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kneamet · 2 years ago

Note

Can I request something for Lincoln Six Echo or Jonathan McQuarry. Sorry for not having an idea I had one but now I can’t fucking remember but since it’s late I probably will remember tomorrow

Illusions

Trigger Warning: yandere, obsession, stalking

Word Count: 2317

Character: jonathan mcquarry/reader

Summary: Jonathan has been watching you for a long time — even if you didn't know about his existence, and he didn't know your name. You were a sweet, desirable dream in his eyes, he longed for your love, wanted to at least talk to you... He felt separated, and Jonathan wasn't a particularly risky and brave guy to make you pay attention to him. but he wanted to protect you and that's why he walked you home every day.

In the air of the subway there was a bad smell of human sweat, fumes and wine, chocolate and those color perfumes whose owners you carefully avoid. The car, completely filled, rocked. It was not surprising — five o'clock, the end of the working day and everyone was going home, ready for dinner and a big TV, to his family, Only Jonathan, firmly grasping the silver handrail, diligently pretended to be an ordinary, normal person. A person who is expected, and not whom an empty apartment meets.

The whole life went round and round, repeated and repeated, was endless, like an endless salt bought once a long time ago or that program on an additional channel that does not even think is closed. The work occupied Jonathan's whole life, absorbed him and took away the last remnants of his life and aspirations, dreams with rough tentacles. After all, if you think about it, did he have a dream before? Was there something he coveted, maybe he kept and saved money for a long time?

No, he was a dummy.

Completely boring, an ordinary ordinary and unmarried clerk. How old was he? Thirty-five, thirty-seven? That was it... After all, it was completely unimportant, without meaning, and existence seemed monotonous, repetitive, as if on rewind, and forgettable. He's never lived, never been interested in anything. Maybe only in childhood.

The happiest moments that flashed through his head, he could only watch with a little boy in glasses, so demanding asking his mother to buy a new book. All childhood, all the memories from there, the events, were bright, meaningless and very awkward, somehow oblique, but in their own way, — so sometimes just wanted to return to native home, to the arms of mother.

Jonathan adjusts his falling glasses and blinks quickly when most of the people go out into the street of the lower district; a poor neighborhood filled with five-story houses and numerous cheap shops. He looks around again and once again hesitantly looks at the sitting girl — you. He squints out of the corner of his eye and immediately looks away when you raise your head, looking up from the ever — buzzing phone — you have a lot of friends and a lot of acquaintances, he knows. At work, you are constantly distracted by your old cracked phone when you sort through papers and fill out letters.

He sees you not for the first time, not for the first time and goes with you. The two of you are not in the same direction, but what a sincere pleasure it gives Jonathan, the pleasure of seeing you home and quietly wishing you «good night» is a recent habit, but how much it cost his empty heart. He always stood near that sprawling oak tree, clutching his briefcase, squeezing the leather handle and just sighing, watching the window open and the lights off.

You have to go to the last stop, Macquarie has known about it for a long time. Therefore, he has no choice but to sit down next to you, on the seat vacated by a large man. He put his briefcase on his knees, feeling their slight trembling and looked down at the floor in confusion, only occasionally throwing modest glances at you — and at your phone — but immediately cutting them off. Nausea and fear permeated him, completely — from head to toe — and made him feel painfully doomed.

He is not going to be with you, you absolutely will not succeed. Jonathan is not your type, absolutely not. He knows what kind of guys your type likes — self-confident, constantly getting into various adventures and coming out of them with a clear conscience, funny and sarcastic. He wasn't like that and that's why the gap between you grew bigger and bigger every day.

A satisfying name of the final street jumps on the panel and this allows you to exhale freely. Jonathan looked at you, at the way you walked to the door and couldn't help but admire you. So open, free, you were like a light butterfly, which one of his acquaintances was collecting at work. The best and most beautiful, Jonathan was sure you deserved worship and love.

And he was ready to give it to you.

As soon as the doors open, he follows you straight to the very exit, but tries to keep to himself so that he is not noticed. He hides, retreating, even if you don't think to look behind your back. As soon as he gets out of the stuffy and foul-smelling subway, a pleasant summer breeze blows over his face, with its whole essence suggesting the imminent rain, the smells of puddles, evaporated water and the body is in comfort.

Jonathan followed you, knew the way by heart, until you turned in some other direction. That's what made him doubt the correctness of his decisions for a couple of seconds, suddenly you saw him and suspected? until, however, you stopped by a small shop on a sparsely populated street and asked to make coffee. Your favorite. Even the coffee is wonderful; your taste was divine to Jonathan. He always bought a simple espresso or an Americano without sugar, just to cheer up.

And you helped him get a taste of life. There was something bright about you, something that set you apart from the crowd! Whether it was bracelets, rings or coffee, the location of the apartment or the appearance, Jonathan admired you, enjoyed and constantly recalled the incident in the subway when you accidentally spilled coffee on him — that's when he recognized your favorite. That day was, as usual, busy with work, endless cursory figures flashed before his eyes and were not remembered; he entered them into reports and immediately forgot. There was no time for personal life at work, and he didn't care about it.

It was hot and stuffy in the subway then, and there were more people than usual. Jonathan was standing close to a fat young man, the guy on the phone, and his chest to a girl with headphones holding coffee. He left work late, and it feels like he got into rush hour, like it's lunch time. How is his empty house? Can get a dog? Or a cat? There won't be enough time, he's always at work, always busy. There is no time to walk, and he gets tired. Maybe a fish? Have to clean the aquarium. How he wanted to take care of someone...

Oh!

Jonathan shuddered when he looked at the clothes with his mouth open— the white shirt turned dirty, brown, but the water was immediately absorbed. He looked at the girl and got an apologetic look, regretful. She mumbled words of apology, «I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to», «do you want me to do the laundry?» «Excuse me, mister», while Jonathan watched her in fascination. The girl fussed, calmly exhaling when people got off at the station and there were more places, and held out wet wipes in the hope that it would help.

Almost no one paid attention to them, and the girl herself would obviously soon forget about it. Only Jonathan ignored everything, and when she got off — at that time not at her station — he stared blankly, discouraged, missing his stop.

How beautiful you were at that moment! Like the number thirty-seven! Your jingling bracelets and rings, loose clothes, the memorable aroma of coffee and buzzing phone. Confused, shackled, with ridiculous sarcasm, then you didn't even know how deep Jonathan's heart had settled. After all, since that incident, work has ceased to seem ordinary, and lunch in the park a distraction from routine. He worked with enthusiasm and what was Jonathan's surprise when he saw you in the office — in a strict pantsuit, with sleeves rolled up to the elbow and suspenders, you were somehow very nice.

Jonathan used to go out to the park during a break, and now he went to the dining room, sat down at the far row against the wall and pretended to be engrossed in a book while looking for you. You were beaming, laughing and accidentally touching a guy in braces with your hand. Your lunch was almost forgotten and you were completely carried away by the dialogue with the person sitting. If only... If, Jonathan allowed himself to think, you sat down next to him, spoke first, would you laugh? Would there be a smile on your face? Or would you have no common topics and would you just take a break in silence?

Jonathan assumed that he would have bored you quickly.

Exhaling softly and restlessly, shaking the air with a trembling sigh, Jonathan continued to follow you, almost without meaning, along a little — known street to him — there was a school here, behind the fence, trees near the train part, and the path along which he walked with you was very crooked and oblique. In the dark, you can stumble over an inequality or a protruding stone, but Jonathan blindly followed you.

You were on the phone with some guy- or maybe it was a girl? — joking and bursting into pure laughter, like the sound of ringing bells. Gesturing violently, waving your arms, you weren't afraid to spill coffee. And Jonathan was thinking that he would definitely buy himself a coffee after he saw you off and wished you good night. Your favorite. His favorite. Fingers, sweaty with excitement, clutched the handle of the briefcase, he could smell the sweat coming from himself, and his shoes began to press in his little fingers, it became painful to walk. He wind themselves, worried.

Jonathan didn't understand what are you talking about and with whom, only occasionally, when cars weren't passing by, he noticed sarcasm or a joke. But he heard you, your voice — your alluring, forbidden and such a charming voice — was extraordinary. He brought to trembling knees and stupor in speech, sometimes Jonathan lost his way, listening to the intonation and knew that when talking to you, he would not find what to say. Will open her mouth and close it, he is not able to utter.

Jonathan's step was tense, unlike your light one, and he wished with all his heart that you would not turn around, look at him and reproach him. He would not have coped, he always gives up quickly and only now... only now decided to act, to show myself a «man». The guys from those movies on TV did so often — they went after their loved ones, gave gifts, flowers, and the richest and most expensive dresses. His wallet was incapable of that. Jonathan gave flowers, but you threw them away with the note. Probably thought it was from an obsessive fan, a stalker who molested you.

As you approached the house, Jonathan slowed down and turned the corner to a large tree with a direct view of your window. It was a large high-rise building, but he remembered the view of your window for a long time; the feature was the colorful curtains and the lighting garland. He quietly watched you from his seat: how you walk to the front door, how you throw away the paper cup and how the lights turn on in your apartment. Jonathan leaned his shoulder against the tree, adjusting his glasses and paying attention to the dark orange sunset, lowered like a puppeteer behind the skyscrapers.

The sky was calm, peaceful and empty, only occasionally there were lonely wandering clouds. Jonathan looked at his watch, realizing that he would have to stay here for a long time. The light in the apartment did not turn off before eleven in the evening, but even then he did not leave, he knew that you would be sitting on the phone and chatting; your fingers would tap on the phone and type a message, making such a strange sound, p. And he would stand, wait for your sleep and drink coffee, dream about you, think: what do you do? and to wish for a future together.

No one is waiting for him at home, and does he have a house? Not an apartment, in its usual sense, but a family, comfort, a place where you want to return and where you can hide in a moment of danger.

He has books, furniture in his apartment and nothing native, nothing close to his heart.

Tonight Jonathan was thinking about you, in a dream he imagined you in all your girlish beauty, stretching out a gentle hand and stroking his cheek, and he craved affection, missed her. His cheeks turned pink every time he laughed or stared at you, and something alive appeared in his eyes, something that had not been there for several years. And what was his most vivid recent memory? Jonathan couldn't remember, strained his mind, but everything was going to crash. He had only work and you in head.

How would Jonathan's evening have gone if he had gone home, got out earlier, at his station and stopped seeing you off, wishing you «good night»? He would remember the past, dream of an unfulfilled future together with you, holding back tears and looking at himself in the mirror, noticing a dull look, dirty skin that he would diligently rub in the shower; thin hair, an ordinary and gloomy face — as if he was a typical math teacher. Once again sat down at the reports and never finished them by nightfall, fell asleep right at the table.

