#I’d probably be so bored at a slow place and not under constant trauma

[mer-se]

um today is so fucking weird

[senlinyu]

A Draco x Hermione prompt: Meet me in the stairwell in a second for a glass of gin. (From the song ‘Nobody Else Will Be There’ by The National)

One would think, what with magic having been around for several thousand years, basic illumination wouldn’t be so hard to come by in the Wizarding world, but there wasn’t even a bit of candlelight in the service hall.

It was pitch black and I realised, after my shins collided with a fourth wooden packing crate, that my wand was in my bag, in the main hall where the banquet was still going on.

I cursed under my breath and leaned over to rub my shin. I should just go back out. It was absurd to be sneaking around like a teenager in an unlit hallway, trying to find someone who probably wasn’t even there.

I straightened and sighed. I was about to turn back with a burnished red light glowed briefly in the darkness before disappearing.

I swallowed and released a low breath. “Malfoy.”

The butt of his cigarette glowed again, longer, bright enough to illuminate his eyes.

“Granger.”

The way he pronounced my name curled and wafted through the air like the smoke. I could hear the cigarette in the corner of his mouth.

It made his drawl more overt. More caressing.

He’d always liked to toy with words with that poisonous tongue of his; experimenting with the inferred meaning of a particular form of emphasis.

Why say what he meant when he could imply it a dozen different ways without the inconvenience of real commitment?

Like the rest of us, he lived his life on a short leash. His was the shortest but most luxurious lead that the Ministry kept constantly under its heel.

His constraints had caused him to make the unspoken a type of art form.

I envied the ability as often as it annoyed me. I wished sometimes that I could keep from saying what I meant.

I have never been coy. I am “sincere.”

“I thought you’d quit smoking,” I finally said.

The cigarette glowed again.

I made my way gingerly towards the light.

“I am exclusively a social smoker these days.” He’d pulled the fag from his mouth. His words were crisp again.

I extended my hand, trying not to run into anything or trip over him as I kept moving towards his voice.

A hand slipped under mine, as though he were escorting me onto a dance floor. His fingers drew me forward and downwards onto the rickety service stair he was seated on.

The stairs were narrow and could barely accommodate the width of both our hips. As I settled in beside him, the cigarette glowed again, just long enough to illuminate his profile.

I stared until it faded and then glanced away. “How does this qualify as social smoking?”

A pause. I heard him breathe.

“You’re here.”

He shifted slightly so that my hip bone stopped digging into him.

“There are about five hundred people on the other side of that wall,” he added after a moment.

I snorted and angled myself towards him in the darkness. “The wall being imperative. You aren’t attending a party if you spend the entire time sitting in a dusty service passage smoking.”

“Ah…” his tone was light. “But only if you’re operating with a Grangerless presupposition. I’m not. Your interference is presumed, therefore my eventual appearance is inevitable. I’m smoking preemptively.”

I folded my hands and sighed. “It will get easier—eventually.”

He snorted. There were several seconds of silence before he spoke again. “You keep saying that.”

“It’s what everyone keeps telling me.”

I reached out, trying to find him in the darkness. My fingertips grazed his robes and I let them trail down his arm until I found his left hand.

I hesitated a moment before I slipped the cigarette out from between his fingers and brought it up to my lips.

My hands were shaking and my throat caught nervously as I took a long, slow drag.

I closed my eyes and exhaled heavily.

I reached out and found his hand again, resting on his knee. I slowly laid my palm against the back of it. My fingertips traced lightly over his knuckles as I stared into the darkness.

It felt natural to sit there with him. It had become a habit, maybe even a tradition. I’m not entirely certain where the line of distinction is drawn between the two.

We fell into it over the years.

I was the one who’d brought cigarettes the first time.

At some point over the years, the strange unspoken interlude between us had became the point of every event. The dark, silence and his hand under mine until my hands stopped shaking and I could go back out to the room with the blindingly bright lights beating down and the constant camera flashes.

Before I left, I always said, “You should make an appearance, just for a few minutes. It’ll be noticed if you don’t.”

He never said anything, but he’d show up just long enough to be photographed.

That was all that happened until the next event. Somehow, without exchanging a word, we always found each other in the dark.

He could rarely leave his manor. Visitors required Ministry approval and all applications and visits were public record; as were his correspondence and his floo calls. They called it government transparency.

I don’t know how he’d managed to get ahold of cigarettes.

I brought my hand up to my lips and took another long drag.

No matter how many Ministry events I’d attended, they never felt natural. It was like re-agitating a wound and inserting needles. Every year I’m angrier and more on edge until I wonder if I might just shatter until the spotlight.

Smoking with Malfoy for a few minutes had become the only thing that got me through.

My hands were shaking less when I brought the cigarette to my lips for another drag. I caught sight of his face. He was watching me carefully.

“That bad?”

I shook my head, averting my eyes. “It—it was fine.”

“You know…” his voice was hushed. He leaned closer until I could feel his chest against my shoulder. His breath stirred my hair and I could hear the smirk in his voice. “—they have potions—”

I elbowed him away while rolling my eyes. “I can’t consume alcohol if I take Calming Draught or anti-anxiety potions. It’s like hanging a sign over my head announcing that I have “trauma”.” My throat tightened and my hand gripped his briefly. “Everyone’s watching out there...”

My hands shook again. I forced my voice to relax. “Besides—I promised someone a drink if he showed up.”

I quickly brought the cigarette back to my lips.

Malfoy shifted closer. His long fingers slid up to cradle the base of my skull and he drew our faces together.

I stiffened until I made out the unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth.

