tear it and destroy the fantasy Daryl had created for you. The intricate motions felt painfully slow, and with every layer you tore away the nastier the self-deprecation in his head got. He felt stupid for trying. Was it too much? Was it not enough? He had no fuckin’ idea. Even before the world went to shit he didn’t come from the kind of family that exchanged gifts. He wanted to run, but he couldn’t. All he could do was drink and bite at the skin of his lips until they bled.

“Oh my god.”

He swallowed hard and braced himself for the worst. Your eyebrows were drawn together as you studied the object in all its detail. Eventually you shook it, and you grinned again.

“Where the hell did you find something like this?”

It was a snowglobe, somehow perfectly intact despite the number of years it had been collecting dust in a world full of violence and filth. Daryl had stumbled upon it on a run where he had found a strip of houses to loot. It was sat on a mantelpiece, and though Daryl didn’t know much about England or even London, he knew about Big Ben.

You shook it again and laughed. He watched you gaze at it in wonder, eyeing the details on the clock tower as plastic snow danced around it. Most of his anxieties melted away at the sight of that alone, but he still felt uneasy, as if he had done something wrong.

“I love it, Daryl. I didn’t even realise I’d spoken about London before.”

He nodded, his words stuck in the back of his throat. You had only mentioned London once before, something in passing, but he remembered. He remembered everything you said to him over the years. Maybe that was why this felt so wrong, as if he had taken this -- whatever this is -- too far.

Your heart was still thumping. Daryl had never been a talker, but he’d also never failed to show you that he cared. Even just by doing little things like making sure you ate properly or were sleeping okay. This was a different kind of show and tell and you weren’t sure what to do with it. 

Your affection for the archer had snuck up on you a long time ago and you usually found it quite easy to push it down and away. There were other things to concern yourself with, things to do to make sure not just you but your community could survive. But right now you were stuck in a loop. Behind his grouchy disposition was a warmth you desperately wanted to wrap yourself in.

The blanket wasn’t enough. Not right now. 

“It’s nothin’.” He finally responded, and this time you were lost for words.

You turned back towards the fair, avoiding his blue gaze as you thought to yourself. Neither of you knew what the hell this was or what the hell you were doing. You had spent so much time ignoring or rejecting the possibility of something more that now it had slapped you both across the face you were dumbfounded.

Was it supposed to be this complicated? This confusing? Or was it actually not at all and you were both just useless at all of this?

Tomorrow things would likely carry on as normal but right now, things were different. Something had shifted and it was entirely possibly you had been forced into the uncharted territory you were both so scared of. 

You swallowed hard shimmied closer to him again. Using your free arm, you tried to fling half of the blanket around his broad shoulders. It fell off of him immediately, but he didn’t question it. He picked it up, nudged closer to you, and wrapped it around himself.

A sigh of relief escaped you. Not just because he took the blanket but because he was practically a radiator. 

“I knew you were cold.” Your words were soft, almost hesitant despite being teasing.

Daryl looked down at you, his tongue flitting across his bottom lip as he watched you watch the world go by at the Christmas fair. He carefully sought out your hand with his own, and without even thinking about it you allowed your fingers to intertwine with his.

“You’re the one wi’ blue fingers.”

You wanted to roll your eyes, but you couldn’t bring yourself to. Instead, you rested your head on his shoulder again with a smile and allowed whatever excuses he made to comfort him. The fact you didn’t pull away was enough, and though he always knew you wouldn’t be as rough and calloused as he was, he couldn’t quite get over how soft your fingers were.

“Did you want to look around the fair?”

He allowed his thumb to glide across the back of your hand.

“Nah. I like it up here.”

[creativelyderangedme]

Chapter 1: Biggest Fan

Prompt: The Collector

Fandom: Miraculous Tales of Ladybug & Chat Noir

Character(s): Nathaniel Kurtzberg (established Nath/Marc)

TW: Overly possessive nature, idolization, obsession, stalking, etc.

@badthingshappenbingo​

If there was one thing about being an artist Nathaniel loved - it was sharing his craft with others. 

It was the community and camaraderie that came with it that made him feel like he was a part of something bigger than himself.

It was the validation and support he craved when a lot of his elders and peers told him that being an artist was not sustainable.

One thing he didn't like about being an artist? Harsh criticism from those who considered themselves the 'who's-who' in any fandom or creative circle. The people who just had to leave their "honest opinion" on something he put his blood sweat and tears into. 

It wasn't like criticism wasn’t okay - he'd rather someone was honest with him than to lie to his face, but some people took the role too far.

That said, it was hardly something he really took to heart any more. Sure, it stung after reading a not-so-kindly worded review on the comic he wrote with his boyfriend, and maybe he'd grumble about someone's lack of understanding of artistic intent if someone commented negatively on his art online - but it was something he'd grown rather thick-skinned to.

He couldn’t say the same for some of his more - avid fans, though. 

“Ohhh Nathaniel�� come out, come out, where-ever you are!”

The overly sweet and affectionate sing-song voice made the red-head shutter, swallowing back a terrified gasp as the latest Akuma stalked ever-closer to his hiding place in the art room storage closet. He pushed himself back further in the dark space, careful not to bump the packed shelves that would send precariously stacked medium tumbling to the floor - a clear signal to the lurking Akuma.

Not that it probably mattered at this point. 

Curator, as the young woman was calling herself now, hummed almost happily as she roamed through the room, taking her time - her steps echoing loudly in the otherwise empty class. “Nathaniel, my Treasure, there’s no need to hide! Curator is going to make it so everyone can see how priceless you truly are.”

Nathaniel’s skin crawled with the way she practically purred the possessive nickname she’d begun calling him since crashing through his class’s window that morning.

Her Treasure.

Like he was a thing she could buy and place upon her wall to admire - which he was almost certain is exactly what she planned to do. 

And to think, this all started with an internet troll.

Some asshole looking to get a rise out of him, commenting on all of his posted works with an unusual amount of hate and vitriol. The comments weren’t even all that coherent - which made it laughable after the initial shock wore off. Who the hell had so much time on their hands that this is what they dedicated their lives to?

And it didn’t hurt that almost immediately after each hateful post, his followers and friends jumped in to defend his honor. Sending him tons of love through messages and on the post. Sharing his art with their own followers just to spite the troll.

But there was always that one follower who took it just a little too far.

And this wasn’t the first time he’d seen xXNath_Love_ArtXx bombard his comments and DM.

It had been mostly sweet. She - as he had recently discovered - was a big fan of his art style and made that abundantly clear in the way she gushed to him, telling him of all the orders she’d made of the prints he made available online. He was flattered.

But as flattered as he was, it was a bit much at times. Like when he saw Adrien’s fans sometimes and the way they threw themselves at him with little regard for the appropriateness or his feelings.

Not - not that he considered himself to be a celebrity or anything. It was just that the feeling was the same.

And when the first waves of messages hit his inbox after the troll started posting comments, Nathaniel knew this was going to get out of hand.

He just didn’t realize how out of hand until she started declaring how much she knew about him and loved his art and then loved him.

It left him feeling sick. A rolling in his stomach over the ways she argued against the troll with information he didn’t share with anyone else. Stuff about his personal life. 