Jonathan smiled, realizing that he wasn't alone — he had you. And even if you forgot about him, threw that meeting out of your head, he will be with you. Jonathan will always mutter softly under his breath:

“Good night and... Sleep well, beloved,” and go home to yourself, full of desire, delight and extraordinary happiness.

You were his sun in a meaningless and dark life.

i don't really like this work, but i hope you really liked it, and next time i'll write something more grandiose for jonathan.

today i reread "the red and the black" and remembering that there is a series based on this book, in which ewan played, i realized that i had to write something for julien sorel! he would be an ideal yandere, believe me.

and yes, @compulsivewriter111 and her post just makes me write the third part for ewan's characters. so in the near future, wait for content on his little-known characters (by the way, if there are any options who can be added, then write)

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misterghostfrog · 4 years ago

Photo

[IMAGE ID; a digital drawing of Martin Blackwood carrying Jonathan Sims from The Magnus Archives. Martin is a fat freckled white man with curly ginger hair that is shaved close at the sides. He has a pair of round framed glasses in a bright red, under the glasses he is wearing eyeliner, and a navy eyeshadow. He has black lipstick, two black snakebite piercings under his lip, and a small black nostril piercing. His ear has a large black piercing that cuffs a chain to a small black piercing higher up his ear, and one final black piercing in the middle. He has a black choker, and then a looser chain necklace with an eye ornament on it. He has a studded lather jacket on that is covered in multiple patches and pins, mostly hidden by Jon: of the visible pins there is a trans flag patch on his chest, and on his shoulder is a large dark colored patch that has A-C-A-B on it in white. Under the Jacket is a black shirt that he has partly tucked into his pants, the shirt has a large anarchy symbol drawn on it in red. Under that he is wearing jeans that are significantly ripped as far as we can see. On his right hand he has several black rings, and his nails are painted black. Jon is a skinny Jordanian man with brown eyes and shoulder-length grey-streaked dark brown hair pulled back into a messy ponytail at the base of his neck. He has a beard beginning to grow that appears to be the product of forgetting to shave. He is covered in a series of small round scars that vary in exact size. He is wearing a pair of rectangle-framed glasses, a plain t-shirt, a pair of jeans that are ripped at the knee, and converse. Martin is carrying Jon bridal style in his arms, and is looking away, he is blushing, though his expression is concerned and appears to be speaking. Jon has his arms wrapped around Martins neck, his cheeks are darkened and he is staring at hte ground with an expression somewhere between fear and the face one makes when they’re having to retrace every step they’ve taken to get here. END ID]

Punk Martin but make it Jonmartin.

Also I wrote a lil thing to go along with this under the cut, its only barely edited because it was mostly for fun so be warned its a big ol mess! But its s2 jonmartin nonsense with Martin being very cool and attractive and Jon being seven layers deep in denial (Also I may have written Jon as a touch autistic because its projection hours tonight i’m too sleepy to mask and that goes for writing too babey)

(Mentions of worms, past injuries, and Jon dealing with some internalised ableism and general foolishness)

Jon forgot his cane.

It’s a relatively regular occurrence, for a multitude of reasons. For one thing it’s something of a recent addition to the list of things he needs to keep track of when he leaves the house. Another lovely parting gift from Prentiss, a worm in his left leg that went just quick enough to start burrowing into the bone before it was removed.

For another, he really has other things to worry about. And if it doesn’t hurt, it shouldn’t matter. Most days he can get by just fine without it- it hurts of course. But not so much he can’t support himself, and really, does he need it otherwise?

Martin and Tim don’t seem to agree, though Sasha has kept respectfully to herself on the whole business. Martin, of course, he trusts. Albeit only recently. But that doesn’t make him right, his priorities are warped. Naturally. He doesn’t see the bigger picture.

(or at least that’s what Jon tells himself)

Which is what leads to this moment, sitting on a bench outside the shop, single grocery bag by his feet. He’d only run out to get a few things, but somewhere between the his flat the the shop his barely visible limp had become more pronounced as his hip began to throb, then he was halfway through the frozens when he realized he wasn’t going to be able to finish the trip. After that he’d barely made it through checkout to the nearest seat before all but collapsing into it.

And now he’s sitting, stuck. An insurmountable walk from home, without his stupid cane. Which, he notes, he wouldn’t need if he’d brought in the first place. Funny how that works.

“Jon?” A familiar voice jolts him out of his thoughts. Jon jolts upright. Martin.

He knows Martin lives in the area, a side effect of his... investigations. Though he was unaware he used the same shop. He looks up, a greeting or perhaps a question on his lips that dies as soon as he actually lays eyes on Martin.

Martin is wearing a leather jacket. Not just a leather jacket of course, but that’s the first thing Jon can process. He’s wearing a studded leather jacket covered in various patches that advertise various opinions and identities that Jon doesn’t have time to think about. His jeans are about as much rip as they are Jean, and he’s got piercings- and eyeliner. he’s dressed like he should be riding a motorcycle, not the beat-up red bike he’s got beside him.

“Are you alright?” Martin says, and Jon realizes he’s been staring.

“Are you going to a costume party?” Jon blurts instead of answering. A costume party would make sense, of course. Martin doesn’t dress like this, he dresses like- like-

It occurs to him dimly that he’s never encountered Martin outside of work, at least never in a scenario that would allow him to change out of his work clothes. And some part of him has always assumed that sweaters and khakis were simply how he dressed. It suited him, really. Or Jon had assumed, but then again he assumed anything familiar is suiting.

“Wh- A- no?” Martin answers, looking vaguely offended. Jon flushes.

“I- sorry, I just- I’ve... I didn’t think you seemed the type to dress... like that...?” Jon fumbles, pathetically trying to salvage the conversation. Judging by Martins expression, he’s failing.

Martin opens his mouth to say something, and Jon realizes there’s likely no coming back from this particular mortification. He snatches the bag by his feet and moves to stand. Some excuse already tumbling out when the reason for his sit-down, which had dulled to a shockingly forgettable throb, decides to remind him of his place in the world.

He lets out a cry of pain, and crumples. Only stopped from hitting the ground by a pair of arms that wrap around his chest and under his shoulder.

“Oh my god, Jon. Are you alright- what- is it your leg? Where’s your cane-” Martin babbles, Gently replacing Jon on his bench as Jon breathes through gritted teeth.

“It’s fine- i’m fine Martin I-” he sighs, studiously avoiding Martins gaze. “My cane is at home.” He tries not to sound chastised as he says the last part- he shouldn’t have to after all. He’s still Martins boss. He shouldn’t be looking away like he’s been caught at something.

“Jon” Martin sounds exasperated, and Jon crosses his arms. Once again, nothing like someone being scolded. He’s not being scolded. He’s an adult. “How long have you been sitting here like this?”

“I...” Jon begins before trailing off, he’s not actually sure. The period between sitting on the bench and the pain dulling enough for him to think through the fog is something is a blur. He is pretty sure someone asked if he was alright at some point. His lack of answer seems to be enough for Martin though.

“Just give me a moment.” He says, stepping away from Jon over to his bike- which has fallen over onto the ground -pulling it upright and over to Jon on the bench. He pushes down the rusted kickstand with a hearty kick- and Jon briefly notes he’s wearing steel-toed boots -and sets the bike gently upright.

“Okay, so! If you sit on the bike I can push it, and you can get home and rest that leg without jostling it too much by trying to walk without your cane.” He says pointedly. Jon makes a face,

“This... this really isn’t necessary Martin- I’m perfectly capable-” He grumbles, waving a hand dismissively. But a glance at Martins expression shuts him up quick.

“Do you think you can stand?” He asks. Jon pauses, the memory of the white-hot flash of pain still fresh in his mind. He grimaces, shaking his head. Martin hums thoughtfully. “Alright, would you be alright if I picked you up? Just for a moment to get you on the bike” He asks carefully.

Jon hesitates, looking between Martin and the bike. And weighs his options. After several seconds he nods. Martin smiles, and Jon feels something in his chest flutter. Anxiety at his decision most likely. Or perhaps nerves in relation to sitting on a bike, he’s never ridden one- of course Martin will be doing all the work but surely there’s some sort of balance required isn’t there? Really he shouldn’t be riding a bike like this-

Those thoughts are all swept away at the feeling of large warm hands gently scooping him off the bench. He instinctively throws his arms around Martins neck for support as he’s lifted into the air.

He can feel Martins chest warm against his side as Martin holds him close, one hand on his shoulder and the other supporting his legs. He’s being cradled by his subordinate, carefully as so not to jostle his leg. And all he can think about is how warm Martin is. He’s large and soft despite all the sharper accessories and he smells a bit like leather and tea on top of whatever soap he uses. Probably something that Jon wouldn’t be able to name with a gun to his head. And Jon can see the freckles on Martins cheeks and neck close enough to count if he wanted to even as he looks away, saying something Jon can’t quite parse because he’s too busy reeling from the realization he’d be happy to sit in Martins arms like this for the rest of his life.

His face goes hot and he forces himself to look down at the ground. The pain is clearly messing with his head, or perhaps the sleep deprivation. Or perhaps he’s still riding the high from that moment of realization that Martin isn’t trying to kill him, that he can trust him.

Either way he’s not thinking straight, which is why he’s dissapointed instead of relieved when Martin gently places him on the bike with the exact amount of care he took in picking him up. Which shouldn’t make him feel so oddly jittery but it does.

The ride is quiet, aside from awkward instructions from Jon on where to turn as Martin guides them carefully along the sidewalk. They miss a turn once because Jons too preoccupied with the feeling of Martins arm bumping against his shoulder as he guides the bike.

And then they’re at Jons flat, and Jon once again feels that misplaced disappointment. He wonders if perhaps Martin will carry him up to his flat, and his face burns again as the silliness of the thought hits him.

Martin does very, very briefly lift him to help him off the bike when he stumbles. But his leg has recovered enough that he can make it up to his flat without assistance, or so he tells Martin. Who looks unconvinced.

“Let me at least walk with you, yea? That way I know for sure you got home safe.” He insists, and Jon forced himself to be displeased with the situation.

It ends up being a good thing Martin came along though, a partway up the steps the railing is no longer enough to support Jon, and he ends up half-carried the rest of the way. Martins arm under his shoulder, his own loops around Martins back, gripping the jacket for support. He can feel his head drifting at the contact- Martin is just so damned warm and safe and Martin it’s impossible not to get distacted.