He touched the tip on it against mine and paused.

I inhaled slowly and watched his narrow features illuminate. Our faces were only inches away from each other. His eyes were dark and glittering in the dim glow. The reddish light caught in his pale hair.

His hand slid away and he sat back, taking a quick drag.

“You could have used your wand,” I said when my heart stopped pounding.

“I’ve always wanted to try that. You’re the only one I know who smokes.”

“I don’t.” I put the remains of my cigarette on the step and lifted my heel and bore down. “Normally—I don’t.”

His cigarette glowed as he lit another and slipped it between my fingers without a word.

My right hand found him in the darkness. I ran my fingers over his knuckles lightly, tapping them as though they were an instrument and the movement drew the darkness and quiet more tightly around us.

After several minutes my hand finally stilled against his.

He shifted and I could hear the sound of sloshing liquid.

“About that drink. I brought firewhiskey—but when I was moving the boxes off this staircase, I found something new.” His voice was conspiratorial. “I believe it’s Muggle. It tastes like alcoholic pinecones.”

I’m never sure if he was being serious or just trying to amuse me when he said things like that.

I snorted. “Gin? It’s made from Juniper berries.”

He was silent for a moment. “Ah. That explains it.”

I gave a low laugh. As I was bringing my cigarette back to my lips, we were suddenly illuminated and I could see him clearly for the first time.

The first time.

We’d always stayed in the dark. We’d smoke and drink and then I’d leave without a wand ever being lit. I didn’t know why he was suddenly changing things.

I stared at him like a startled deer.

His cigarette was dangling from his lips and his hair was tousled. He was dressed to the nines in that casual, effortless way of someone who wore their clothes rather than being worn by them. It was a distinction that I never felt as though I’d managed.

There was nothing about him to indicate why he was there rather than in the next room with everyone else. I’d assumed nerves or rage like me—but as I stared at him, I didn’t see any of it.

His eyes were glittering as he slipped his wand into my limp fingers and reached into his robes, pulling out a set of tumblers.

He lifted up the gin bottle beside him. “Look, it even has a hat.”

He deftly poured two fingers into a glass and handed it off.

I stubbed out my cigarette and took the tumbler while he was pouring a glass for himself.

He smirked and toasted me with a lazy salute. “To all you war heroes, cheers to your bravery.”

He plucked his cigarette from the corner of his mouth and knocked back the drink, his eyes never leaving mine.

This wasn’t what I’d come for. The comfort of darkness was a place to loosen my armour and breathe without fearing anyone was watching to catch sight of my vulnerabilities and old scars.

Now there was light—like sunlight beating down on an exposed nerve and the illusion had faded away.

I was sitting in a filthy service passage, smoking to ward off a public panic attack with someone that I haven’t publicly spoken to in a decade.

In a matter of minutes I would reappear at the celebratory banquet. I had to be seen taking measures sips of wine and consuming dessert in a manner that gave no indication of any type of eating disorder. I had to sit with my hands in my lap and laugh on cue while refraining from picking at my fingernails.

Then I would go home and find out from the morning paper whether I was deemed stable and coping or not.

I brought the tumbler to my lips and took a small sip.

Malfoy studied me carefully. “You prefer firewhiskey?”

I glanced away. “Combining alcohol with tobacco increases the risk of throat cancer.”

“Right...”

I took another slow sip of gin. Alcoholic pinecones. The corner of my mouth quirked. The comedic absurdity is as glaring as the light.

I wished I’d asked for firewhiskey. I could use some courage, even false courage.

The solace was a mistake indulge in. I could see that in the wandlight.

I set the tumbler down on the steps by my feet and stood, handing him his wand. “I should go back out before I’m missed.”

He didn’t say a word. His eyes had contracted into indolent silver.

I inhaled slowly until my lungs ached, staring down at him. “You should make an appearance, just for a few minutes. It’ll be noticed if you don’t.”

He nodded slowly. He looked so outwardly collected. There was a part of me that wanted to reach out muss him up a bit, lace my fingers into the hair at the base of his head and light a cigarette against his lips.

“Goodbye, Malfoy.”

I looked at him a moment longer before turning and going back the way I’d come.

The wandlight vanished before I was a dozen feet away.

I found the wall and slid my hand along it, trying to remember the location of all the crates I’d run into earlier.

The roar of the hall got louder when I neared the door I’d left ajar when I slipped out. The chattering. People were happy. People were mourning. At that point almost everyone was drunk, except the reporters who stayed sober and alert in order to pick up any and all potential gossip.

My fingers grazed the knob and I stood hesitating, trying to brace myself for what I was about to be re-immersed in.

Each additional year of adulthood made me a little more enraged on behalf of myself and all the other students. We were children. Every year I’m more staggered by how young we all were.

How was it ever seen as natural for us to be the ones fighting the war? That families had sent their children back to Hogwarts while the Carrows were there. That everyone kept their heads down when the Muggle-Born Registration Act was put in place.

As an adult it staggers me more, how natural it seemed at the time for the war to fall on our shoulders.

A generation of paper war heroes.

Typecast into our roles at Sorting and now watched daily for signs of wear and tear.

The majority of the Wizarding world wasn’t willing to lift a finger to fight the war, but they’re all too eager to diagnose us with trauma from the comfort of their armchairs.

My hands were threatening to shake again and I clenched them into fists for a moment before I reached to open the door.

It was stuck. Lodged. I glanced up and saw the dim outline of a hand, pressed against it.

Malfoy had materialised behind me. I’d barely turned before his chest pressed against mine. His hand slid down the door to my shoulder and his fingers cradled the base of my head. There were no cigarettes between us as his face drew closer.