She wasn’t just a fan. xXNath_Love_ArtXx was obsessed. 

He was already trying to figure out what to do about this girl, trying to figure out the best way to talk to Marc about it when Curator crashed into his class, a binder clutched in her arms, and began using the blank pages to collect his classmates and turn them into poor renditions of his art style.

That is, until she’d noticed him standing stock-still in the back, too paralyzed to move.

He’s not sure how Adrien had moved so fast to get in front of him and protect him from the Akuma advancing on him, or how Marinette managed to get him to follow after her (though the ache in his wrist from where she’d pulled him along was a fairly decent clue), but he owed them both for having gotten him to relative safety.

Marinette had been the one to deposit him in the closet, telling him to lay low until she came back.

But that had been some time ago. 

And the school had gone far too quiet.

“Nathaniel, my treasure, there’s no sense in hiding. I know where you are. Come on out so I can show you off to the world!”

Nathaniel swallowed hard as the door knob turned slowly, like a scene straight out of a horror film.

“I just want to show you and the world how much I love you, and how talented you are! Why are you hiding from me? Didn’t you know?”

The door finally swung open revealing the Akuma and the deranged, lust-filled grin she sent him as her eyes caught his.

“I’m your biggest fan!” She sneered, lifting her binder to claim him for her collection. 

I have a number of these planned out already, but more than happy to sub any prompts if I get a request!

[midnightactual]

@mysteriousshopkeeper submitted:

“Yoruichi-san! I’m glad I caught you. I… thought you might be on a beach somewhere by now, since you just hosted a significant holiday party. In any case…” His fingers were idly tapping on something clasped between them as a subtle change came over his demeanor, like curtains being drawn open. “There are some… things I’ve been meaning to say. And considering my track record… I thought it best to let someone else say them.” His hands moved forward, and before she could object, he’d captured one of hers and pressed his gift into it.

Once she’d unwrapped it, she’d find herself holding a vintage, authentic Sony Walkman WM-D6C, in perfect working order, pre-loaded with a cassette – not just any commercial label, no, no – but a genuine, bona fide, old-fashioned mixtape. He’d invested considerable time and effort in selecting songs that suited his sentiments, first building a playlist on Spotify. He hadn’t even known all of them before he started searching, but he certainly did know them when he heard them. A tentative smile encroached on his lips. “At first it didn’t have tangible form, but as you can imagine, it proved difficult to wrap, so… I made this.”

The exercise had presented him with a delicate balance to maintain. His relationship with Yoruichi was… complicated. Lately, he’d come to the reluctant realization that what he’d been giving her was not what she needed from him, at least not here, not now.  But disillusionment had proven a sticky, time-consuming process. Would-have-beens and could-yet-bes clung like lint to an old sweater; every time he looked, he found more, and some were nearly indistinguishable from the knit. He’d begun the process at the outset of what had become an unexpectedly eventful couple of weeks, but it had been time well-spent; the effort had had a clarifying — and surprisingly calming — effect. Each day was a process of refining and crafting, loosely following a rubric laid out in a movie he’d seen once. As a finishing touch, he’d even added liner notes, just to arrange specific lyrics into a unified narrative. The result was a musical, emotional journey that moved through a spectrum of humor, introspection and encouragement.

Because there was still, at the base of it all, that deep and abiding foundation of their friendship. The pedestals and shrines he’d erected in her honor weren’t serving either of them; it was time for a little iconoclasm, a little restructuring.  Perhaps they could begin afresh and he would, again, be dependably her friend. He was aware that this playlist may not reflect her musical tastes, but it wasn’t so much about winning her heart as revealing his —she’d long deserved that much from him. Besides — at this point, what had he to lose? He’d quit castles in the sky for solid ground.

“Happy birthday, Yoruichi.” His face met hers with a soft, bright smile. “If you go, you’ll have something to take with you. And if my company would be welcome…” And here, the smile grew a bit dubious. “—I’d offer to go with you. I’d even make the arrangements; I could use a change of scene myself. You’d get good massages given on good behavior, with no lip service—” He smirked grimly, realizing how difficult it was for him to suggest without selling. “That is to say, I’d enjoy giving them. Quietly. But should you choose to stay, and celebrate your birthday here with us this year, I wouldn’t min—" Again, he caught himself; his face clouded for an instant, then cleared, transparent and a bit wistful, as he half-turned to make his graceful exit. “Rather, I would very much like that.”

Liner Notes

Listen on Spotify!

We Go Together / David Tennant & Catherine Tate - Lyrics We go together like the news and the weather / We fit like hand in glove! It’s All Been Done / Barenaked Ladies - Lyrics And if I put my fingers here, and if I say / “I love you, dear” / And if I play the same three chords, / Will you just yawn and say ‘I’m bored’ / It’s all been done Partners in Crime / Arkarna - Lyrics  As I feel, we are, we must go on, I will stand, with you, forever / Ever more / But without you it’s a bore, It’s no fun breaking the law / Anymore, anymore, my partner in crime True Colors / Justin Timberlake & Anna Kendrick - Lyrics Show me a smile then / Don’t be unhappy, can’t remember / When I last saw you laughing / If this world makes you crazy / And you’ve taken all you can bear / You call me up / Because you know I’ll be there Paradise Valley / Honey and the Sting - Lyrics  Take what you want from me / I bring it willingly / The paradise valley  Got Your Back / Mike Taylor - Lyrics If you need a friend to party - I got your back / If you wanna get naughty - I got your back / Just tell me where to hide the body - I got your back

Somewhere Only We Know / Keane - Lyrics And if you have a minute why don’t we go / Talk about it somewhere only we know? / This could be the end of everything / So why don’t we go / Somewhere only we know?  We Belong / Pat Benatar - Lyrics We belong to the light / We belong to the thunder / We belong to the sound of the words / We’ve both fallen under / Whatever we deny or embrace / For worse or for better / We belong, we belong / We belong together

I Won’t Give Up / Jason Mraz - Lyrics And in the end, you’re still my friend at least we did intend / For us to work we didn’t break, we didn’t burn / We had to learn how to bend without the world caving in / I had to learn what I’ve got, and what I’m not / And who I am  Clear the Area / Imogen Heap - Lyrics You find your way back down. / And I’ll keep the area clear…please clear the area. /  When you find your way back down…in one piece / Then I’ll just be waiting here…right here. / Slowly…darling…nobody means any more to me than you. Fortress Around Your Heart / Sting - Lyrics And if I’ve built this fortress around your heart / Encircled you in trenches and barbed wire / Then let me build a bridge / For I cannot fill the chasm / And let me set the battlements on fire

Undercover / Pete Yorn - Lyrics And we held and we tried / There was hardly lust between us / I will love you / I won’t let go / ‘Cause we are one inside these walls / Undercover

Black Heart Inertia / Incubus - Lyrics You’re a mountain that I’d like to climb / Not to conquer, but to share in the view / You’re a bonfire and I’m gathered ‘round you / Set this old black heart inertia aflame Invincible / Muse - Lyrics ‘Cause there’s no one like you in the universe / Don’t be afraid / What your mind conceives / You should make a stand / Stand up for what you believe / And tonight / We can truly say / Together we’re invincible

Yoruichi was actually a bit surprised when her hand was taken and the classic piece of audio kit was pressed into it, not having expected such a forward approach. For want of any other recourse—it was her birthday, and it was a gift, apparently given very sincerely considering his affect… what else could she do but take it?—she willingly grasped the Walkman and heard him out.