He forces himself to think about something else, anything else. The jacket- he can feel the leather under his fingertips and it’s as good distraction as any.

It’s a nice jacket, really. Clearly well-worn. And it does suit Martin, in an odd sort-of way.

Jon winces internally, remembering the conversation from earlier. He hadn’t meant to come off so... well. It doesn’t matter. Except that it does, even though it doesn’t, but it does.

Once they reach Jons door, he pushes off of Martin to lean on the wall while he fumbles for his keys. Martin lingers as he does so, twiddling his thumbs awkwardly in the silence.

Jon finds his keys and sighs in relief as the door swings open.

He nearly wanders inside and shuts the door before remembering basic human etiquette. He pauses in the doorway, turning to Martin. Who smiles awkwardly.

“Thank you.” He says stiffly, still leaning heavily on the doorframe. “That was... very kind. Of you.” Martin shakes his head.

“It’s nothing, really. Couldn’t exactly just leave you there, could I?”

Jon shifts awkwardly, wincing at the brief weight on his leg. He’s right of course, morally at least. If not logically.

“I... I suppose not.” He says, hesitating before adding “I’m sorry.”

“Look, Jon. I already said it’s fine-”

“No-” Jon grimaces “not for that. I- I meant... for what I said. About your clothes. They don’t... I just- I didn’t expect it, and I may have come off as... rude.” He mutters

“Oh.” Martin says flatly, Jons sure he’d forgotten about that until just now, and he wishes he could have kept it that way.

“they do suit you, though.” He says, after an awkward pause. “Your clothes, I mean. It looks- you look nice.” he finishes as genuinely as he can- he does mean it. Of course, he just doesn’t know how to make it sound like he does.

“Oh” Martin says again, brightening slightly, his cheeks going blotchy red in a blush. “I- er- thank you...? I suppose?”

“Yes. Well. Your welcome, I suppose.” There’s another awkward pause, Martin isn’t quite smiling at Jon, but there’s something soft in his expression Jon can’t quite parse. “ Have a good day, Martin.” He says finally, after a long pause. Martins cheeks redden again.

“Oh- yeah, er. You too Jon- and take care of yourself. Alright?”

Jon nods, and Martin smiles. And Jon thinks he’d like to see Martin smile a bit more.

He waves as Martin heads down the stairs, he can hear Martin humming as he goes.

#tma #the magnus archives #jonmartin #jmart #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #punk martin #fic #art #fanfic #fanart #ghostly doodle #ghostly doodles #Jons a mess!#and Martin has cool fashions #ghostly scribbles

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forasecondtherewedwon · 4 years ago

Text

À la Carter

Fandom: The Falcon and the Winter Soldier Rating: T Word Count: 1572

Summary: Even when she’s helping Sam, Sharon has her own agenda.

Sharon’s fingers tap. They spread and pinch, manipulating the scale and definition of Riga’s rooftops. When she feels like she must be zeroing in, she stops, straightens from where she’s been leaning over the screen of her tablet.

She tosses back a swallow of her drink, a flinch around her eyes as the alcohol stings her cut lip. It had been a while since she’d had to fight her way out of a tight corner (or configuration of shipping containers), before Sam, Bucky, and their pet baron showed up in Madripoor. Her tongue prods the cut.

Her satellite access came through, like she knew it would, and John Walker’s no needle in a haystack. On her screen, he’ll be displayed as TRACKER 01, but his position might as well be stamped with the shield—that symbol of justice and virtue and treachery and regret and whatever else the thing stands for these days. She’s a little behind on American public perception when she only feels very loosely American herself. An expat snagged on the last unravelling thread of her former country’s flag.

Another sip, another wince, is punishment in advance. Sharon’s about to do what she does in this new life of hers: take her cut. Her deal with Sam is going to develop a deviation he doesn’t know about. It’ll be seamless, wasting very little of anyone’s time, a detour on the streets of Riga; the view lies between her forearms, resting on the glass surface of the table.

She likes Sam, likes him a lot. The patience and problem-solving in his eyes that say he’s actually listening. The way he looks without his shirt. His persistent trustworthiness when trust is something Sharon thought she no longer dealt in. No giving it out and no inviting it. People don’t just trust her here. That’s why she has hired security. But she’s already expecting Sam to follow through on his end of their deal and sort out her little being-labelled-an-enemy-of-the-state issue, so she’s committed to helping him. The instinct to is annoyingly natural.

Here’s the wrinkle in their verbal contract: the job’s personal. Sam and Bucky are aware of that, she’s certain, and she wonders if they’ve considered that she might be too. It isn’t about her freedom of travel between countries or the do-gooder urge—which Sam in particular appears to overflow with—to ensure Zemo is once again caught and held to account. It’s a Steve thing. She’s heard a lot of rumours (there’s one circulating in High Town at the moment, that Steve is on Mars, building the bones of Elon Musk’s Martian colony in exchange for a couple billion dollars and, presumably, his own self-respect), and it hurts that she can’t dispel any of them, even to herself. Sharon doesn’t know what happened to him. All she knows is that there’s a new guy slinging his arm through the straps of Steve’s old shield and that she doesn’t really feel as casual about it as she might’ve led Sam and Bucky to believe when she mentioned Walker to them. She’s angry. Because she looks at New Cap and wonders what it was all for.

She drums her fingers on the tabletop.

With a deep breath, Sharon touches the screen again. Now swiping intently, she finds TRACKER 01, AKA John Walker. She pulls her phone towards her because she should call Sam to tell him the location. And she will. What she’s going to do first is just for herself.

Hacking into Walker’s comms is surgical and effortless, not requiring payment or bartering like the satellite access, just the skills she keeps honed. Sharon enables a moderate vocal distorter and slides into the ‘secure’ channel. She’s determined to keep her anger and bitterness out of this side-mission, but with nowhere else to go, resentment climbs the back of her neck as an uncomfortable, spreading heat.

“Hey, John.”

“Who is this?” his voice snaps at the other end of the line.

“Oh, don’t you worry about that.” Sharon tilts back in her chair until she can prop the heels of her boots on the table, posture perfectly at ease as she goads him. “Do you prefer ‘John’ or ‘Captain America’?”

“Who are you? A fan?”

Well, she has to laugh at that.

“Um, yeah,” she gushes, channeling the preteen goddaughter she might’ve had if she were living a life where she could make real friends and have neighbours instead of hosting underground art auctions and sniping hostiles from an open window while two idiots from her old life sprint past on the street below. “Is this the Captain America Hotline?”

“Let me tell you, you are seconds away from being located and identified by the U.S. government,” Walker threatens. At least he’s smart enough not to hold on to his fan theory any longer.

“At ease, Cap. I’m not doing any harm.”

“What you’re doing is something incredibly foolish and you will reap the consequences.”

“It’s been a few seconds,” Sharon taunts. “Either the government’s found me and they don’t want to rudely interrupt our conversation or my capabilities exceed theirs. Which one do you think it is?”

“What do you want.”

It comes out flat and hard.

“No more warnings? You’re not going to try to brute-force your way to the conclusion of your choosing?”

“That isn’t always the best method.”

“Something tells me somebody taught you a lesson recently,” Sharon observes, crossing her ankles and rocking her feet side to side on the table. “How bad were you humbled?”

“I went up against the Dora Milaje.”

“So you really got your ass handed to you. I’m surprised you’d be so forthcoming about that. Stiff-upper-lipped soldier type.”

“I figure you could find that information if you really wanted it.”

“You’re being generous then? Saving me time?”

“I just want you to get the fuck off this line.”

“Back to business then,” she says.

She can hear Walker’s breathing change, from a heavy pant to the sound of him clearly trying to control it. Less background noise too, like maybe he just entered a building. She assumes he’s trying to be stealthy. That means he’s either sneaking up on the Flag-Smashers or fears they’re sneaking up on him. It’s almost time to quit toying with New Cap and alert Sam so he can soar in, kick a few asses, maybe save a life. While she goes back to drinking alone in High Town, knowing Madripoor is beginning to tear itself to bloody shreds with so many sharpened claws.

“What do you want?” Walker repeats.

“To tell you I wouldn’t have minded calling you ‘Captain America.’” Sharon shrugs for her own benefit. “It’s just a name, and yet… I think it’s going to bother you. Realizing that you won’t live up to it, I mean.”

“You’re pathetic.”

His breathing’s a little harsher again. He might be climbing a flight of stairs.

“John Walker, I almost feel sorry for you,” she says. “I might if you came off as less of an asshole.”

“Don’t waste your condescension on me. I don’t give a fuck what you think.”

She laughs at him.

“That’s ridiculous. What sort of man agrees to be Captain America when someone as incredible as Sam Wilson has just given up the shield? When the world doesn’t need to close their eyes to picture Steve Rogers still standing behind it? Walker, you stepped into a shadow that was still fading because you were too vain to miss your opportunity. Well now that shadow’s never going to fade,” Sharon hisses at him, her feet hitting the floor as she hunches forward, studying the orange tracker. “You think you’re standing in the sun, but you’re not. And it’s only going to get darker for you.”

“I’ll take my chances.” His voice is hushed, but the tone is arrogant.

“I’m sure you will. You’ll take them without any regard for anyone around you.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lectures. “I’m helping—”

“Of course you’ll say you’re helping people when, really, you can’t see past the larger-than-life persona you borrowed like a rental tux. It’s never going to fit, John. While you’re watching yourself, all those people are seeing the guy in the ill-fitting suit, the guy who thought he was going to pick up that shield and turn into Steve Rogers. You’ve got one thing in common with Steve: a name that would be forgettable without the actions you attach to it. Soon, you’re going to wish you really were that forgettable, but it’ll be too late. The world will be watching.”

Sharon closes the connection and throws herself back into her seat, slapping her phone to the table, almost too hard. She rubs her temple and mindlessly watches the tracker flicker back and forth; Walker must be moving around the building more rapidly without her in his ear to distract him. She could’ve done worse, gotten him discovered by the Flag-Smashers, gotten him shot. That’s further than she’s willing to go though because Sam’s given her this pesky sense of hope that her life won’t always have the blinding lustre of destruction. The high shine of a speeding car, the glint of the sun peeking past Icarus’s silhouette. It’s time to let Walker destroy himself.

And, because he must think he can get in the way of that and mitigate the fallout, it’s time to call Sam.

#my writing #tfatws #tfatws spoilers #The Falcon and the Winter Soldier #Sharon Carter #John Walker

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petrichoravellichor · 4 years ago

Text

Written for Day 19 of the Supernatural Deserved Better Creative Challenge (prompt: angels and demons).