“Hermione—”

I didn’t know what it meant when he said my name like that. What inference or implication was intended.

My eyes widened as my breath caught in my throat. “What—?”

His lips brushed against mine.

Then he waited.

It was an unspoken question.

My heart was pounding in my chest and my fingers were trembling as I reached out and drew him closer.

[loplainlointhemorning]

Omg your tags... Can you talk more about your songwriting pls? I'm at that point now where I'm just trying to finish as many songs as I can, not caring so much abt the quality bc otherwise I will never finish one. I still only have a few, I'm trying to learn the process and what works for me. But it's so encouraging to hear someone else talk abt this like I keep comparing myself to famous ppl I listen to and it feels like they just have a gift and I don't

dude, I have been comparing myself to artists I look up to constantly, ever since I got into music at fourteen, wondering why I’m not good enough. I think it’s normal. The truth is, when you stop listening so much to beginner’s self doubt, perfectionism, and in my case, chronic anxiety, everybody is the same. The people who are really good are really good because they sat down and fucked around with instruments long enough to understand them, the people who are really good are really good because they love what they do, and all of them wrote shitty songs in their late teens/early 20s/whenever they started out. I have(and still do) beat myself up for everything from writing too fast to writing too slow, for taking months long breaks because of mental health issues, for lyrics that my band laughed at, for only knowing how to play one instrument, the list goes on...But I comfort myself with facts like these:

PJ Harvey was asked about her first ever song in an interview from 1995 and that’s the closest I’ve seen her come to blushing; She said it was about a girl going on an adventure and that it was awful. She reiterated in a magazine that most of her earliest work was ‘terrible’ and heavily influenced by Irish folk music, meaning, apparently, that it was full of tin whistles. It took her years before she was comfortable playing her orginal music in front of other people(and if you watch her early Dry performances, she’s not even all that comfortable in the first place.) The important thing is, PJ Harvey hated her early songs.

Nick Cave said that he was ashamed of the Birthday Party’s discography up until Junkyard and that he didn’t like to think about those albums. Nick Cave hated his early songs- And Nick Cave is partially famous DUE to these early songs, go figure.

Courtney Love bashes Hole’s first album Pretty On The Inside nearly constantly, calling it ��unlistenable’ and saying it was more about her persona being established than making good music. Courtney Love hated her early songs- and, once again, her band was given its name and image because of them.

I BEG you to listen to five seconds of David Bowie’s first album, which he doesn’t discuss.

If these people, who mean the world to me and have saved hoards of others from personal destruction, had given up bc they were Bad at a young and inexperienced age we wouldn’t have their music and it’s not an exaggeration to say that that would have ended in suicide for a big number of people. If you can get your ego in place, you can believe the same about your music, and the thing that’s going to keep you motivated more than anything else is Ego.

We live in a world right now where popular music lacks human hands and clumsiness and rawness and so the fact that both of us are, against the odds, composing music that still reflects those things is a rebellion. It’s important that we keep writing, not just because we deserve to be good songwriters because we care about it, but because for music to evolve there needs to be a constant underground of young people with limited skills trying their best. Plus, if we’re both lucky, we’ll end up saving people the same way we were saved and if it takes a few notebooks of three note trauma songs to get there then fine(besides, who doesn’t love a good three-note trauma song?).

But beyond the ‘glory’ of it(and I think to do anything artistic you have to romanticize it to a certain degree), I started songwriting seriously at the end of a bad relationship when I was sixteen, nearly seventeen. When that relationship ended, I wrote constantly. I wrote about everything. My main influences were Bikini Kill and The Runaways and I hadn’t developed my seriousness towards lyrics yet so anything went. I’d write three songs in a week, realize that two were bad and play the third one for my band only to get laughed at for writing something like “I swallow Clorox” which was a confessional thing about suicidal thoughts that hurt my feelings, but wasn’t articulated well.

I wrote Nirvana knock-off songs and I wrote Hole knock-off songs and I half finished at least one hundred different things and I have three notebooks filled with them, the latter half being the worst fake-Nick Cave writing I have ever read. From all of 2018, during which I probably wrote 30-35 songs, I have two that I would actually put on an album and three that I can remember/still like. Once I got my mental health under control, I did the same thing for the bulk of 2019. This stage you’re at is NOTHING TO FEEL BAD ABOUT. It’s like making stuff out of Play-Doh or fingerpainting. It’s FUN and you’re learning, Extremely Quickly, a million different skills that you’re going to need over the course of your life. Lyric writing, the classic verse/chorus/verse, how to invert that, experimental tactics, particular playing styles that you like, playing styles that you HATE, etc.

And the best part about it is that some of your songs are good! Some of them have good parts that you’ll take out later to put into better songs! You’re probably sitting on two or three good songs at the moment, maybe even more, maybe you’ve got a whole album of brilliant material and you just don’t know it. In thirty years your demos could work like Vashti Bunyan’s and be the proto-whatever of a new genre. I really don’t want to make you think that all your material right now is bad, because that idea has actually been super detrimental to me and is a shitty narrative pushed to push beginners. I’m saying that it’s OKAY for you to be bad, that even experienced people write bad shit, but that if you think you’ve written some bangers they deserve to be recognized as such.