She was in for another surprise at how little he had to say, comparatively. Sure, some of the usual banter and salesmanship eventually filtered in, but the facade was cracked and the underlying sincerity streamed through the act like sunlight through mist, burning it off right before her very eyes. It was striking, and she stared at the spectacle of it, growing increasingly uncertain.

And then, just like that he… left? She was sufficiently taken aback by what he’d said—and how he’d said it—that she hadn’t yet had time to formulate a reply when he was turning and departing. Her mouth opened, but no sounds came out of it, and by the time she thought of something to say—even just, ‘Wait’—he was gone.

She stared after him for long seconds before shutting her mouth and looking at the Walkman that’d been handed to her. She considered it for several moments more before going to a closet drawer. She already owned a pair of vintage Walkman headphones with orange foam earpieces; they seemed the most appropriate thing to use to listen, and listening seemed to be the only thing to do.

Considering both components, she put the headset on, plugged it in, and clicked play. There was a delightfully mechanistic moment as the button sank in, giving that chunky, electromechanical experience you simply couldn’t get with fully digital electronics. It made her nostalgic as the first song began, and she listened, at first just standing where she was. The first song was a bit cornball, and she wondered if the whole mixtape would be that way, eventually sitting on the edge of her bed. But by the third song she was up and pacing about as she listened, a pit growing in her stomach.

By the seventh, she had retreated from her bedroom entirely, going to her bathroom almost on autopilot. Some part of her knew it was even farther away from scrutiny—harder to reach, harder to be heard from, even if her rooms and the building itself were very well soundproofed. Some other part of her felt almost ill. And then there were her eyes.

Crying had never been acceptable. That had been made abundantly clear to her from the very beginning. She didn’t cry. She hadn’t since she’d been a toddler. She’d watched her kōhai have a breakdown without crying. She’d torn off her own arm without crying. She’d cradled her little brother after he’d been shot through the heart three times without crying. As she leaned on the wall beside the tub, she almost didn’t recognize the pressure around her eyes. Her motions were automatic, and she clambered into the dry basin while she fought to keep herself under control. Things started getting blurry as a titanic clash raged within her.

Yet the music kept going, and she refused to stop it. Trembling with held in sounds, she finally punched the stone tiles before her. The strike wasn’t very hard by her standards, although it pushed her gigai—but it wasn’t enough to even chip the rock. Her arm stayed extended and she ground her knuckles into the rough surface, before retracting and striking again. And again. And again and again and again, until the stone was smeared with her blood and her hand throbbed and ached in protest.

The pain wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough to compete with what was already filling her, and she gasped as it became overwhelming, hot tears spilling down her cheeks as she lost and it became entirely impossible to see. Her sobs were silent at first, wracking her whole body, before she smacked the bottoms of both fists against the wall, leaning forward to put her forehead on it as she finally let out a noise, something between a growl and a low wail.

She beat against that wall ineffectually, clenching her jaw as she still tried to keep it all in, trying to refuse this, but it was no use. ‘Volatile’ was wholly inadequate to describe the mixture of emotions flowing through her—it was a hypergolic cocktail that was already ablaze and demanded venting. And so, finally, she tipped her head back and screamed. Agony. Frustration. Despair. Self-loathing. Rage. Sorrow. Regret. It had all built and built, not just lately but for far, far longer, and she had no choice but to let out all the fruits of her failures at once now, like some kind of ravening nuclear death beam rendered in sound.

What her reiatsu did in response, she had no idea and no care to know. Presumably the gigai kicked in to contain it, but she was caught up in the maelstrom, a billion light years away from such concerns. She cried out and pounded at the wall until there was nothing left, until she was hoarse, until she was empty, until she was panting from the intensity of the chemicals unleashed, until her tears carried away enough of their torrent that she could breathe.

Spent and dazed, she slumped back, then outright toppled back against an edge of the tub, sinking down and shivering. Still, the music played, and it drew her back to the moment. She could think of doing nothing but flopping onto one side and curling up in a fetal position, desperately hugging herself and simply trying to be small, wishing to just disappear entirely. She stayed that way for a long time.

[narniaandplowmen]

My lute be still for I have done.

Fandom: The Witcher Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier Also on AO3 2608 words.

General Audiences / No Archive Warnings Apply Complete

Part 1 of Half a Century of Poetry

Three months after The Mountain, Jaskier is a one-day journey away from Oxenfurt. There, one night before he enters the city to become a professor, he writes and performs his final song.

Jaskier couldn’t perform. It had been three damn months  and he still couldn’t perform. Oh sure, he tried, and he did manage to get through some songs without being hindered by sobs ripping their way up from the core of his heart. But he couldn’t perform.  He couldn’t even get through the first few chords of Toss a Coin without his throat closing up and forcing him to change to a different song before even opening his mouth to sing the first line. Sure, he had tried singing the very few songs in his repertoire that did  not  speak about the Witcher and his heroic deeds, but every single song somehow circled back to Geralt. Geralt, who had, in no uncertain terms, told him it was better if Jaskier were dead. If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.

He had attempted to sing Fishmonger’s Daughter, but that only reminded him of their first meeting and Parvetta’s betrothal feast. Even the songs he had written for Countess de Stael were unplayable. He couldn’t fool himself. He knew that, even though the songs described the long soft hair and gorgeous eyes of a maid unaware of her own beauty, he was really describing a certain long-haired, yellow-eyed self-conscious Witcher. And even if he did manage to fool himself, the instrument he held was, on occasion, more than enough to make his heart break into even smaller pieces, if that was even possible. The lute was a physical reminder of their first adventure, of the compassion Geralt had shown even when his life was threatened. And yet Jaskier could not manage to part with it, could not even conceive of selling it. It was, after all, some sort of reminder that Geralt had, once, cared. Had, once, put Jaskier’s life above his own. Once.

It had been three months. Three damn months and Jaskier felt pathetic. He had hoped, dreamed, wished, prayed that by now he would be over it, his broken heart would be healed even the tiniest bit, but now that winter was fast approaching, he had to accept the fact that it would not. Instead of nagging at Geralt that he was getting so cold, that he needed the Witcher’s body warmth -  ‘I am a mutant, my skin is cold,’ Jaskier could hear the words as if Geralt was standing next to him - he was camping in a forest alone, with nothing but his thoughts to distract him from the biting cold and his chattering teeth. Tomorrow, he would be in Oxenfurt. Tomorrow, he would be surrounded by hundreds of people, welcomed warmly and, hopefully, offered a teaching position, like the university had done every time he travelled through town. Where he had always kindly refused, he would, this time, graciously accept. Jaskier had prepared his excuses well: he would tell them he was too old to travel the road, he would speak of the ‘importance of giving way for a new generation’, he would complain about his knees hurting if he walked too much. And then, maybe, hopefully, nobody would question that he was not following the white-haired Witcher anymore. And if they begged him to play… If they begged him to play, he would refuse. He would, Jaskier had decided, claim he was rheumatic. State that playing hurt. It would give an excuse for his sombre state, for his tears if he did play, for his choice to leave the Path he had always spoken so fondly of. Jaskier the Traveling Bard, the moment he entered Oxenfurt, would cease to exist, replaced by Professor Pankratz.