Title: An Angel and a Demon Walk Into a Bar

Characters: Gabriel & Meg

Rating: T

Warnings: mild alcohol consumption (by angel/demon standards, at least; no one drinks enough to get drunk)

Summary: After escaping from the Empty, Gabriel wanders into a bar, where it turns out he’s not the only one back from the dead.

(Read on Ao3)

********************

Gabriel needed a drink.

A real one, not just something he could conjure up himself. It’d been a little under a week since he’d woken up in the middle of a field, dazed as all get-out and weaker than he’d ever been, but somehow alive. He’d done it. He’d actually gotten out of the Empty.

At first, Gabriel hadn’t known exactly how he’d managed it. He remembered dying—getting stabbed by an alternate version of your brother in a parallel universe wasn’t exactly a forgettable experience—and then he was waking up to some sort of explosion somewhere he’d quickly realized had to be the Empty, because hellooo, he was dead. There’d been a lot of commotion then, with Gabriel and literally thousands of other angels and demons clambering and fighting at once as a loud, pained voice screamed for them to BE QUIET, and the next thing he knew, he was lying face-down in a puddle of mud, alone except for a nearby cow. Gabriel had stumbled along until he’d found a small motel in the middle of nowhere, where he’d used what little power he could muster to charm a free room off the oblivious owner and then collapsed into bed the minute he’d locked the door behind him.

A few days later, he’d jolted awake when angel radio had all but exploded in his head. Word on the wire was that his nephew, Jack, had replaced Gabriel’s dad as Heaven’s new big kahuna, and apparently the entire world had been gone for a while but Gabriel had slept through it, and wait, Dean Winchester had finally pulled his head out of his repressed bisexual ass and was last seen kissing the shit out of Gabriel’s younger brother Castiel, who was also back from the Empty?! Whaaat???

Needless to say, it had been a lot to take in. Gabriel had spent the better part of the day listening intently and muttering “holy shit” as he caught himself up on all that had happened while he’d been out of the picture. When at last it seemed that there was no more new information, he’d dialed down the volume and decided that yeah, he was long overdue for a drink. He vaguely remembered seeing a bar on the other side of the motel parking lot, so he headed in that direction, opting to walk the short distance instead of flying—he was feeling much better after a few days of rest but still nowhere near full power, and there was no sense wasting energy.

As he drew near the bar, however, he noticed that although the lights were on and country music was drifting out into the night, the front window had been shattered; a few pieces of jagged glass were still hanging in place, but the rest was nothing but shining shards on the ground outside. Gabriel paused; then, feeling more curious than concerned, he crept up to the sill and peered inside.

The place looked pretty much like what Gabriel had been expecting, with bad lighting and wood-paneled walls and a couple of old pool tables off to one side. At first, he thought it was deserted; then he noticed a lone figure at the bar.

It was a demon, but not a particularly powerful-looking one. She was sitting on a barstool, a bottle of Jack in front of her and a glass in her hand as she gazed off into space, nursing her drink. Gabriel reached out with his mind, quickly scanning the premises for any potential friends the demon might have brought with her, but no, she was the only one of her kind anywhere in the area. If push came to shove, Gabriel had no doubts that even in his current state, he could still best her in combat; however, he hoped it wouldn’t come to that. After all, it had been a hell of a day in a hell of a week, and he’d come wanting a drink, not a fight. He headed over to the door and walked inside.

The demon must have sensed his presence, because she looked up the moment he crossed the threshold. Her eyes flashed black momentarily before snapping back to her vessel’s natural brown; however, when she addressed Gabriel, she sounded more annoyed than afraid. “If you’re here to kill me,” she said, fixing him with a glare, “at least let me finish my drink first.”

Gabriel arched a brow: she might not have been more than a run-of-the-mill black-eyed demon, but she had spunk; he’d give her that. “Simmer down, kiddo,” he drawled, “I’m not here to kill you, just looking for a drink.” He gestured toward the bar. “Mind if I join you?”

The demon raised a brow of her own, apparently surprised by his response, but eventually, she shrugged and turned back to her whiskey. “Knock yourself out.”

“Thanks.” Gabriel headed behind the counter, rummaging around until he found a clean glass; he plopped in two ice cubes and poured himself a drink. “Where’s the bartender, anyway?”

The demon waved dismissively in the direction of the restrooms. “Knocked out and tied up. He’ll be fine.”

“Mm, and the front window?”

“There was a biker gang when I first got here. They got handsy and didn’t want to leave.” She smiled darkly, adding, “That is, until I threw the biggest one out the window. They got the hell out pretty fast after that.”

Gabriel snorted. “Nice.”

“‘Nice’?” the demon repeated, then scoffed. “Thought you were an angel.”

Gabriel snapped his fingers, manifesting a stool on his side of the bar; he sat down across from her, drink in hand. “I am. So?”

“So, last I checked, your kind and my kind didn’t exactly see eye to eye on what constitutes nice.”

Gabriel shrugged. “I don’t see eye to eye with lots of people, especially not when they’re dicks. Sounds like the biker guys were, so yeah, nice. Besides,” he added, leaning forward with a conspiratorial smile, “I’ve done way worse.”

The demon regarded him, then smirked. “Nice.”

“So,” Gabriel said, taking a sip of his drink. “You got a name?”

“Meg. You?”

For a moment, Gabriel considered inventing an alias; after all, it was in his best interest to keep a low profile until he decided just how involved he wanted to be in this whole post-Dad Heaven business. Still, he wasn’t really in the mood for lying, and besides, he could always erase himself from Meg’s memory if he had second thoughts. “Gabriel.”

Meg narrowed her eyes. “As in the archangel?”

“Oh, so you’ve heard of me?” Gabriel said, flashing a grin; then, noting the wariness in Meg’s expression, he added, “Hey, I’m just here for a drink, remember? You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“Easy for you to say: I can’t kill you just by thinking about it.”

Gabriel snorted. “No offense, kiddo, but if I wanted to kill you, I would’ve done it before I even walked in. Suffice to say, I’m not thinking about it.” Then, seeing that she was still eying him suspiciously, he lowered his drink and looked at her frankly. “Do you want me to leave?”

“Would you?”

“Sure. I’m not one to stay where I’m not wanted, and last I checked, whiskey bottles are pretty portable. Just say the words, and I’ll get out of that pretty blonde hair of yours.” He smirked, adding, “That is, unless you’d rather throw me out the window.”

Meg was silent for a moment, apparently weighing her options; eventually, however, she shook her head. “Whatever. Like you said, if you were gonna kill me, I’d already be dead. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Gabriel cocked his head to the side. “What do you mean?”

"I mean that up until a few days ago, I’d been dead for years.”

Gabriel sat back on his stool. “No shit. You were there too?”

Meg gave him a confused look. “The hell do you mean?”

“In the Empty,” Gabriel clarified. “It’s where we go when we die. Whole bunch of black goo and eternal nothingness. That is, up till about a week ago, when the whole place went Chernobyl. Sound familiar?”

Slowly, Meg nodded. “Yeah. It does.”

“From what I’ve heard,” Gabriel continued, tapping his temple, “at least a couple of us got out, on your side and mine. Seems like the place stabilized eventually, though.”

“Any word on what caused it?”

Gabriel snorted; he reached for the whiskey and refilled both their glasses. “You ever hear of the Winchesters?”

********************

One hour and three-fourths of a bottle of whiskey later, and Gabriel had discovered that not only had Meg had close dealings with the Winchesters during the years leading up to her death, but she’d also apparently known his younger brother Castiel—and that, Gabriel gathered from the way Meg’s eyes softened when she asked about him, Castiel had been important to her, although she never explicitly said as much. Gabriel filled her in on everything she’d missed from the time Crowley had stabbed her up to the most recent updates he’d heard from angel radio, and by the time he was done, Meg was shaking her head in disbelief.

“Damn,” she said at last. “So, this Jack kid—Lucifer’s son—he’s the new God?”

“Yep.”

“Wow.”

“Tell me about it,” said Gabriel, swirling his drink. “Should be interesting, seeing as how he’s only three.”

“And Castiel.” Meg met Gabriel’s gaze. “He’s...with Dean now?”

“Yeah. Seems like it.”

Meg nodded, looking down at the bar. “Huh. And here I was thinking they’d just keep dancing around each other like a couple of idiots.” She let out a hollow sort of laugh and reached for the bottle of whiskey. “Serves me right for getting my hopes up.”

Gabriel studied her, the pieces clicking into place. “You had a thing for my brother.”

Meg’s jaw clenched, and she filled her glass all the way to the rim. “Not one I ever got to do much about,” she muttered, “thanks to Crowley.”

“I’m sorry,” said Gabriel, a little surprised by just how much he meant it.

Meg shrugged him off. “Yeah, well,” she replied, not meeting Gabriel’s gaze. “It’s not like it was ever gonna work out between us. He was always so caught up in whatever Dean was involved in, it wasn’t even funny. Besides, the hell would an angel want with a demon, anway.”

Gabriel found himself frowning; damn if there wasn’t a part of him that wanted to kick Castiel’s ass right about now. “For what it’s worth,” he said, leaning forward onto his forearms, “my brother never was the brightest bulb in the lamp; and regarding Dean, I once killed him over a hundred times just for kicks.”

That got Meg’s attention. “Really.”

“Yep, time loop, back before the whole Apocalypse thing went down. Took Sam forever to figure out what was going on and get them both out of it.” Gabriel smirked, adding, “And in the meantime, I got to play quirky death bingo with his older bro. Oh, and a few years later, I zapped them into TV Land for a bit. They looked like absolute idiots; it was fun.”

Meg looked at him for a moment, then scoffed and shook her head. “You’re really something, you know that?”

Gabriel shrugged. “Eh, I have my moments.”

And Meg, to his surprise, actually gave him a slight smile. “Apparently. So, feathers,” she said, raising her glass, “you going back to Heaven after this?”

Gabriel shook his head. “No way: too messy, and I’m not in the mood to help clean up. Figure I’ll keep lying low for a bit, then maybe see what things look like in a year or so. What about you? Hellward-bound?”

Meg scoffed. “Yeah, because I’m just dying to get stabbed the minute I walk in the door. No thanks. Thinking of just keeping to myself for now.”

Gabriel thought for a moment, then decided aw, the hell with it. “Need a place to stay?”

Meg shot him a look of what might have been amusement. “Why? You offering?”

“As a matter of fact, yes, yes I am." He nodded toward the front door. "I’ve got a good thing going on at that motel. If you want, I can set you up with a room while you figure out your next move.”

“What’s the catch?”