To close, new phase that I was talking about, the quality over quantity phase, is definitely something I had to work up to. 90% of it is taking in enough new music to understand what you really want from yourself, and the rest of it is gaining enough confidence to willingly let other people hear what you do. I only started taking my shit this seriously in late December of last year because I knew people would be hearing it, and that has its set backs too: My perfectionism is crazy right now and I have to kick back against it all the time. The perks of getting to the point where you can hone yourself are that you build real relationships with your songs, and that you have some idea of what you want. But I also think that it’s healthy to go through the quantity over quality phase over and over again throughout the course of your career, because there’s no way to really write in a new style unless you keep going back to frenzied experimentation. If we both end up pursuing this long term, we’ll probably have to work on Finishing over Perfecting a million times over, and its best to make peace with it now.

I am so sorry that this is like. A million paragraphs but another important aspect of songwriting is procrastinating by being on tumblr so!!! You’re doing just fine. Keep up the good work, and feel free to talk to me or share music with me anytime. I hope this helps, or at least isn’t a boring read.

[amazingmsme]

I’ll Be Your Piano

Living under the radar wasn't ideal; the never ending shuffle from place to place, the constant jeopardy of their lives, yes, running away from a government that only cared for the value of your chopped up body certainly made for a shitty, but interesting life. It seemed like around every corner was danger and excitement. New and familiar faces riddled their lives on the road, scrambling for all the help they could get. They were grateful for the safe houses along the way. It was nice to know that some people had a mind of their own, and one that had a good amount of human decency as well. That combination was hard to come by these days.

Connor and Risa had gotten close after everything they've been through. It was only natural to gravitate towards the people you've endured trauma with. They become like a strong tether to ground you back to the shambles of the earth. Risa and Connor are each other's tethers.

But with a life so eventful, it made the boring parts stick out like a sore thumb. The lack of anything to do was a perfect breeding ground for paranoia and boredom. Connor kept finding himself looking over his shoulder to make sure no one had found them. Risa kept pacing aimlessly through the small, empty house searching for something to occupy herself. Her fingers kept twitching, itching to play a piano, but the house didn't have so much as a keyboard. Connor picked up on it and smirked. 

"Antsy, huh?" he spoke up from his spot on the couch, watching as she crossed the room to sit with him.

"Yeah..." she trailed off, leaning into him. "I just wish I had something to play to take my mind off everything." Connor sat up a little straighter to listen.

"I feel you, I feel like I've been going crazy lately, music might be nice," he said. She smiled sadly, "Too bad there are no instruments. I'd honestly love to hear you try and play a trumpet."

"Hey I'd rock a trumpet!" he defended himself, and brought his hands close to his mouth to mime playing a trumpet and making the accompanying sounds. She leaned back, laughter free flowing from her lips, and Connor felt himself fall even harder. He'd do anything to hear that laugh, to know he made her happy. "But I think I'd be more of a saxophone guy. That's the sexy instrument, right?"

She snickered and leaned back to look at him. "Didn't know you found instruments attractive," she teased. He put his hand on her face and lightly pushed her away, "You know what I mean!" She moved his hand away to glare at him playfully, but it didn't stop her from intertwining their fingers.

"Yeah I know," she said fondly, yet with a hint of sadness. Connor moved their hands and turned his palm up, taking her hand and moving it to his forearm. Her brows furrowed, "What are you doing?"

He shrugged, "Since you don't have a piano, I thought..." he trailed off.

"You could me my piano?" she finished for him. He smiled at him shyly and nodded. "Aww, that's so sweet!" She pecked a kiss to his cheek. "Anything special you want to hear?"

"You know that old 2000's song? The Black Parade?" he asked. Connor liked to consider himself a rebel, and considering the name he made for himself, he very much was one. So naturally, he was drawn to the alternative rock and stereotypical emo music of that era. She positioned herself sitting upright, her hands poised above his arm as if she were hovering above the keys. She closed her eyes, imagining the where each note fell.

"Alright, but if I play it, you have to sing."

"What?"

"You promised to be my instrument, so you make the music," she reasoned. He rolled his eyes, "Alright, fine."

G. The first note. Even though no music played, it still rang through Connor's head as clear as day. He was a little self conscious about singing in front of her, even though he knew she wouldn't judge. His voice was quiet and deep, with a soft tenderness Risa had never heard from him.

"When I was, a young boy, my father took me to the city, to see a marching band." He watched her fingers press into the skin on his arm, working from memory to play a silent song. She stopped about halfway through the song, her fingers coming to a stop.

"I can't remember the rest, and your arm doesn't give me much room to imagine the keys," she admitted, running a hand through her hair. Almost immediately, Connor laid on his back, patting his chest.

"Then let me give you a better piano, maestro," he looked up at her, wiggling his brows. She shoved his shoulder with a laugh, pushing him all the way down onto the cushions.

"Ok, but don't get any funny ideas," she warned pointedly. "Ms. Calding will probably be home soon." With that, she situated herself, letting her hands gently rest on his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing. "Anymore requests from the instrument?"

He thought for a moment before answering. "Maybe something classical? That's your favorite, right?" he asked. Her face lit up, "Right. How 'bout some Tchaikovsky?" He nodded and let his shoulders relax.

"Sure. Maybe if we get somewhere with service when we're on the road, we can listen to it." She liked the idea, but chose not to comment. Instead, her fingers barely pushed down as she played the opening chords. Even though she loved this piece, it just wasn't the same without a full orchestra. The song gradually grew in intensity, and her fingers moved faster.

Connor almost instantly regret his decision to offer up his body as a piano. He clenched his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut to keep the laughter at bay. If Risa found out he was ticklish, she'd never let him live it down and constantly use it against him. However, he wasn't doing a very good job hiding it.

"Are you okay? I didn't hurt you did I?" She was quick to make sure.

"Nonono, I'm fine, really!" He reassured her. She looked at him skeptically.