 But that wouldn’t be until he entered the city. So now, in the dark loneliness of the forest, Jaskier grabbed his lute and played.

  My lute awake performe the last

Labour that thou and I shall waste:

And end that I have now begonne:

And when this song is song and past:

My lute be styll for I have done.

 Jaskier remembered how his parents had disapproved of his career path. They had been elated when he had announced he wanted to go to Oxenfurt, but this happiness was short-lived once they had learned that their son was not planning on studying business, or politics, or some sort of scientific program. Wanting to study the seven liberal arts had caused multiple huge fights. Most of them were now, so many years later, a vague, negative blur in his mind, but he remembered one thing vividly. During one of the final fights he had had with his parents before they allowed him to go, he had stood in a windowsill on the third floor, holding tight but hovering one foot over the empty air below, yelling that he ‘would rather DIE than give up music’. And now, as he played, he knew that giving it up would cause his death as well. He breathed out a small laugh. Die of heartbreak, a marvellously poetic way to go. How else was he expecting to die? Old, surrounded by friends and family? Children and grandchildren around his bed as he used his last words to say something wise? No, that had never been an option. He would cease playing and die, as he once, so long ago, when he lived in happier times, had joked: a broken-hearted man.

  As to be heard where eare is none:

As lead to grave in marble stone:

My song may pearse her hart as sone.

Should we then sigh? or singe, or mone?

No, no, my lute for I have done.

 He didn’t understand where he had gone wrong. Jaskier considered himself quite a good judge of character, and he knew that this was not just one of the self-aggrandising statements he often made. His ability to read others, mirror them and appease their needs was the exact reason he had become so well-know, so well-liked, the ‘skilled negotiator’ and ‘stirring orator’ that had been welcomed by courts around the Continent with open arms. Sure, musical talent was important, but any successful bard’s true strength was his ability to appease in all senses of the word. So where had he gone wrong? What had happened? Had he truly not been able to correctly judge the nature of his and Geralt’s relationship? He knew, of course he knew, that Geralt could never see Jaskier as Jaskier saw him. It was abundantly clear that their friendship was just that, a friendship. There would be no hope for anything other than that. Yet, Jaskier had been pretty confident in calling Geralt a friend. Sure, the Witcher denied it with each passing breath, but Jaskier knew that Geralt knew that all those denials were lies, attempts to not get attached to someone mortal, no matter the fact that Jaskier’s half-elf parentage meant he would still live twice as long as the average human. Twice as long was nothing, nothing compared to the eternity a quick Witcher could live. So Jaskier hadn’t pushed. Sure, he had joked, on occasion, but never too much. Never to the point where it made Geralt uncomfortable. Their friendship was an unspoken thing, and that was fine. So what had happened for that to change? Jaskier briefly stopped playing to wipe the tears from his cheeks. Pathetic. If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands. What had he done to deserve such a death-wish? Jaskier knew he had a tendency to be a bit too much, too bright, too happy, too loud. Yet still, did he deserve this fate?

 The rockes do not so cruelly

Repulse the waves continually,

As he my sute and affection:

So that I am past remedy,

Wherby my lute and I have done.

 Jaskier turned to add more wood to the fire. Next to the small stack of wood he had gathered, a tiny violet flower bloomed. He reached out, picking it from the dirt and turning it around between his fingers. Violet. Yennefer. The Wish. He had stumbled across the sorceress a month after The Mountain and, instead of cursing him, or killing him, or laughing at his pathetic state, she had bought them both tremendous amounts of ale and they had spent the night - bonding? Yes, that was the only appropriate word for it, no matter how weird it sounded. It turned out that Geralt had not only ruined his relationship with Jaskier that day. He had also managed to make an enemy of the most powerful person on the entire Continent. Jaskier had been appalled when Yennefer, in a soft voice, had shared what had happened when Geralt had found the djinn. Jaskier himself could remember little of it, and now he wished he could still live in that blissful ignorance. The knowledge that Yennefer saved him was awful enough on its own, but learning about the wish made Jaskier want to vomit. Sure, he was an ‘unparalleled lover’, but he always, always made sure he had the full, complete and enthusiastic consent of his partner before undertaking anything. What Geralt had done was cruel, opportunistic and shameful. And, although he never thought he would say the words, Yennefer deserved better. 

 Proude of the spoile that thou hast gotte

Of simple hartes through loves shot:

By whom unkinde thou hast them wonne,

Thinke not he hath his bow forgot,

Although my lute and I have done.

 It had turned out that Jaskier had not just ‘stumbled across’ Yennefer. Instead, she had sought him out. The next morning, after some handy magic spared him from nursing the worst hangover of his life, Yennefer had revealed her plan of vengeance. As the woman spoke, Jaskier made several mental notes to never ever cross her. Still, he had refused. He understood the desire for vengeance, for payment, for retribution but, Jaskier had told Yennefer, Geralt had taken enough of his life. He didn’t want to spend more time chasing the white-haired Witcher. Besides, without them, how many friends did the man have left? Letting him rot in his loneliness was enough of a punishment. Yennefer had disagreed, of course she had. But she had left him with a ring. Turning the blue stone twice would signal that he had changed his mind, that he wanted to take revenge anyway. Turning it thrice would alert Yennefer that he was in great danger. Turning it once would signify he was thinking of her. Turning the stone once, he turned back to his lute and continued to play.

  Vengeaunce shall fall on thy disdaine

That makest but game on earnest payne.

Thinke not alone under the sunne

Unquit to cause thy lovers plaine:

Although my lute and I have done

 As Jaskier played, another memory forced its way up to the forefront of his mind. It had been at the beginning of their travels, sitting next to a campfire similar to this whilst discussing Geralt’s newest contract.

 ‘What happens if you don’t manage to kill it this time?’ Jaskier, in his youthful innocence, had asked. 

 ‘I die.’ The Witcher had said it as if it were the most normal thing in the world. 

 ‘And when does it end? All this fighting and travelling? When are you done?’

 ‘When I die.’ 

 ‘Don’t you want to settle down? Maybe somewhere on the seaside? Retire? Find a nice cottage?’ 

 ‘Witchers don’t retire,’ Geralt had grunted, with a tone that made it clear that this was the end of the conversation. 

 Later, Jaskier had often seen the exhaustion on Geralt’s face. The man might have thought he hid his emotions well, but the opposite was true. He had seen him glance at old, retired couples. He had seen the mental exhaustion as the Alderman tried to find loopholes to pay him less. He had seen the longing, aching, yearning that Geralt never truly allowed himself to admit he had. So, when Geralt had come down from the mountain with a clear look of defeat, Jaskier had extended him a metaphorical hand.

  ‘We could head to the coast. Get away for a while.’ 