“No catch. All I ask in return is that you keep the fact I’m alive to your smoking little self, because like I said, I’m looking to keep a low profile. So, what do you say?” Gabriel raised his drink as though to toast. “Deal?”

Meg studied him for a moment, then smiled. “Deal,” she said, and clinked their glasses together.

#spn gabriel #gabriel #archangel gabriel #meg masters #spn meg #spndbcc #megriel #meg x gabriel #gabriel x meg #spn #supernatural #spn spoilers #fanfiction #an angel and a demon walk into a bar #background destiel #my writing #spn rare pairs

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connan-l · 4 years ago

Text

Flower Person

Fandom: The House in Fata Morgana

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationship: Maria Campanella/Iméon

Summary: Iméon wasn’t the kind of person to care about flowers and she never liked receiving these as gifts, but could she really refuses it when a pretty blond woman she doesn’t know show up on her doorstep with a bouquet of lilies? [Femslash February 2021 Day 24: Lily]

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Link on Archive of Our Own

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Notes: So, I admit I actually tend to headcanon Iméon as being nonbinary/trans masc, which wouldn’t really fit a femslash event, but well as far we know in FataMoru canon she still identifies as a woman. Another headcanon of mine is that Iméon does remember her past life even after being reincarnated (which is what happens in the short story ‘Tír na nÓg’), and I wrote the fic with that in mind. Also I know Iméon likely just goes by ‘Noémi’ in the modern era, but… weh, I’m too used to refer to her as ‘Iméon’ lol.

This takes place after Reincarnation so spoilers for all the games, and there are also brief references to the short story ‘Girl Hunt Girl.’ (If you don’t know about it, it’s just a very short post-Reincarnation story where Iméon meets Ceren in Paris by saving her from a conman.) And warning for slight drinking/alcohol, I guess.

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Iméon had never been a flower person.

It wasn’t like she hated them or anything, but she couldn’t really unsderstand what people found so captivating or pretty about these plants. They smelled nice, sometimes, she supposed — but that was the extent of the qualities she’d gave them.

She had told as much to Michel once when they stopped by a flower shop so he could buy a few roses for his wife — the fact this guy ended up getting married was still mind-boggling to her even months after she’d learned that fact — and he laughed, saying he used to think the same ‘back then’ but that now he couldn’t help but love them. He hadn’t explained to her how this change of heart happened, but Iméon could guess pretty easily it was also a courtesy of Giselle.

In any case, that was also why people never offered her flowers as gifts, either — the only time she could remember this happened was when she was maybe eight or so and her grandma had given her a bouquet of hydrangeas. Iméon had never been able to tell the absentminded sweet old lady that she couldn’t care less about those flecks of blue-purplish petals and she’d unfortunately had to keep them in her room against her will until they withered.

Tonight, however, would mark the second time of flower-offering she’d received in her life, because the first thing she saw upon opening the door after it rang twice was a huge bouquet of lilies, followed by a turf of messy, short blond hair and a pair of clear green eyes that popped out just barely above the white bell-shaped plants.

“So, okay, here’s the thing,” her visitor started, trying to speak clearly in spite of the enormous gift in her arms that was camouflaging almost all of her upper body. “That’s kind of a long story, but bear with me. There’s this dude where I work — a client — who sort of got a crush on me. Not, like, the creepy kind, but still pretty annoying. He hit on me a few times, and despite me trying to fucking tell him subtly, ‘Hey, dude, not interested, let it go,’ he brought me this tonight upon seeing me. I thought at first about throwing it away in the trash cause flowers are not my thing, you see? But then my boss — I mean Giselle, you know her too, right? — threw a damn fit, ‘bout how it wasn’t nice for him and those were such beautiful flowers or something, so I was like ‘then take them cause I don’t want this’ but she refused cause Michel is allergic to lilies or something and — who the fuck even is allergenic to goddamn lilies? Anyway, after that I—”

Iméon blinked incredulously, trying to makes sense of why there was a short irritated blond woman with a thick Italian accent she didn’t know in front of her who kept rambling on and on at her at eight in the evening. She seemed vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t recall why — where had she seen her before?

“—asked my stupid childhood friend cause of course she’s the kind of gal who’s into flowers and stuff, except I forgot she was in Amsterdam to introduce her creepy boyfriend to her parents, but as a result the only person left was fucking Jacopo and I sure as hell wasn’t going to show up to this dumbass’ door to give him some lilies — and then it hit me; ‘Oh, there’s this chick who’s friends with Michel and Ceren and doesn’t live far away, so why not check her out!’ And so here I am.” She finally stopped and breathed in deeply. “So. Yeah. Want some lilies?”

The names of Michel and Ceren awakened Iméon’s memories and she realized it was, indeed, because of these two that this woman was familiar to her. More than a year ago, she had met Ceren by coincidence and helped her out of some trouble and since then they’d become good friends, and she managed to meet Michel again a few months later. Seeing her old friend from a past life neither of them should remember had been quite a shock — though a pleasant one — but discovering that somehow he’d gotten married to a bubbly lady and now lived in the same building as the goddamn little witch who’d messed around with them had been quite confusing. And to top it off, apparently Michel also knew Ceren because she herself was friends with said little witch. Fate really was a funny thing.

In any case, about three weeks ago she’d briefly gotten introduced to this woman by Giselle, but it had been a five minutes meeting so the encounter had quickly left her mind. If she recalled her name was… Martha? Marianne…? Mar—

“Oh, Maria,” she suddenly said out loud, snapping her fingers, and the woman frowned at her.

“What?”

“Your name. It’s Maria. Right?”

“Wait, you only now remembered who I was?”

“Yep.”

“Maria is like, the less forgettable name in the world? How did you do to forget that?”

“Sorry. I’m just not good with names. And faces. And people.”

A big silence propagated between the two of them, and then Iméon cleared her throat.

“You know… if you wanted to ask me out on a date, you could’ve just… said that. Or ask Michel my number or something.”

Maria arched an eyebrow at her, looking genuinely surprised. “What? Wait, no, that wasn’t… it’s not what it’s about.”

“No?”

“If I wanted to ask you out, I’d just do that. I’m not the kind of person to make excuse or beat around the bush.”

Iméon literally knew nothing about this woman, but somehow she could believe that.

“Oh. Okay. So it’s… really just about the lilies.”

“Yeah.” Maria marked a pause. “It did sounds less weird in my head when I thought about coming here. But I’m just, uh… a bit desperate to get rid of these.”

Iméon hummed thoughtfully and crossed her arms. Desperate was indeed quite an apt descriptor — her hair was all disheveled, her clothes unkempt and she appeared out of breath, as if she had run left and right for a long time to try to get someone who’d agree to take in the huge bouquet.

Iméon wasn’t a flower person, but… she didn’t mind accepting a few lilies for this one time.

“All right. I’ll take it,” she conceded, and Maria seemed so relieved to hear that it was almost comical.

Iméon gathered the flowers into her arms, the soft perfume tickling her nostrils and the petals brushing her cheeks, and then she turned around towards Maria once again. She was clearly about to leave and go down the stairs, but somehow Iméon felt a tinge of pity for her to have to yet again hurry to go home, so she grasped her wrist.

“Hey, no need to rush out of here. I was just about to eat something, so… Wanna have dinner with me?”

“What? Really?”

Iméon flashed her a smile. “Sure. I mean, you’re a friend of Michel, so I’d feel bad to just let you go home like that.”

Maria stared at her in silence for a while, as if hesitating, then returned her smile. “Oh well. Not like I had anything else to do anyway.”

And so the both of them stepped into the small two-room apartment together — the inside was a mess, to be honest, with various clothes and papers laying around, but Iméon didn’t care in the least and neither did Maria apparently as she threw herself on the couch without eve asking. Iméon somehow managed to install the lilies in an empty jar on the table, then tranquilly started to prepare their meal. The dinner only consisted of a quick reheat from yesterday’s leftovers and Iméon had always been far from being a super good cook, but it didn’t matter much as the room quickly got filled with cheerful chats and laughters. They talked about their common friends and then their jobs and movies and Maria’s home country, and while Iméon wouldn’t reveal too much about herself and was careful to keep her walls up even once they added a few beers in the mix, she had to admit she felt quite comfortable with this woman whom she couldn’t even remember the name a few hours prior.

Maria was a fun and easygoing person to talk to and despite her crude words and rough attitude she had a smile as bright as the sun, and it just felt nice to be around her.

“So you’ve only moved in here recently?” Maria asked.

“I don’t like to stay in a same place for too long. That’s just not in my blood. I travel a lot too, went to a bunch of different countries…”

“Hmm. I get that. I traveled around quite a bit too before coming to Paris.” She sighed, then stared vacantly at her beer. “I wonder if I should try going moving somewhere else again. I mean, I like it here, but…”

Maria fell silent, suddenly looking surprisingly melancholic. But in a way, Iméon felt she could understand that. She herself had spent most of her life jumping from a place to another ever since her parents kicked her out of the family house, and she liked living that way, but occasionally she wondered if it wouldn’t be best to find somewhere to truly settle in and call home. Maybe she envied Michel’s stable life a little bit for having this, or Ceren’s airheadness for never even questioning what the future might held in for her.

In that sense, she got the feeling Maria was more similar to her because of that. Weird, given she’d basically been a stranger to her only a few hours ago.

As Iméon was still lost in her thought, Maria abruptly rose up from her chair, almost knocking over the lilies from the table. “Oh, wow, fuck! I didn’t realize it had so damn gotten so late! I should go now.”

Iméon looked at the clock, and it was indeed already past three AM. She also had not noticed the time flee at all.

“You sure you don’t want to spend the night here?” Iméon asked while Maria hurriedly put on her coat. “I mean, we did drink quite a bit, and there’s no metro at this time…”

“Nah, it’s fine. I’ll call a taxi or something. Ugh, and tomorrow I have to work… I’m going to be a fucking mess and Giselle’s gonna have my head.”

“Giselle?” Iméon repeated, because she didn’t know Michel’s wife all that well but somehow she couldn’t picture her as the kind of employer who’d got angry at anyone.

“Yeah, she seems all cute and sweet like that, but she’s actually fucking scary and ultra perfectionist at work. Don’t let her fool you.”

“Huh… I’ll remember that.”

Maria grabbed her last beer and gobbled up all that was left of it in one shot, before quickly heading towards the door. She stopped her pace on the doorstep, however, and turned around towards Iméon.

“Thanks for tonight,” she said, smirking. “It was fun. Let’s do this again.”

“Sure. No problem.”

Maria stared at her, seemed to hesitate, then finally leaned forward and kissed her. It was a pretty brief kiss, lips only brushing against each other, but Iméon still hadn’t really expected it and she blinked back at her when she pulled back.