"I swear, if you're hiding another injury from me again-"

"I'm not!"

She went quiet, narrowing her eyes as though she were trying to see through steel. When he still didn't break, she rolled his shirt up slightly to check for any hidden bruises of scrapes. He let out a snort.

"Didn't believe me?"

"I do now," she said, letting go of his shirt and letting it fall to the middle of his stomach. She set to work again, fingers dancing the melody, picking up right where she left off. He couldn't help but to start squirming, and a few giggles started to slip out. Risa smiled, letting her hands move faster. She smirked as she asked, "Hey Connor, what's wrong? You're not ticklish, are you?" She knew the answer even if he didn't confirm it.

He shook his head, denying the obvious. "Nohoho," he tried his best to sound convincing. Risa wasn't buying any of it.

"Really? 'Cause your body language says otherwise," she stated. Her fingers worked up to his ribs, and he fought back a squeal. "Ribs make excellent piano keys, wouldn't you agree?" Connor did nothing but laugh and thrash around, shaking his head at the maddening sensation. "No? You don't think they do? Well what do you know, you don't play."

She then raked her nails from the top of his ribs all the way down. Connor arched his back with a shriek, kicking out his legs. "Y'know, when you first offered to be my piano I didn't think it would be as fun as actually playing, but I was wrong! This is so much better!" she cooed. She slowed down, listening to his laughter die off a bit. She walked her fingers up between each rib, leaving him twitchy and giggly. 

"Risaaaa," he whined. 

"Connorrrr," she mocked. She leant down, pressing their foreheads together as her hands continued their journey upward. His laughter got more breathy and frantic the longer she stared into his eyes. The anticipation kept growing, and it was killing him. She leaned farther, as if she was about to kiss him. Instead, she caught him off guard and targeted his neck, blowing a loud wet raspberry right below his jaw. At the same time, she dug into his underarms, causing him to clamp his arms to his sides. This only trapped them there, leaving him to writhe in ticklish agony. She took another deep breath and blew, and he hit the couch with his fist, unable to do anything else. 

"Ihihit's soho bahahad!" he cried out when she brought one hand up to scratch behind his ear. His laughter went up an octave as he shook his head around, trying to do anything to lessen the sensation. 

"Aaaaw, but you're so cute like this! Don't tell me the big bad Akron Awol can't handle a little tickling," Risa taunted him using the nickname given to him by the media. He managed to grab onto her wrist, but didn't push her away. Interesting. 

"He can't!" he choked out between laughter, making her laugh. 

"Oh really?" she asked, resting her hands on his stomach, letting him catch his breath. He nodded. She smirked, "Then we better keep this between us, shouldn't we?" She gave him a quick peck on the lips. Connor smiled into the kiss and pulled her back down. Her lips were slightly chapped and tasted sweet, and he savored every moment they shared. Risa wrapped her arms around him, drawing lazy designs on his tummy until he broke away into an adorable stream of giggles. She rested her head on his chest, watching as it bounced with laughter. 

"You make a really good instrument, you know that Connor?" 

"Ihihi do?" 

She smiled and looked up at him, never stopping the simple doodles marked out on his belly. "Mhm. Your laugh is the most beautiful music I've ever heard." He grabbed her other hand and laced their fingers together. 

"Then I'll be your piano."

[ghostgetter]

now there’s no place else I could be but here in your arms

“I told you once that I’ve never been bored after you moved in. I meant that, Star.” 

For all my homies, but especially @lawchan89, @saveshootingstar, and @elladoodles. This is super corny and long. Enjoy some fluff, lads! ;) 

It’s just like one of action movies Marco likes to watch after homework: the 12 DVD series he made her watch twice during her time on Earth.

A big explosion, and the main character’s thrown across the screen. They struggle to get their bearings, and the world around them shifts and tilts and nearly crumbles (she remembers watching that part and gasping, grabbing onto Marco next to her on the couch and dropping popcorn onto the floor). The other main character runs to their side and yells things at them the character can’t hear. It’s just white noise, resonating to the audience in a fictional universe.

Except it’s real and they’ve won and she does hear him – she hears him over everything else, though a bit fuzzy and murmured. And even if she couldn’t, she’d read it on the way it leaves his lips, the way it sticks on his cheeks like red velvet spreading up towards his ears. She can see it in his eyes – how they give way to the fear and anxiety he currently feels, the same feeling she felt a mere few months ago when she confessed.

But it’s like her ears are ringing – her skull collapsing on itself (she thinks she got knocked out at some point when the roof of a bakery shop collapsed on her but she can’t really remember), and the weight brings a dull ache and whatever he just said isn’t helping.

“Wait,” Star, covered in dirt and glitter and cuts and bruises, shakes her head and hands to slow him down, slow it all down. Most of the Mewni army is celebrating a well-won victory, though there are some soldiers waiting for further orders, listening in, and she can feel the eyes of both Mewmans and Monsters bearing down on her and her best friend, a yard apart from one another. “Wait, what did you just –”

“I love you,” Marco repeats, letting words flow out in short breath, chest falling. His cape is torn and the arm that dropped his sword after the fight is dripping blood. “I love you, Star.”

That’s when the ringing stops in her ears and travels down to her chest. A light buzz, dull and soft, now echoed and constant and loud. So very loud.

She’s waited months for any sign of him feeling anything for her. Where was this coming from?