 But instead of a nod, or of Geralt’s characteristical silence, he had been met with those words. That deathwish. Take you off my hands. And here Jaskier was, away from the Witcher who would, apparently, rather have him dead than alive. And some bitter part of him hoped that Geralt would make his way to the coast, would get away for a while, and would, finally, realise that Jaskier had been right. But by then it would be too late, and maybe, maybe, some vengeful part of him whispered, Geralt would feel even a fraction of the hurt Jaskier felt now. 

  May chance thee lie withered and olde,

In winter nightes that are so colde,

Playning in vain unto the mone:

Thy wishes then dare not be tolde.

Care then who list, for I have done.

 Jaskier knew the idea of Geralt retiring was laughable, of course he did. A Witcher did not retire. He lived on, fought monsters, got slow and died. Most likely somewhere in a muddy swamp, slowly and painfully bleeding out as his mutations tried their best to heal him, but failing to do so. Probably whilst being eaten by a kikimore or something equally awful. In those last hours, would Geralt think of him? Of Yennefer? Of the child surprise he had left behind, he had never visited? Or would he, by then, have completely forgotten about any of them. Were they all just a breeze in the wind, a single grain of sand in the desert of Geralt’s life? A soft buzz on his finger signalling that Yennefer, too, thought of him, removed him from those thoughts. No, it could not be. Jaskier had to have meant something. Geralt had allowed him to travel with him for two decades, that must have accounted for something, right? Maybe, just maybe, Geralt’s last thoughts would be of him. Maybe he would regret his behaviour, and maybe, when they both arrived at Melitele’s Gates, they would be reunited at last, and all would be well.

  And the may chance thee to repent

The time that thou hast lost and spent

To cause thy lovers sigh and swowne.

Then shalt thou know beauty but lent

And wish and want as I have done.

 Jaskier suppressed a yawn and, after adding a bit more wood to the fire so it would burn through the night and checking that the fire would not spread, leaned back against the tree behind him. He would need his energy tomorrow to make it to Oxenfurt before the city gates closed. He carefully placed his lute next to him, softly humming to give his voice a proper cooling down. ‘This is it, my sweet,’ he whispered softly in-between hums. ‘No more carefree playing for you.’ He did not even bother to wipe away the tears from his cheeks. Tomorrow, Jaskier the Bard would become Professor Julian Pankratz. Tomorrow, he would have to go back to the days where he had to hide his playing from the world, finding spaces where nobody could see his fingers touch the strings as if they had found their home. So, in a sombre, soft tone, Jaskier sang the final verse of his song acapella, heard only by the insects on the ground and the grey owl in the tree high above him.

  Now cease my lute this is the last

Labour that thou and I shall wast,

And ended is that we begonne.

Now is this song both song and past,

My lute be still for I have done. 

[daggerzine]

Other Music documentary (2019- directed by Puloma Basu and Rob Hatch-Miller)  review by Dina Hornreich

“It is harder to put together than to take apart.” A plain and not-so simple comment coming from the former Other Music Record Store co-owners, Josh Madell and Chris Vanderloo, who are prominently featured in the film, as these words underscore a scene in which their crew is dismantling their once hallowed CD sales racks in preparation for the store’s reluctant closure. OM used to herald as a beacon of hope in NYC’s bustling offbeat East Village neighborhood, a cultural hub known as St. Marks Place – not far from New York University. (If you asked any New Yorker for directions, they would enthusiastically tell you to simply “get off at the stop for Astor Place Station from the #6 or #4 [subway] train: you will see the gigantic cube immediately after exiting the station...can’t miss it!”)

The OM store opened its doors in 1996, and officially closed in 2016. Twenty years is a very good run for any kind of establishment such as this one, especially in the Big Apple – a fact that was not taken lightly by the two makers of this film who each were an employee and a regular customer at the establishment themselves! And like the store itself: the film is an endeavor for music nerds by music nerds. (And, obviously, this Dagger Zine review is no different.)

For creatively inclined weirdos like us, OM was a place of refuge. It was a major meta-musical mecca that happened to take the form of a retail outlet which is a very bold endeavor to consider: an unusual existence as a cultural outlet that strove to challenge our knowledge, expand our awareness, and promote the discovery of completely unknown (even uncomfortable) expressions. This mentality was not conducive whatsoever to the slick sales-driven experience one might come to expect upon shopping for any traditional kind of consumable commodities. And we certainly did not receive that kind of treatment while shopping there anyway!

OM’s purpose was contrary to basic principles of economics because it was run by artistic types who believed in a much higher purpose behind what they were selling: it was a community focused approach. In doing so, they completely confounded the basic notion that we were purchasing mere commercial products to be unloaded for profit (like toothpaste). The store’s very existence was a subversive act of culture jamming in and of itself. This information in conjunction with a solid awareness of the cut-throat and risky nature involved with doing any kind of enterprising endeavors in NYC is extremely pertinent. (I was once told that any restaurant in NYC would be far more successful if it were in another location simply because the competition alone would be considerably less stiff.)

Instead, they were offering something very unusual to their customers by incorporating some kind of pseudo-quasi-intellectual discourse using extraordinarily inventively stylistic fusions and/or varied often inconceivable sonic experiments to create such astute, pithy, and massively passionate descriptions that would be entirely ineffective as a sales strategy to the less tolerant/picky shoppers at the overpowering Tower Records across the street. The store had a unique energy that was entirely its own manifestation. Bin categories had mysterious names such as: in, then, decadanse, etc. that baffled even the artists whose own work was often filed underneath them, as evidenced by the hesitant testimony provided by indie rock luminary Dean Wareham (of the bands Galaxie 500 and Luna). In fact, these idiosyncratically descriptive insider taxonomies were typically used as a rite of passage upon orienting new store employees to OM’s unique aesthetic.  

The delectably raw live in-store performance footage of more acquired tastes, but definitely well-loved by those “in the know,” included bands who simply could not have thrived in the same ways at more conventional outlets: The Apples in Stereo, Neutral Milk Hotel, The Rapture, etc. The most delightfully peculiar act might have been delivered by a performer named Gary Wilson whose legendary appearance began with him surreptitiously entering the store while beneath a blanket and then (from behind the scenes, presumably) covering himself in talcum powder prior to seizing the stage with unabashedly alarming flamboyance – with only the playful tunes that would we expect to appropriately match that indelible image so gloriously!

And that was precisely the point: they were unequivocally rebelling against more conventional music consumption habits by offering an entirely different kind of taste-making experience that was kind of less palatable overall – and, in doing so, they even helped launch the careers of some important figures: Vampire Weekend, Animal Collective, and Interpol. The description of the “consignment” process for emerging artists who managed to attain a place on their sanctified shelves seemed extraordinarily modest considering the scope and nature of the impact it offered. There was a lot of social currency behind the OM brand.

The inclusion of a parody skit starring Aziz Anzari and Andy Blitz (available here as well https://youtu.be/YN1mKiQbi4g), followed by the various customer testimonials (including actor and musician Jason Schwartzman), indicated that they may have exuded more than a hint of an unflatteringly, even off-putting, air of NYC hipster pretentiousness akin to that portrayed in the Nick Hornby book, Stephen Frears movie, and/or the new Hulu series (involving both Hornby and Frears): High Fidelity. However, there were clearly very good reasons for them to do this: They represented an extreme mishmash of strange characters who collectively embodied all the historically marginalized shapes, sizes, colors among other attributes that would not have been celebrated (or considered marketable) elsewhere. If they weren’t a little snooty, they probably would have been mocked entirely – as evidenced by an astute and pithy comment by a long-time store employee describing Animal Collective as appearing like a “sinister Fraggle Rock on acid.”