“I thought the bouquet wasn’t an excuse?”

“It wasn’t,” Maria argued. “That was just as thanks for the meal. Now, I really have to go, so see ya!”

She waved at her with a smug smirk, as if she was quite proud of herself for what she had just done, and then disappeared in the stairs. Iméon still felt pretty confused, but she was much too tired to try to think more about it.

So she got back inside her place, locked the door, and found herself face to face alone with the big bouquet of lilies.

For a brief second, she felt kind of bad for the guy who’d bought it for Maria in the first place, and it was kind of annoying she’d have to keep that bouquet until it wither away like her grandmother’s hydrangeas, but…

If it meant she’d get to have a fun evening dinner and a kiss from a hot Italian woman, maybe it had been worth it.

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erikthedead · 4 years ago

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entry #1

I have finally acquired Microsoft Word! I really didn’t want to pay a monthly subscription for it, but it is the best writing software out there. Every time I mention myself spending money, a small prayer goes out to all the tax-paying members of the nation, since all my money comes from Universal Credit, which is the United Kingdom’s cute name for a type of welfare money. I much prefer just calling it ‘welfare,’ or even better ‘NEETbux,’ which I discovered used in online forums as a word for the money people receive when they are not in education, employment, or training (N.E.E.T), which has been my status for about two years now. Then ‘bux’ is just ‘bucks,’ obviously. Bucks is just money, obviously. Many people receiving Universal Credit also work as well; they just receive less - enough to supplement their wages if they aren’t getting enough money from their jobs.

My last job was working in a busy restaurant for just about a year. Before that I was in university, but I dropped out after only completing the first year out of three. Before that, I worked as a carer for elderly people for just under a year. Before that, I was in college for two years, and I actually passed the course. I only passed it because the subject was forensic science, which included lots of writing about psychology, criminology and lab reports. I was never that good in the lab practically. I got flustered and bewildered in such a bright, sanitary environment that required precision and organisation to achieve the desired results. When it came to scrambling together a report to submit the next day though, I was pretty golden. I only dropped out of university because I had a mental break down as a result of poor mental health and just the fact that going outside and interacting with people was and still is incredibly exhausting for me. After a year of doing that consistently it seems, I get fatigued. In the end I got an average grade for the college course because some of the work was difficult, or boring, and that fatigue was hitting me by the second year. However, the grades I was getting on my university assignments for psychology and sociology were anywhere between top marks and good marks (Between 1st – 2:2 in UK student language). I never once read the feedback from the tutors who marked my work. All I needed to know was the mark was okay and moved on to the next assignment, firstly because I was arrogant and secondly, I couldn’t handle criticism. The mental break down itself involved me walking through the campus one day only to find myself slipping into a dissociative state. Nothing had happened immediately prior to trigger this, it just happened. It felt strange, like I wasn’t really real, and neither was anyone else. Everything felt distant and off, both externally and internally. It was frightening and strangely peaceful, as if at any moment someone could come in and blow the building up and I wouldn’t even react to it. That wasn’t normal. The only way to snap out of it was to lock myself in a toilet cubicle and lightly slice my arm with a tiny knife I had on my keys. It worked, but now I was in floods of tears and a state of distress, so I went to the student welfare services to see if they could help me or at least let me sit somewhere nicer than a toilet while I calmed down. It was an open office waiting area at the side of the bottom floor of a building that matched the layout of a prison ward with the stairs and the upper floors creating a square boarder of classrooms, that would have been cells for a prison. More for practical purposes than for aesthetic reasons, I’m sure. Still sobbing, and hiding my self-inflicted cuts, I asked the person behind the desk if I could ‘see someone,’ which is one polite British way of asking for help. After waiting a little while, a plump middle-aged lady appeared and brought me into her own little private office to ask me what had happened. She gave me her sympathy and asked me about my life and my history, and gave me some more sympathy, while relating her own experiences to mine. She was a good counsellor, basically. But having a good counsellor on site wasn’t enough to keep me on the course after that incident. Getting a degree just wasn’t worth it at the time. Being such a depressed and pessimistic person, I was only actually doing the course for ‘fun’ anyway, not for the hope that it will bring me a better future. Until recently, I never saw a future for myself. It wasn’t even a bleak future I imagined; it was just blank. I couldn’t even conceptualise it.

It’s not a mystery where all my misery came from. My childhood was a bit inconsistent to start, and from what I’ve observed, children need consistency more than anything to develop promisingly. I remember reading a study once that found children raised by parents who were consistently abusive to them were in fact more mentally stable than those raised by parents who could be lovely one day and nasty the next. It was not knowing what treatment they were going to get that did them in. It makes sense because if you’re always expecting to face a thrashing or a shouting at every day, you can at least prepare for it and train yourself to deal with it. We’re very adaptable creatures, but we need to be able to recognise patterns around us to do that. If there is no pattern, then how can we possibly make predictions? Without predictions, how can we possibly feel secure about our future? Having said all that, I was never abused in any way growing up, but I was sometimes neglected by my young mother, who was only 16 when she gave birth to me. Of course, it’s understandable now, but from a child’s perspective all you think is ‘why doesn’t my mum want me?’ When she sends you to your room for no reason and tells you not to come down for hours at a time. I asked ‘why’ a lot. Never got a good reason. I’m sure plenty of people who were raised by a drug-addicted parent can relate to this. She herself was a good mother, not amazing, but good. She told me she loved plenty of times, she gave me what she could, including a little sister when I was three years old. I think it was shortly after her birth that mum started taking heroin. It was only during drug education in year five of school (I would have been about 11) that I put the pieces together. She hid her addiction pretty well from us, but I sometimes found pieces of tin foil lying around the living room with lines of black residue on them, and once or twice witnessed her junkie friends ‘nodding off.’ There’s also a clear memory in my mind of being taken along by her and my nan to score some brown out of town and I can picture in my head the massive set of old-fashioned scales this drug dealer had sat on his coffee table right in front of me. I was too young to understand any of their lingo, though. Yes, I mentioned my nan, my mum’s mum. They got smacked up together, and they eventually got clean together. I’ll never know the details of how that came about because neither of them are alive anymore to ask. Mum died when I was 14 by taking an overdose of her methadone, then nan died when was 21 of a heart attack, likely due to the COPD she had developed from years of smoking.

My nan was so full of love for my mum, my sister and me. Some of my favourite childhood memories are being snuggled up in bed listening to her read me stories, which she did with flare and enthusiasm. She would affectionately call us her ‘wobblies,’ and give us more hugs kisses than we ever wanted. My mum definitely inherited her loving nature from her. But love on its own isn’t enough to keep kids clothed and fed and able to go out and do things. This is where the legend that is my grandad comes in. He is still going strong at 66 years old as of writing. God knows where I’d be without him. He’s been my father figure all my life since I never knew who or where my real dad was. He’s hard-working, reliable, responsible and strong. He supported us immensely despite not relating to him biologically. My biological grandfather was a free-spirited busker who liked to smoke and drink a lot, who I only met a hand full of times before he hanged himself when I was 19. His death did not affect me, but my mum’s and nan’s certainly did. I’ll probably have to see my grandad die as well eventually, and I don’t dread anything more.

Although I started off describing my family background by saying it’s obvious where my source of misery comes from, I must emphasise that my family is not the source of my misery. My childhood overall was pretty forgettable. I only have a few memories and they’re fond memories, despite the unfortunate situation I just described. Even getting my face ripped open by the neighbour’s dog when I was six didn’t faze me. It was only when puberty hit me that life started to feel horrible, and it just got worse.

I was an early bloomer, if blooming is what you call it. I call it mutating. I started getting hairy and growing tits when I was 10, and got my period about a year later. Now THAT is a traumatic memory. Waking up and going for a morning wee as usual, sitting down on the toilet and being overcome with horror at the sight of blood covering my pyjamas, realising there’s only one place that could have come from, then investigating the source only to confirm ‘Oh shit, I’m bleeding from between my legs!’ I was living with my nan and grandad at the time and I stayed there (or here, since I’m still living in the same house as of writing) under their guardianship while mum sorted herself out. After the shocking discovery of blood, I immediately ran into nan’s bedroom to wake her up. I vividly remember what and how she responded to me. With a sigh of what seemed like unsettling disappointment she said “Oh, darling, I’m sorry, I’m afraid you’ve got your period.’ I wonder now if she said it like that because she felt guilty for not warning me about this, as she should have. Someone should have. In all fairness I was young, but the other kids in my year at school were soon popping into adolescence alongside me, so I thought that soon enough everyone else would be going through what I was going through, but that wasn’t the case. I was bullied for having chronic acne. I was also a bit of a chubby boffin, but it was mostly the acne that people targeted me for. The girls shaved their legs once they started to get hairy, and I remember thinking ‘Damn, I suppose I’ve got to do that too,’ despite never wearing a skirt. They also seemed to relish in showing off and comparing their bras in the changing rooms, while I hid away as very best as I could. Make-up was a constant battle between students and teachers because they all wanted to look pretty, but it wasn’t allowed in middle school (Year 5-8), so luckily, I had an excuse for not wearing it. I’d regularly complain to my family about hating going to school, and how depressed I was, but it was all put down to teenage blues. ‘You’ll be alright once your hormones settle down,’ I was told more than once. I remember my nan telling me I would miss going to school when I was older and so far she’s been proven wrong.

#life #life 1 #ramblings #transgender #diary

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strangledeggs · 4 years ago

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Strange Nostalgia For The Future – or: Death By A Thousand Taylor Swifts – or: This Is Pop?

Holy shit, when did this article get to be over 8 pages? Sorry everyone, Tumblr isn’t letting me do a cut, so this is just going to clog your feed for a while.

This began as a long-form review of Dua Lipa’s album “Future Nostalgia” with comparisons to the styles of a variety of other pop artists, but has since turned into something much broader and more nebulous. Call it my (incredibly subjective) attempt at defining a current “state of pop music” as it stands in the year 2020.

I’ll admit, I have a bias here, so I’ll lay that on the table: I didn’t particularly care for Dua Lipa prior to the release of “Future Nostalgia”. Actually, if I’m being completely honest, she didn’t really register on my radar until the album’s release, and so I didn’t hear any of her earlier songs until I spent a few minutes on Youtube scrambling to remember who she was and why this release was supposed to be such a big deal. I came up relatively empty-handed, with “New Rules” having more interesting production than anything in the way of a vocal hook and “Be The One” sounding blandly forgettable.