“Marco…” She looks around, eyes meeting the eager battle mates that have ceased their celebration to watch the two, “I –”

“It’s okay,” he laughs, looking off to the side in an attempt to avoid her gaze. Embarrassment creeps in after his sudden admission. “Uh, that was sorta outta nowhere and it probably freaked you out, right?” Marco’s hand rubs at the back of his neck. “Well, not really ‘outta nowhere’ – this has been kinda creeping up on me ever since you left Echo Creek. But like, after a battle it’s sorta outta nowhere, I mean. Am I rambling? I think I’m rambling. Anyway, we haven’t talked about this in a while either so it’s definitely freaked you out. I mean,” he laughs again, a little more forced this time and gestures to Star, who hasn’t looked away (as if she could), “look at you! You’re all pale and stuff – this was such a bad idea. Why did I just confess in front of everyone? Now they’re all staring at us.”

Rejection is scary, Star knows that. She’s been there – weeks ago, in front of everyone. But she had a reason to be scared. He was with someone else at the time, and he was happy, and she had to tell him; she wasn’t supposed to ever see him again. And now, months later, after what has felt like a standstill between the two of them with bursts of normalcy and sometimes what she thinks could be the hint of something blossoming, he’s shot her with a glittery blast of emotions that has left her off-balance. What was he afraid of after her Narwhal Blast-sized confession? Shouldn’t she be the one freaking out?

He spins in the other direction, shuffling in mortification towards their friends who stand in the front closest to the couple.. Which, if it were any other time, she’d totally call him out on.

“Anyway, I’m gonna –”

“Really?” Star manages to croak out, stopping Marco from escaping an embarrassing feat. When he turns back around, glancing at her with the utmost confusion, she points to herself. “You’re like, actually serious about feeling that way for me?”

“Well,” he laughs shortly, looking at her earnestly, “yeah.”

“Totally serious?”

A nod. “I’m totally serious.”

“Totally, totally, totally serious?”

“I’m totally, totally, totally serious, Star.”

“Are you sure, though? Because there was an explosion earlier and that did a real number to your hair and we don’t know the possible head trauma that came with it,” she gestures vaguely to his ridiculous tuffs of hair that stick out at odd places, while Marco pats on it sensitively. It’s her turn to ramble - stuttering and avoiding his gaze. “And frankly, I was under the impression that you didn’t even know how you felt about everything and that you needed time, and –”

“Star,” he interrupts.

She’s worried – worried it’ll backfire on her and she’ll run off crying; a repeat of his summer bash party. There’s been so much hurt for her and he doesn’t want to be a source of it anymore.

“I’ve had time. I’ve had loads of time.”

“But -”

“I spent three hours over one plate of nachos for you because you looked sad one time, and I couldn’t stand seeing you that way,” He starts, swallowing back nerves and recounting his moments with her. The ovens on Mewni were a disaster – built for cooking things only corn-based and became too hot too quickly, so he managed to burn five batches before Janna finally decided to help him out. The countless teasing about his insistence for making them wasn’t appreciated, though – jabs at how dense he was and jokes about sharing melted cheese with a potential girlfriend. She laughed at him then, and she was laughing at him now, standing across the way next to Tom.

“I got into a fight with Tad because I told him your hair was prettier than Kelly’s.” Star laughs at that, tucking a strand behind her ear while a loud ‘Hey!’ is heard behind him.

“I gave you three of my hoodies because I noticed you liked wearing them as capes.” Pony Head had caught him walking in and out of her empty room with them, a glowing unicorn horn threateningly greeting his presence after dropping them off. She called him an idiot when he told her what he did – a dense idiot who didn’t know what he was doing to her best friend by doing that.

Pony Head remembers, clearly. “You’re still an idiot for that!”

Marco shakes his head solemnly, still paying attention only to Star, who could only gape back at him. “Not as much of an idiot as when your parents hosted that celebratory ball.” He hears Tom groan – probably with a roll of all three of his eyes. “I was miserable that entire night because other royal consorts were able to dance with you more than I could.” Star remembers that night too – Marco as handsome as ever, in shoulder tassels and white cloth and looking so downtrodden until she approached him with a curtsey, an outstretched hand, and an offer to dance. “I spent half the night ripping up bouquets and table cards and even then – even after Tom called me out on how jealous I felt, I had no idea why I was acting that way.”

“I did!”

“Thanks, Tom,” Marco tilts his head towards his friend, who replies with a sardonic thumbs-up. He exhales and looks back to Star, her expression expectant and eyes beginning to water.

“I’ve spent hours sitting on the sidelines just watching you master spells with your mom and tossing you juice pouches when you looked parched.” The Queen regards them both quietly, a soft expression as she watches them both. She’s been there before, with River, who stands next to her with his own silent affection and offers his hand. Moon’s eyes drop away from her daughter and Marco, from a sight that brings back her own fond memories, to her husband’s offered hand. She takes it, squeezing it gently.

“And on top of everything, I followed you to fight a battle that isn’t my own. I followed as soon as you told me how you felt and left without any explanation, and I fought for you. And I’m still fighting, and I always will be as long as you need me to,” he swallows and sighs.  

“Because I’m in love with you, Star. You’re my best friend and I’m in love with you. I know that now.”

Her tears let loose at that point, a happy sob escaping her lips. It’s frustration and heartache finally releasing from her charred up chest and he tears up because of it. He steps closer.

“What about,” Star sniffs, wiping at her wet cheeks with the front of her wrists and choking back tears, “What about us going back to how we were before?”

“You’re my best friend, and I didn’t want that to change. So I thought a lot of these things were just that – us going back to the way things were,” he shrugs, huffing a little. His cluelessness the past couple of weeks now frustrate him as much as it frustrated their friends. “And, yeah, maybe I still want things to be the same in the end. But there are things that I kept feeling for you that I couldn’t ignore anymore, and I guess I just finally caught on to what my heart wanted.”