These artists never aspired to becoming real “rock stars” anyway – on the contrary, they embodied the antithesis of that concept. (A point made abundantly clear as they bookended the film with footage of ordinary musicians simply marching through the streets of NYC.) Literally, OM offered shelter to those of us who are able to truly appreciate the anthemic idea behind the phrase: “songs in the key of Z.” It was a place for gathering the outsiders among outsiders, in other words.

It is impossible to ignore various impressive personalities who made appearances throughout the film, in both large and small roles. This includes but is not limited to major NYC scene contributors such as Lizzy Goodman, author of the equally compelling and similarly themed book: Meet Me in the Bathroom: Rebirth and Rock’n Roll in New York City 2001-2011. Footage in the film included key figures in influential bands including: TV on the Radio, Le Tigre, The National, Vampire Weekend, Yeah Yeah Yeahs (all of whom are also featured in Goodman’s book). You can also see glimpses of varied lesser known, yet supremely compelling figures of that era, including writers Kandia Krazy Horse and Geeta Dayal, and former store employees such as Lisa Garrett and Gerald Hammill.

These conversations take place until we eventually witness the demise of Tower across the street (and its many ilk of like-minded big box stores) which clearly signaled the ever-looming end for Vanderloo and Madell’s opus-like enterprise. A point that musician Stephin Merritt, best known for so many stellar masterpieces with his longest-running outfit, The Magnetic Fields, emphasizes upon casually observing the degrading presence of a fitness studio franchise that has since taken up residence in the spot that used to house Tower’s second floor. (I failed to try and restrain myself from recalling a new sense of irony from the lyrical lines that Merritt himself had written and recorded around 1991: “Why do we still live here.. In this repulsive town? All our friends are in New York.”)

There is also a bit of an underlying insinuation only apparent from random customer shots throughout the store regarding a possible impact from the Rough Trade Records shop that had recently opened in Brooklyn around the time of OM’s closing. This is exceedingly apparent to this biased writer herself who personally ventured out to that Williamsburg location last year for an in-store performance with NYU Punk Professor, Vivien Goldman, who had just published her own book Revenge of the She Punks. An event whose audience clearly included some members of the OM community featured in this film as I recall the store had heavily lauded her Resolutionary compilation album release prior to its official closing.

As the film successfully affirms the significance behind record store culture (especially in a global hub like NYC) which has long been hailed as a sacred gathering space for various misfits and weirdos who might find significantly less understanding and/or productive social outlets in other circumstances; its unavoidable bittersweet conclusion dramatically asserts how disappointing it is for us to witness the complete loss in their consistently tenuous financial viability as we are well into the digital information age – if not for the simple fact that paying for music (or any kind of intellectual property) is more commonly perceived as an anachronistic practice which is a clear and painful affront to all the prescient creative geniuses who are struggling to make an honest living off their work.

The film highlights the many multifaceted aspects that we fondly and endearingly associate with the appreciation of music that lies at the heart of the irrational fervor behind record collecting culture: the smell of the vinyl itself, the enormous visual impact around the artists’ choices for cover art, the substantial weight it possesses when we remove it from the sleeve, the delicacy necessary to handle vinyl so as to minimize any potential damage, its often very limited quantities as it is not cost-efficient to produce (the obscurity is intrinsically part of the exhilaration surrounding this “hunt”) among other substantial inconveniences that more or less confirm this as an unproductive – if not entirely illogical – endeavor overall!

Of course, it has always been very apparent to us that we were engaged in some insanely addictive bizarre kinds of quests that kept leading us to this absurd little locale in the first place – desperately trying to pacify some nebulous and insatiable deep cravings that we couldn’t always articulate… yet it always kept us coming back for more! As Mac McCaughan from the bands Superchunk and Portastic, as well as co-owner of Merge Records, astutely concludes: “They knew what you wanted before you knew.” (Of course, they did!)

The overarching and staunch message of this film is most apparent during the final closing scenes when we are eavesdropping on a conversation that the former co-owner, Josh Madell, is having with his young daughter about simply streaming the Hamilton Soundtrack on Spotify because the vinyl copy would have cost her $90 in the store. Perhaps even more ironic, of course, might be suggested by the very relevant context in which we find ourselves today: the annual Record Store Day celebratory event with which the film’s re-release was planned to coincide obviously could not happen. As a result, I was reluctantly watching it, albeit self-consciously, on my 13” laptop screen in my home office during the self-quarantine of COVID-19. Half the proceeds for the “tickets” were to be used to support one of my favorite local record shops here in Denver, CO, Twist and Shout, who may or may not be able to reopen as this pandemic situation evolves.

There are bigger questions to contemplate as the tide of change has only just begun in ways that only a tragedy, such as a worldwide pandemic, can facilitate for even the most obstinate luddites who have no choice but to incorporate regular use of digital formats in their daily habits – and we totally have, of course! This documentary remains as unequivocal evidence of the viability behind OM as it stood as an historic cultural hub that transcended the fundamental premise behind a commercial retail outlet. (Even though retail was once considered the only aspect of the industry where substantial money could be made. In fact, a measure of an artists’ success was often the number of albums they actually sold.) As its impact clearly exceeds its impressive years as a store-front operated business, it may also indicate a shortcoming in mainstream outlets who tend to ignore, silence, dismiss, and otherwise relegate the disempowered voices in our community – which, of course, are the major reasons that forced us to seek out these alternate forums in the first place.

The role of arts and culture for society is in fact to provide the very same opportunities that OM offered to us, which is (to reiterate that point from above) to provide an opportunity for discourse that challenges our knowledge, expands our awareness, and promotes the discovery of the completely unknown (even uncomfortable) expressions. These conversations give our lives meaning and force us to continually improve ourselves on many levels. While such commentaries could be considered an acquired taste or even an entirely esoteric endeavor, the crucial sensibilities they offer hold enormous potential for a world that honestly seems to need to hear from us… now more than ever!

If only we could find a better way to invite the integration of our perspectives into the bigger conversations? So that we can participate in the innovations for the changed world that will be waiting for us – and to ensure that it will be a more inclusive place for all of us. Which is perhaps what we ultimately (and so desperately) need, want, and deserve. The alternatives seem frighteningly Orwellian… at the risk of seeming a bit histrionic.

http://www.factorytwentyfive.com/other-music/?fbclid=IwAR3wtvtOKKC46YmfwjB6zv0wp5GMh4YBHFuWk0aLOti5m2NSs8PFChjrK4M

[parallel-awhite]

#called #paradisus

The lure of the siren. 