But music journalists were spinning this narrative that “Future Nostalgia” was Dua Lipa’s big moment, her “disco” album, her album full of “bangers” (yes, I know, that’s an archaism at this point, but what am I going to do, call them “vibes”?). We’ve seen hype like this before (at least I have), so we should always take some time when an album arrives with this much fanfare to ask that crucial question: is it justified? Does it live up to expectations?

I’m going to answer that question, but before I do, I want to take a step back and place that music journalism narrative within a broader music journalism meta-narrative that has been slowly gaining traction over the last decade. About 7 years ago (so around 2013), I wrote a guest article for the (what I assume is now defunct) blog Hitsville UK on another meta-narrative called “rockism”, by which older listeners and journalists tended to use to justify their dismissal modern pop music through the glorification of (and comparison to) the canon of rock music. This was not a unique article – many music journalists were writing about this same phenomenon that year; it will likely mark some sort of watershed moment in music journalism. Frequently contrasted with the meta-narrative of “rockism” (not so much in my own article, but definitely in others’) was a countering meta-narrative named as “poptimism”. It’s basically what it sounds like: an optimism that current pop music could be just as good as music of the past, or even better. This was, of course, already known in a lot of mainstream music journalism circles, but it did cause a bit of a stir in independent music journalism, especially since it seemed awfully hard to deny; then-recent examples of indie stars like The Weeknd and Frank Ocean* aspiring to make genuinely great pop music seemed like they were making a pretty good case for the poptimist outlook. Plus, as a new generation of music journalists raised on hip-hop began to cover the genre more seriously, it soon became clear that, given the crossover-laden history of rap, they would have to take pop music seriously too.

Needless to say, poptimism gained a lot of traction as a new paradigm, until it became the default outlook of music journalism by the middle of the decade. It has, as far as I can see, yet to relinquish its grip, and that’s not such a bad thing; arguably, a lot more women, queer people and people of colour have had their music taken more seriously since the shift. Before we get back to “Future Nostalgia”, however, there’s one more piece of this puzzle I want to put in place: coinciding with those early years of poptimism, pop itself hit a bit of a turning point in the year 2014. This was, of course, the release of Taylor Swift’s album “1989”.

What was so special about “1989”? It’s still a bit hard to answer that completely coherently, but it clearly changed the pop music landscape in meaningful ways. For one, it demonstrated that the overcoding of global pop music made at the hands of big-name producers was not just an approach reserved for the “born pop star” figures of Britney Spears or Christina Aguilera. Taylor Swift, formerly a country singer with pop leanings, now went headlong into Max Martin-penned chart-topping smashes, and just like that, she had become deterritorialized. It was a huge success, and, interestingly, one of the first albums that got a lot of independent music journalists (and me) to take her seriously despite being her most overtly commercially-driven. I think this speaks to the power of poptimism in 2014 from two angles: for the journalists, the lesson seemed to be that if someone is already doing something near-enough to mainstream pop and then breaks through with a mass-appeal hit, why not see this as a kind of fulfillment of artistic intent? And for Swift, if you’re already doing something near-enough to what’s playing on pop radio, why not go all the way with it and sacrifice your country “credibility” for the ability to have hits beyond the genre-specific? “1989” marked a turning point at which pop music, formerly seen as something people “sell out” to make, became something you “sell into”, erasing a specific, localized identity that could be exposed as a construction anyway and replacing it with the ambition to conquer the ears of the masses.

I should clarify here, however: there are two possible conclusions one can draw from poptimism. The one I just documented, that pop music as a global/commercial phenomenon can be great and should taken seriously by music journalism, is the more frequently-taken interpretation, but it’s not my preferred one. I would rather the alternative view, which is that most music that people have tended to hear the last several decades, whether marked by the seal of “pop” or not, has been pop music. Rock is a form of pop. So is country, so is hip-hop, so is jazz, folk, metal, etc. We can distinguish between, say, the commercial radio pop – which I’ll from this point on designate as “Pop” with a capital “P” – and the pop tradition, but everything descends from pop tradition in the end, and Pop is just one more subgenre among many, albeit by definition the most popular at its given moment. Seeing that this is pretty indisputably true (and if you don’t believe me, you a) haven’t been reading my blog for long enough and b) have some serious research to do), we might as well take Pop as seriously as any other form of pop and subject it to the same criticisms, while simultaneously adjusting our criticisms of other pop subgenres in relation to our new appreciation of Pop. Who created the texture of this Pop song? Does this metal song have a hook? Is the phrasing in this hip-hop song conducive to its overall rhythmic feel? And so on, and so on.

I prefer this approach because it doesn’t necessarily assume a supremacy of one genre so much as level the playing field to allow for a more robust and less prejudiced criticism. It also doesn’t let listeners off the hook, as many (non-critics/journalists, most likely), given the opportunity raised by the previously-detailed interpretation of poptimism, would lazily slip back into listening to Top 40 radio without attempting to seek things beyond the charts; this alternative interpretation challenges us to try and hear the similarities between Led Zeppelin, Rihanna, Young Thug and The Clash while recognizing what each do uniquely. Unfortunately, it seems like the former interpretation has won out, at least for most audiences, and we now have a listener-base that, instead of keeping their ears peeled for next-big-thing indie groups like Arcade Fire as they might have circa 2008-2012, is content to wait for an already-famous star to drop the next “1989” crossover smash**.

This brings us back to “Future Nostalgia”, the latest in a line of Pop albums that seem primed to vy for that coveted position. There is, however, a bit of a gulf between “1989” and “Future Nostalgia”, and it’s not just because the moment of “1989” and poptimism has already happened. It’s also not because Dua Lipa isn’t “crossing over” from any outsider genre like Swift did with her move away from country – if anything, Dua Lipa is doubling down on her Pop ambitions here by putting them up-front and trying to make this album as blockbuster-signalling as possible. The biggest gulf is the musical one: compared to “1989” (and, I should add, a slew of other blockbuster Pop albums from the last decade, which I’ll get to discussing soon enough), “Future Nostalgia”’s songs are oddly lackluster.

Let’s start with the good, though. On my first listen to the album, I wasn’t completely baffled that critics were hearing something momentous in it. There are absolutely (again, sorry) bangers on this. Ironically, the two that stood out to me immediately were two that I later learned weren’t even released as singles, which might speak to the marketing team’s inability to judge the quality of the music they were handling here. “Cool”, easily the best thing on “Future Nostalgia”, rides a sort of bouncy warping of the riff from Cyndi Lauper’s “Time After Time” as Dua Lipa gushes about how she just can’t control herself in front of her lover; it’s sweet, both lyrically and musically. “Love Again” (no relation to the Run The Jewels song) is perhaps the album’s most explicitly “disco” song with swelling strings and everything, and expresses a similar sentiment to “Cool”, though perhaps from a more reluctant angle: “God damn,” Dua Lipa sighs in the chorus, sounding simultaneously annoyed and amused, “you got me in love again”.

The songwriting on “Cool” and “Love Again” also happens to be some of the most basic on “Future Nostalgia”; the beat loops, albeit with some nice flourishes and rhythmic quirks, and Dua Lipa cycles through a few simple melodies, the catchiest always winding up in the chorus. “Love Again” is practically a blues song with its AAAB-repeat phrasing. I highlight the virtues of this simplicity because it throws much of the rest of the album into a stark contrast and exposes its greatest weakness: many of the other songs on “Future Nostalgia” feel fussed-over and patched together out of pieces that don’t always fit, as if the several writers*** involved in these songs weren’t in the same room when the track was finally put together. The album seems to be a case study in throwing everything at the wall and not bothering to consider whether it will stick. And yet it seems to have a small army of critics defending it, even going so far as to call it the pop (or at least Pop) “album of the year” – which has me wondering exactly what all the hype is about.

“1989” has something that a lot of other blockbuster Pop albums since its release do not: a personal touch. Taylor Swift worked hard prior to that album at building her brand as a confessional singer-songwriter, and even with the big-name productions and radio-primed hits, she maintains that image: one of her biggest “1989” hits, “Blank Space”, explicitly addresses her (supposed) romantic history and relationship to the media. Elsewhere, she does some fantasizing about classic movie archetypes and the impulse to drop everything and run away from it all, strongly reminiscent of her past work. It’s not as easy as it might sound to pull off this kind of thing, and I think Swift deserves credit not just for the excellent musicality of the songs she put her voice to, but the consistency of the strong personality she built across her career (with misstep “Reputation” sticking out as the glaring crack in the portrait).

So I won’t compare “Future Nostalgia” to “1989” beyond the initial poptimism narrative it bolsters. No, “Future Nostalgia” isn’t particularly personal – its mode seems to be more in line with what Robyn was already doing a few years before Swift, anticipating a poptimism that would effectively result in her deification over the course of the 2010s. Similar to Robyn in her “Body Talk” series, Dua Lipa seems to approach “Future Nostalgia” with a kind of assumed confidence as a dancefloor queen – more celebratory than confessional.

The celebration, however, proves to be pre-emptive; “Future Nostalgia” lacks two crucial things that “Body Talk” had in spades. The first is a general willingness to experiment. Robyn’s albums were packed with silly throwaways, but some of them stuck, and the best are featured on the collected version of the album, from the Snoop Dogg collaboration “You Should Know Better” to the cybernetic-pop-anticipating “Fembots” to the sassy “Don’t Fucking Tell Me What To Do”. The title track of Dua Lipa’s album demonstrates a little bit of adventurousness, but it unfortunately flops, arriving in the form of awkward half-rapped verses that aren’t fun enough to leave a lasting impression. The only other potential outliers are the aforementioned “Cool” (which just happens to sound less disco than the rest but is otherwise a fairly standard, if well-written, pop song) and the album’s absolute nadirs, “Good In Bed” and the closing ballad “Boys Will Be Boys” (we’ll get to that in a bit). Otherwise, the album carries its aesthetic pretty consistently between tracks, giving little impression of any desire to experiment.

The second missing element is the consistency of the songs themselves. When Robyn’s songwriters toss her, say, a pseudo-dancehall song, they commit to it, making sure there are no weird melodic/harmonic/rhythmic hiccups and that the pieces fit together. And unfortunately, the majority of “Future Nostalgia”’s songs are full of exactly those kinds of hiccups and disjointed structural assemblages that leave me scratching my head. A lot of it’s subtle to the point that I can almost understand other critics missing these details, but I pick up on this stuff fast, and once I hear it, I can’t unhear it.