He reaches for her palms, clammy and covered in grime, just like his, and brings them up to hold in his own.

“I told you once that I’ve never been bored after you moved in. I meant that, Star. And if you’re okay with it,” his thumb traces against the scabs that have been left over from previous fights – the ones he’s already memorized, “I’d like to never be bored ever again. With you.”

He doesn’t get a voiced answer. Instead, she tackles him into a hug and buries her face into the crook of his shoulder and holds on tight, arms wrapped around his. His hoodie becomes damp and her cries become muffled. He wants to hug her back – to wrap her tight and bury his face into her hair and never let go, but there’s a shooting pain that stabs consistently at his limb and it’s blinding -

“Arm,” Marco squawks, “Arm. Arm. Arm.”

“Oh, right,” she doesn’t go far after releasing him. “Right, right. Sorry.”

“It’s, uh, it’s fine,” he chuckles lightly. “Just kinda sore from the whole…explosion thing.”

“Yeah,” she sniffs, her right hand clearing most of the tears she’s managed to subside. Star brings the other hand gently up to his face, cupping his cheek. She examines him a little more carefully – a bruise is forming on the right side of his forehead, and there’s a cut by his left ear, but other than that and his arm he seems mostly undamaged. “That must’ve hurt a bit.”

Star’s hand is dry and dirty on his skin but it’s still warm to the touch. His cheek heats under her palm while her thumb traces back and forth where his mole sits. There are still traces tear tracks on her hearts and he raises his own fingers to dry them off, and his touch leaves static that jumps between both of them. It’s the kind of static that makes your heart jump, the kind where you feel it race up your arms and fill your chest. It’s transmissible – just like the smile that spreads across her face.

“Hey Marco?”

He swallows, watching her head tilt up towards him, “Yeah?”

“I love you, too.”

And she presses onto her toes and kisses him with a force that makes him reel back, catch his footing, and hold on.  

It is kinda like those action movies he’d make her watch – with his arm reaching around her waist to keep himself steady and kiss her to the sounds of cheers and affection from warriors and friends alike. And it’s real – they’re real, and for the first time ever for him, love is real too. It’s not pretend, because he’s feeling it right now, against her tear-stained lips that won’t stop smiling and making their teeth clack. He feels it in his cheeks that are hot under her touch, in the grip of his hands against her waist because she isn’t close enough. He feels it when he thinks of spending every Thursday under a warm fuzzy blanket with her – or even every lonely, quiet moment with the loudest girl he knows.

Janna wolf-whistles in the back and he’s brought out of his thoughts back to reality – where, while it feels like it’s only them two, they’re also surrounded by joyous and rambunctious friends (and her parents. He shoves that thought in the back of his mind as soon as it settles in, though).

When Star lets go and he rests his forehead against hers, he opens her eyes to see her looking up at him, a light smile biting back infectious laughter. It’s the happy kind that makes you feel like you have wings (in her case, they flutter – he hears them beat wildly behind her hair) and feel like you can fly, and he loves it. He loves her.

It’s real, and he knows she feels it all too.

[spicynbachili1]

Dragon’s Crown would make for an amazing 80s movie, what games would you like to see on the big screen?

Let’s attain the heights of Mortal Kombat: Annihilation

[Header picture: Sorceress (1982)]

Video Sport Motion pictures. They not often work out, proper? Generally made as a fast straight-to-video cash-in, typically made with the most effective of intentions, both means they often fail ship an expertise worthy of fan expectations, or their supply materials. Alone within the Darkish, Useless or Alive, BloodRayne, Useless Rising, even Far Cry. It does not matter for those who solid Kevin Nash as Bass Armstrong, you in all probability ought to’ve simply left properly sufficient alone.

The issue right here, all issues thought of, is that Hollywood is not coming to me for concepts. ‘Cos I bought your pitch: Dragon’s Crown. Give me a few million , a mound of the white stuff, and ship me again to the early 1980’s and I will provide you with a film primarily based on Vanillaware’s RPG brawler that might’ve set the American box-office on hearth.

We’ll get in Sybil Danning as Amazon, Julian Sands as Wizard and Maggie Cheung as Elf, or the shopkeeper, or anyone (I simply need her within the film). Lately-discovered megastar Arnie can play Fighter, which can give the entire shitflick some Hollywood gloss. For the villains, we’ll rent particular results genius Tom Savini to create a horrifying roster of beasts, monsters, and demons.

Roger Corman can government produce, to ensure Dragon’s Crown wraps in two weeks, properly under-budget and lacking a ton of vitally-important scenes. Then all that is left is casting of the pivotal position of Sorceress… Hmm… I suppose I gotta give it to Cassandra Peterson, higher identified to Z-list film followers because the incomparable Elvira: Mistress of the Darkish.

Stick in a bucketful of gore and I reckon that’ll make for a fairly candy 75 minutes on the silver display, would not you agree?  Krull could be bricking it come the Summer time blockbuster season. Are you able to do higher? in fact you may. Tell us under what video video games you suppose needs to be up there on the large display. Within the meantime, listed below are some concepts from the Destructoid crew.

Anthony Marzano

Sure I do know they tried to make a film primarily based on BioShock the sport however they have been flawed proper from the beginning. The story of Jack Ryan’s return to Rapture is one that matches completely within the gaming medium as the entire “Would you kindly” twist would not work as properly if it was for a non-playable character. So you’ve got misplaced one of many largest hooks of the story on account of utilizing the flawed medium. Additionally, the great ending (which let’s be sincere could be the movie one) to BioShock was ham-fisted and ended up in a bit too neat of a bow for my liking. So what do you do with the story ripe world of Rapture? Inform the tragic story of how its creator so pushed by his ambitions may acquire a lot, then lose all of it.