I was called to go see new work by Chris Musina in his current exhibition Paradise at Oneoneone gallery - called by the reproduction of an image of a painting that read like a latter-day Magritte - which depicted the back of a bikini-clad young woman facing an abstracted vista onto ocean and sky - and further clued into the work's surrealist underpinnings by its displaced cultural signifiers - beyond its echoes of Magritte - by the presence of a dolphin tattoo on the woman's shoulder permanently inscribed with the cliché "Live, Laugh, Love." The word "cliché" comes from the history of the printing press - in which often-used word sequences (phrases worked so hard they could be anthropomorphically described as "tired") were grouped together in permanent clusters for use and re-use. The woman's tattoo in Musina's painting is - as they say - "everything" (what Roland Barthes might have referred to as its "punctum").  Thus, the work appeared to constitute multiple layerings - a Magritte-esque painting of a person imprinted with an inked image and clichéd text (which could be understood as a painting within a painting - another Magritte-ism) - the reference to which anchors the woman as a cliché herself as one who has succumbed to the sheer compelling force of the cliché.  As they also say - "clichés are clichés for a reason" - after all, who doesn't want to live, laugh, love? It's kind of - as they say - a "no-brainer."

Once when we were on Topsail Island we saw dolphins dancing and playing in the waves. We saw several - and each time one appeared my entire nervous system was awash in dopamine splendor - in neurochemical alignment with the profundity of the experience. It was the off-season and cold - and no one else was around. We sat on our rickety balcony and felt the intimate sense of joy and pleasure that arises when phenomena occur in one's presence and no one else is there to witness it. On our way out of town, I purchased a cheap ceramic dolphin souvenir - on which the identifier of "Topsail Island, NC" had been set forth in gold script. It was clear that these bits of tourist bait were sold in any seaside shop one might happen upon - with the salient variable of the place name appropriately inscribed. I could not express - and still cannot express - the extent to which this tangible item serves as a container for that indelible and ineffable experience - which holds for me something that I cannot say but can nevertheless hold in my hand.   

In On Longing, Susan Stewart begins her meditation on the souvenir, "The souvenir is by definition always incomplete" and goes on to establish the operative principles in the activation of such objects - emphasizing their necessarily fractional "partial" nature - and the way in which the fractional aspect interfaces with the fullness of the holder's expansive experiential narrative projected onto them, which imbues them with their singularity despite their mass production. Human perception could be understood in this way - each of us bringing to bear an infinity of experience to all perceived phenomena - including that of the cultural and natural worlds and the vortex of so-called "man-made" output referencing landscapes and other natural elements. The image of the souvenir-object recurs in Musina's Paradise - as do visual and cultural clichés of all forms - which thus informs the reading of the show as a whole.    

Indyweek's Brian Howe rightly flagged Musina's current artist's statement, which in its entirety reads as follows: "I'm tired of the Anthropocene." Thus we indeed must overlay this "baggage" onto the entirety of Musina's Paradise - although once we enter the gallery space the works make abundantly clear that an uninfringed-upon human/nature interface is no longer possible - if it ever was. Our individual experiences may differ - but at this point in the history of the planet we all live a more or less mediated existence - with the lion's share of us landing solidly in the "more" category (case in point: you are most likely reading this online) - and our referents to the natural world as often as not take the form of digital thumbnails or decorative ornamentation - or the floral or animal imagery with which we clothe or ink ourselves.

What drives us to self-represent through such adornments and body art signals? Why do we get specific tattoos? Choose particular statement t-shirts? Paradise includes two parallel-structure paintings - one of the aforementioned tattooed woman (Live, Laugh, Love, 2018) and the other of a male figure (Guy, 2018) - also with his back to us and facing the ocean - in a yellow t-shirt that features a painted array of what might be referred to as sporting fish - the kind of prized catches that are sometimes seen mounted - gleaming,  taxidermied, inert - on the slatted walls of cheap seafood joints. A pattern thus begins to emerge - the human mythologizing, signification and synthesis of the marine world. Musina emphasizes such synthesis (and underscores the painting-within-a-painting aspect) by including the signature of the creator of the t-shirt's artwork that is imprinted on the garment along with the painted oceanic cluster.      

The two other large paintings presented in Musina's Paradise include the image of a souvenir ceramic pelican placed on a large rock adjacent to some ocean waves (Ceramic Pelican on Jetty, 2018) - a confluence of the natural and the artificial - or perhaps the tchotchke has been set in front of a painted backdrop - diorama style. This aspect is unclear - which raises some questions about the work in terms of painterly/conceptual intentions and how the four main paintings of the show function (or not) as a group. The other - largest - work depicts an alligator in a swimming pool at night (Alligator in Swimming Pool, 2018). This painting also feels separate from the other works as the image appears to have been derived from an internet search. The flatness of the creature and the lack of dimensionality fights its purported realism. I resolve the problem in my head by thinking of it as a painting of a photograph posted online and viewed on a computer screen. But by the time I have accomplished that thought-maneuver and turn to see the other three works, they now seem at a distance - approached differently by Musina - each inhabiting its own set of painterly terms, which for me undermines the exhibition's potential.

In these four paintings, there is something unresolved in terms of painterly and conceptual choice-making that interrupts flow and disrupts the potential for a coalescing of meaning among them. For example, the shading and overall tonality of Guy is more overt than that of Live, Laugh, Love. Its horizon line is sharp, and the ocean is rendered in a highly stylized fashion, almost as if airbrushed from dark to light. By contrast, Live, Laugh, Love sustains a more pale and soft horizon and more highly abstracted water - as if the painting's subject had slowly drifted into a Rothko painting. There is an overall contemplative quality to the piece - a patience evidenced by the handling of the woman's hair, which is a revelation - dreamy wisps fluttering in a caressing breeze. Each of the four pieces on their own retain some level of painterly logic and integrity - however I would venture to say that the choices that were made in the production of Live, Laugh, Love feel less conflicted and internally conflicting - thus I perceive LLL as the most fully-realized of the group. It is not that there is a "right" painterly decision here - but rather the need for an awareness that those decisions are legible and thus have the potential to interrupt the way in which the works are read - especially as a body of work - if that is indeed the intention.

Paradise includes six ink drawings - pithy image-and-text object lessons in the human-animal interface - which has been part of Musina's project since I first witnessed his work circa 2010. The ink drawings are overall successful and surprising, alternately revelatory, humorous and scathing - often nailing all three at once. A dead tequila worm in a shot glass asserts its identity "Here I am" (although the "I" might just as well be the person about to kick back the shot [and the worm]). A kitsch grouping of shells glued together to obtain the appearance of a banjo-playing frog [cheap souvenir-object] with the caption "Oh Death" darkly underscores the macabre aspects of the construction as it is in effect built from the skeletal remains of dead mollusks. An armadillo is accompanied by the phrase "Touch Me, I'm Sick," the title of a Mudhoney song but which also raises the question of whether the animal is ill or simply texturally alluring and thus rad [aka "sick"].   

I appreciate the inclusion of these six drawings because they are so clearly conceived - the formal choice-making so evident - as to presage the continued evolution of Musina's painting - and the ongoing production (and sometimes re-production) that is required to obtain maximum clarity and cohesion. Consider the consistency of Vija Celmins' night sky paintings - painted and repainted multiple times for idiosyncratic/aesthetic purposes and which never stutter or equivocate but rather assert themselves as a series and obtain cumulative meanings. 