Like all good films, the most effective story would come from a ebook and ever since studying the prequel ebook BioShock: Rapture it is the one model of the story I’ve wished to been seen put to display. It switches from character to character telling of how all of them got here right down to the marvelous marvel beneath the ocean after which reveals how all of them died horrible deaths as their collective hubris got here collapsing in round them. It additionally was printed earlier than BioShock: Infinite was allowed to return in and taint Rapture with its stink, so it has that going for it as properly. Would it not be a cheerful film? No, however do you actually desire a completely satisfied ending to a BioShock film? I feel not.

Chris Hovermale

I get pleasure from a superb film, however I don’t get pleasure from them almost as a lot as video games, so I actually can’t consider any recreation I’d get pleasure from extra if it have been merely tailored right into a film.  So as a substitute of considering of a conventional film, I requested myself — what would make for a terrific documentary? Generally the impression video games have on individuals’s lives could be as fascinating because the tales in video games themselves. And for all that they’ve executed to convey us collectively and tear us aside, I’m shocked there aren’t extra documentaries primarily based round occasion video games, most of all Mario Occasion.

Shockingly constant cube rolls breeding skepticism. Bowser areas wreaking havoc on everybody besides, paradoxically, the one who landed on it. Purposefully thrown minigames placing quick leashes on a “teammate’s” Star conquest. The explosive arguments. The remorseful nights on the sofa. The heartfelt apologies and reunions. Mario Occasion would make for a superb movie, not for its content material itself, however the way it molds with our family members.

Then first and final place swap stars from Likelihood Time and historical past repeats itself. They shoulda… shoulda possibly performed Mouse Lure as a substitute…

Occams Electrical Toothbrush

Rule of Rose is a darkish coming-of-age story involving a 19-year-old orphan named Jennifer as she recovers the forgotten recollections of her childhood and remembers the individuals she knew on the Rose Backyard Orphanage. Leaping forwards and backwards between reminiscence and actuality, the sport shifts into an nearly dream-like state at occasions. Thematically, this recreation offers closely in trauma. And guilt. And the evils perpetrated upon each other, particularly how women deal with one another. I’ve all the time discovered this concept fascinating and the sport did one thing with survival horror that I do not suppose has been matched.

I see the film as Lord of the Flies set in a 1930’s British orphanage starring pre-teen women. All the film, aside from a number of key flashbacks, takes place within the Rose Backyard Orphanage. It’s a twisting, darkish place. Burgundy upholstered furnishings and mahogany partitions draped in pale electrical lights that sparkle and wrestle to remain on, groaning with an audible hum as if the constructing itself was crying.  Her fellow orphans are merciless to the purpose of caricature, as Jennifer’s recollections (very similar to our personal) paint the story with such a selected brush. Earlier than she was sufficiently old to have the phrases of the reality, she created monsters to fill within the blanks. Representations of monsters and the monstrous acts she bore witness to that her younger thoughts may course of. These are the boogeymen that hang-out the orphanage.

The entire story performs out as a phantasmagoria of horror and thriller. A soundtrack heavy on cello and piano to imitate the sport’s unimaginable rating. Ti West to direct.

Jonathan Holmes

There’s quite a lot of good that may come from this week’s theme. A Dangerous Dudes film starring Jean-Claude Van Damme and Rob Van Dam the place Bam Margera performs the man who’s all the time on hearth could be good. A Tomba film the place Brendan Fraser performs Tomba and the solid of Frasier performs the Evil Pigs could be even higher. 

However all issues thought of, my bets on a BurgerTime film directed by David Cage, starring Nicholas Cage as Pepper Pete, Channing Tatum because the Sizzling Canine, Debra Messing because the Fried Egg, and Michael Cera because the Pickle. Higher but, the basic BurgerTime theme music would play on loop for everything of the movie’s 140 minute run time.

As if that we’re sufficient bang to your buck, those that stick round for the post-credits scene can be handled to the sight of Karnov (performed by Roman Burtsev, the person they dubbed “The Fats Russian Leonardo DiCaprio”) coming into the fray, formally kicking off the Knowledge East Cinematic Universe. 

CJ Andriessen

Some video video games lend themselves properly to the cinematic format. World of Warcraft, Tomb Raider, Murderer’s Creed, Hitman, Silent Hill; these are all gaming franchises which are completely ripe for a movie adaptation and I hope someday some studio can flip these IPs into first rate, or on the very least watchable, movies. I’d additionally hope some studio — maybe Toho, Shochiku Co., or Toei Firm – may discover a solution to fund a characteristic movie adaptation of one of many wildest, most colourful and eternally joyous video games ever created: The Fantastic 101.

For those who haven’t performed The Fantastic 101, you’re what’s flawed with the world. It’s a superhero recreation with 100 superheroes, every with their very own skills and backstories, that’s stuffed to the brim with high-quality motion set-pieces and fascinating storyline. Consider the cinematic marvel that might be seeing 100 distinct superheroes preventing in opposition to Operation 001-C. Or consider how cool the time-slowing mechanic of Surprise Black’s Unity Bomb would look on display. Hell, consider the toys and spin-off potential.

The Fantastic 101 flew beneath too many radars, locked on a console that did as properly. It was handed over and forgotten by the lots, regardless of being one of the crucial creative titles of the previous decade. If avid gamers can’t admire its brilliance, possibly moviegoers will.

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