Consider her oceans. 

[garyrenard-blog]

7 Questions And Answers To Unwind Your Mind

A Course In Miracles

A Course in Miracles is thus pure, thus splendid, so effective, therefore considerably more spiritually innovative than some other item of the globe's literature (past times as well as existing), that you possess to really experience it to think it. Yet those whose minds are actually also connected to life notions, and also lack the rooting crave true religious understanding that is essential for its own understanding, are going to likely not know a singular entire page. That is actually not because A Course in Miracles is perplexing - on the contrary its own concepts are remarkably straightforward - but instead because it is the attribute of spiritual expertise that those who are actually certainly not prepared to know it, merely may not comprehend it. As explained in the Bible, at the start of guide of John: "The light shineth in darkness, and darkness comprehended it not".

Ever before due to the fact that I first heard of the magnificent and also stunning existence of God, I have actually delighted in reading through lots of splendid religious jobs like the Bible (my beloved parts are actually the Sermon on the Mount and also Psalms), the Bhagavad-Gita, the Upanishads, the Koran as well as the poems of Kabir and Rumi. None happen close to the greatness of a Course in Miracles Reviewing it with an open thoughts as well as heart, your concerns and also issues remove. You hear of a spectacular passion deeper within you - deeper than just about anything you recognized before. The potential begins to seem so bright for you and also your adored ones. You experience love for everybody including those you recently have made an effort to leave omitted. These expertises are quite strong as well as at opportunities throw you off harmony a little, yet it is worth it: A Course in Miracles offers you to an affection so relaxed, thus strong consequently global - you will definitely ask yourself exactly how numerous of the globe's religions, whose objective is purportedly a similar experience, got so off track acim.

I want to state here to any sort of Christian that thinks that his church's mentors carry out certainly not absolutely satisfy his thirstiness to know a kind, merciful and also caring God, however is actually relatively afraid to go through the Course due to others' insurance claims that it is actually irregular along with "correct" Christianity: Don't worry! I have actually reviewed the scriptures numerous opportunities and I guarantee you that a Course in Miracles is completely steady with Jesus' trainings while he got on planet. Don't be afraid the obsessed defenders of exclusionist conviction - these unsatisfactory folks presume themselves to be the only service providers of Jesus' message, as well as the just one worthy of his benefits, while all various other are going to debauch. A Course in Miracles demonstrates Jesus' true message: unconditional affection for * all people *. While he performed the planet, Jesus said to determine a tree through its fruit. So offer it a try out and view exactly how the fruits that ripen in your lifestyle flavor. If they taste bad, you may abandon A Course in Miracles. But if they sample as pleasant as my own do, as well as the countless various other true applicants that have discovered A Course in Miracles to be nothing lower than a heavenly jewel, after that congratses - as well as might your heart consistently be actually abundantly loaded with peaceful, nurturing delight.

Altering Lives Through A Course in Miracles.

As the label implies, A Course in Miracles is actually a teaching tool. It educates us what is actually actual and also what is actually unreal, and also leads us to the direct expertise of our personal Inner Teacher.

The Course is actually prepared in three components: a text, a book for students and also a manual for teachers. The Text shows the ideas underlying the Course. The book consists of 365 daily sessions that offer students the possibility to use and experience the ideas on a practical degree. The instructor's manual exists in an inquiry and also answer style, resolving traditional inquiries that a student might ask; it likewise supplies a definition of terms made use of throughout the Course.

On How all of it Began

The Course was actually written by Helen Schucman as well as Bill Thetford, two very qualified and prosperous Professors of Psychology at Columbia University's College of Physicians and also Surgeons in New York City. Helen was actually the scribe for the Course, writing down in dictation the inner notifications she acquired. Bill keyed what Helen wrote. It took a total amount of 7 years to complete A Course in Miracles, which was actually initial published in 1976 in the United States. Helen created extra tracts. Her Song of Prayer was posted in 1977 as well as The Gift of God in 1978.

Over recent 34 years, the appeal of A Course in Miracles has expanded and also dispersed worldwide. It has actually been actually equated in to 18 various foreign languages as well as even more interpretations are actually in the works. Throughout the planet, individuals acquire along with other like-minded students to read through the Course with each other in order to much better recognize the Course's information. In this era of electronic as well as social networking sites, A Course in Miracles can easily be actually gotten in electronic book layout, on Compact Disc, as well as through iPhone Apps. You may communicate along with various other Course trainees on Facebook, Yahoo Groups, Twitter, and also many other sites acim.

Experiencing the Course

The Course is actually developed to become a self-study device. Nevertheless, lots of pupils discover that their 1st communication with the component is tough and frustrating - the improvement in perspective that it delivers contrasts conventional thinking. Taking a promotional class with a skilled facilitator or instructor allows for a gentler position to these brand new suggestions and a much more fulfilling adventure.

There are actually a lot of lessons as well as courses of research based upon the viewpoint of A Course in Miracles, as well as even particular lessons on essential Course principles, including True Forgiveness or even Cause as well as Effect. Such courses give trainees the possibility to experience the theory as well as treatment of particular component more heavily. By means of such deeper expertise, numerous trainees find the peace of mind of internal peace and also the joy of knowing the Inner Teacher.

A Very Brief History of a Course in Miracles

Over 40 years back, a psychologist coming from Columbia University began to transport revelations from a metaphysical company that she was convinced was Jesus themself. She and also her assistants generated teachings that filled thousands of vacant webpages over a duration of 7 years which later became "A Course In Miracles."

The psychologist was actually a Jewish woman called Helen Schucman, and also she said to folks that Jesus Christ himself was her personal spirit guide for these sessions and teachings. These trainings were expected to deliver support for people to know that they were the just one responsible of their personal sensations, mindsets, actions and also destinies. The teachings took lots of penalties of actions away from the formula. Undoubtedly, a hallmark of the ACIM training course is that wicked on its own performs certainly not exist. The ACIM teachings firmly insist that through teaching your mind appropriately, you can discover that there is actually no such factor as bad, and also it is actually simply an impression or something that people have actually established up to scare and manage the actions and ideas of those who are actually not efficient in presuming on their own. ACIM insists that the only trait that does exist is actually pure love and also upright thoughts as well as mentally right thinking are going to not make it possible for anything like evil to exist.

These concepts and opinions angered lots of folks who came from a few of the major faiths because, while they embraced most of the exact same principles, this program additionally found to possess people think that wickedness is actually certainly not actual and as a result sin is actually likewise certainly not real. ACIM itself attempts to possess folks count on the solemnity as well as sensible beliefs and also habits and also in the fact that nothing can easily damage you unless you strongly believe that it can. Alternative masters were simple to understand onto these ideas considering that numerous of the New Age faiths are actually based certainly not on transgression and redemption however the power of one's own mind and also spirit.

ACIM performs give some mentors concerning just how to clear on your own of upset as well as unfavorable emotions that are flooding your life with issues and also generating health problem as well as unhappiness time by time. A Course In Miracles instructs you that you are actually accountable for these feelings and also they are actually merely harming you. Consequently, it depends on you to free them from your life for your very own happiness and also abundance.

For More Information Visit https://a-course-in-miracles.org/