A lot of it’s in the phrasing; too often, Dua Lipa will go for a quick succession of staccato notes in a chorus when a simpler, slower phrase, or maybe just silence would have worked better (see “Break My Heart”, or the post-chorus of “Future Nostalgia”, in which she sings the 100% non-credible line “I know you ain’t used to a female alpha” – side note, has she even listened to top 40 radio in the last decade?). “Physical” is almost fun until you realize that the phrasing, melody and harmonic structure of the chorus would fit perfectly into any godawful Nickelback song.

Actually, “almost fun” is one of the phrases that I feel best describes so many songs on this album. Too many of the tracks set up something great only to follow through with some baffling songwriting choices. The second track in, “Don’t Start Now”, disrupts an excellently-phrased verse and infectious bassline with a chorus awkwardly parachuted in from what sounds like a 90s house song. The more in-character post-chorus that follows can’t help the song recover once you realize that it’s nowhere near as endearing as the original verse melody. That half-assed rapping makes a re-appearance in the bridge of “Levitating”, which is otherwise perfectly acceptable. If not for that moment, “Levitating” would come close to being the third pick of my favourite songs here, although you can’t fool me, Dua Lipa: I know that chorus is just a sped-up re-hash of the Jacksons’ “Blame It On The Boogie”. “Pretty Please” is also fine, funky and subtle, displaying some restraint on part of the songwriters and producers for once – though there’s also nothing about it that jumps out and grabs me. Besides the two standouts, is that the best I can hope for on this album, a song where nothing goes horribly wrong? At any rate, it’s better than the bland, shameless Lily Allen rip “Good In Bed”, which also features an utterly confounding “pop” sound effect in the chorus replacing one of the mind-numbingly repeated words.

There are some exceptions with regard to singers that can make use of this kind of disjointedness. Ariana Grande’s “Sweetener” walks a thin line, but it often pays off. See, Grande is a singer’s singer, at least by Pop standards; she’s known for crooning, for belting, for singing her lungs out. But she also wants to be a Pop icon to young people right now, and that means staying up-to-date in her production and songwriting. The trouble is, one of the most popular genres with the kids these days happens to be trap, which doesn’t exactly lend itself to Grande’s showboating vocals, favouring short, choppy phrasings and half-mumbled half-singing mixed almost low enough to blend with the music. So she compromises: some of the songs on “Sweetener”, such as the title track, have verses and choruses that feel as though they’re pulling in opposite directions, with Grande getting an opportunity to flaunt the long high notes in a percussionless section before dropping into those staccato bursts that suit the heavy 808s of trap. Despite it being more drum’n’bass/R&B throwback than trap, a similar dynamic is at play in Grande’s biggest hit from that album, “No Tears Left To Cry”. Unlike Dua Lipa’s lurching song structures, Grande’s feel intentional and thematic; the songs aren’t always bulletproof, but I feel like I learn something about her by hearing the tension of styles she’s struggling to stretch herself between. All I feel like I learn about Dua Lipa from the messiness of her songs is that either her, her songwriting team, or both are very confused about what goes into an effective pop song.

Of course, Ariana Grande is also operating in a slightly different mode than Dua Lipa in the first place: whereas Dua Lipa is engaging Pop radio in the recent tradition of satisfying formulaic hits like those of “1989”, Grande has one foot (or maybe even one and a half?) in the parallel tradition of R&B. While the two traditions frequently mix and crossover on the radio, they represent very different approaches to music whose distinction might provide some insight into why some of what Dua Lipa is trying to do isn’t working.

To put it simply, the basic unit of what we’ll call traditional pop is the song, and the performer of the song is meant to convey the essence of that song as a relatively unwavering whole – the performer is effectively the conduit for the song, which reaches the listener through the medium of the performer. The singer has some room to “interpret”, but once a given interpretation is found to be effective in its “hook” potential, it’s typically kept as part of the formalized song, written in stone, more or less.

R&B, true to its roots in “rhythm and blues” and, before that, jazz, essentially reverses this. Songs are present in R&B and not necessarily unimportant, but they typically become conduits for the performer’s own expressiveness. In this setting, the performer’s “interpretation” is actually the most important ingredient, as the performer’s style is effectively the product, the listener’s focus. This places greater emphasis on experimentation with phrasing, melody and other aspects of a song, as well as the potential differences between multiple recordings and performances of that song.

These two paradigms have consequential implications for singers of songs operating in a given mode. A traditional pop singer, for example, is going to be more likely to defer to the song as-written in their performance of it for a recording. An R&B singer, by contrast, is more likely to improvise, often delving into explorations of how to make their voice a more expressive instrument – in many cases, actually, it can be a matter of making their voice more like an instrument, full stop. The notes aren’t sung to express words so much as they are sung to express pure sound. Vocals can vary wildly in rhythm, giving off phrasings that might normally be considered unnatural, but, if placed artfully enough, can re-shape our expectations of pop music in the first place. These aren’t ironclad rules, by the way – the genres cross over frequently and the lines are often ambiguous. But I think defining the differences here can at least help us understand the split in the approaches of, say, Taylor Swift vs. Janet Jackson.

Arguably, the biggest R&B star in the world at the time of writing this remains Beyonce, and with fairly good reason: her powerful voice brings a lot to what are often already well-written songs. Take note here: something like “Formation” (which I have previously written about in my article on hip-hop’s inheritance of the post-punk legacy) or even “Drunk In Love” probably wouldn’t fly in the realm of Pop. Tracks like these are mainly embellished not necessarily with flashy songwriting or production flourishes (although they can have those too), but with Beyonce’s vocal interpretations of them, sometimes approaching something more like rapping than singing****. Note also: vocalizations in this context are given a certain freedom, a license to be weird within a certain range of acceptability. Need I remind you of “surfboard, surfboard, / Grainin’ on that wood”?

My point here is that R&B singers are playing by different rules than Dua Lipa. This isn’t just me arbitrarily deciding that what she’s doing isn’t “R&B enough” – you can here it in her approach. My criticism of her awkward phrasing is based largely on the fact that it doesn’t sound like she’s doing it to “experiment” with the songs she’s given. She repeats these phrases exactly the same way each time, as in the chorus of “Break My Heart”, just so you know it’s intentional. If she is, in fact, improvising, the songs aren’t very suited to it and her attempts are mostly unsuccessful; they become hooks that highlight their own weaknesses rather than bold forays into new rhythmic territory.

The most interesting part of “Future Nostalgia” is, by far, the backing music. Even when Dua Lipa’s singing and hooks fail, the production shines through (even here, though, there’s a caveat with regard to the last two tracks). Consider the sublimely gauzy vocal(?) loop at the beginning of “Levitating”; the sweeping disco violins of “Love Again”; the finger-popping funk bassline of “Don’t Start Now”; even the Justice-lite bass synths in the chorus of the otherwise by-the-numbers “Hallucinate”. “Physical”’s best aspect is, in fact, a small countermelody running in the background of the obnoxiously bland chorus.

This is where I can most understand what got music critics hyped up on this album in the first place: superficially, at least, it sounds pretty damn good. But I suspect the willingness to overlook its other obvious faults stems from a tendency among “poptimistic” critics to treat singers as interchangeable in a system they perceive to be dominated more by “sounds” than by music proper. In fact, the singer is a real make-or-break point in much of modern pop music (Pop or otherwise), likely due to the focal point they occupy; a great singer can occasionally salvage a terrible song, while a bad (or even just mediocre) singer can easily bring down the most well-constructed powerhouse hit.

A case against valuing “Future Nostalgia” solely on the basis of its production: the last Pop album I remember listening to where the production outshined the songwriting was Billie Eilish’s “WHEN WE ALL FALL ASLEEP WHERE DO WE GO?” Eilish’s songs aren’t bad, and are frequently even good – but I was surprised at how conventional, or even “traditional”, most of them were. “Bad Guy” and “All The Good Girls Go To Hell” are basically jazz songs. “Xanny” and “Wish You Were Gay” (the most lyrically immature, it must be acknowledged) are pretty standard singer-songwriter fare. Others tend to play to a type: either sleepy ballads (“When The Party’s Over”) or, the most interesting songs on the album, the hip-hop influenced minimalist pieces (“Bury A Friend”, “You Should See Me In A Crown”).

But of course almost all of these songs are transformed in part by some rather astonishing production. No one who’s heard “Bad Guy”’s synth-squiggle chorus would mistake it for jazz, and the chorus of “Xanny” squirms in a shroud of distorted bass that pull back when you least expect it – hardly typical sonic territory for most singer-songwriters. Even the already-powerful “Bury A Friend” hits harder than it might have without the surging crunches it’s afforded in the production.

My point, however, is not that the production is what makes this album – it doesn’t, at least not entirely. The production is roughly half of what’s interesting here. The other half is comprised by two things: the fact that most of the songs are fairly strong already (though I think Eilish could lose a few of the ballads and come out better from it), and the fact that Billie Eilish also happens to have a very distinct vocal style. Actually, that last part alone is probably the selling point for most people: Eilish’s eerie half-whispered delivery plays more of a role in constructing her album’s overall dark mood than the production. It has its limitations, and I wonder what her future will bring in terms of her ability to move beyond the role she’s effectively typecast herself in, but it has something on Dua Lipa: it has personality.

So vocal style is important, but that’s not all: as I mentioned, Eilish’s songs are also consistently stronger than Dua Lipa’s, even when both are at their lyrical worst. Sure, “Wish You Were Gay”’s self-absorbed whining about unrequited love and sexuality sounds exactly like what you’d expect to come from a undeveloped teenage singer. But the lyrics are the only thing wrong with that song; take those away, and the melodies and instrumentation sound pretty damn great. The same cannot be said for the overblown dollar-store balladry of Dua Lipa’s execrable “Boys Will Be Boys”, which, despite projecting an ostensibly more “progressive” outlook than “Wish You Were Gay”, falls flat on its face anyway. And I’ll take an Eilish ballad over “Good In Bed”, which sports an obnoxiously repetitive chorus – static, plastic, it sounds like a strained smile looks, desperately trying to convince you that this is fun, right?

“But wait,” you might say, “pop music is supposed to be fun! And isn’t that what most of ‘Future Nostalgia’ aspires to? Shouldn’t we forgive Dua Lipa for some of her mediocre songwriting if her goal in making us dance is at least a defensible one?”

And the answer is no, because Pop is already full of music more fun than this. The way I see it, there are several ways in which one could make music more fun than “Future Nostalgia” (better songwriting being one I’ve already discussed to death here), but I’ll wager that a fairly reliable method is that frequently employed by Lady Gaga: do something musically outlandish and downright weird.

“Bad Romance” is the obvious lodestar here, but Gaga’s career is full of the absurd: just take pretty much any song off of “Born This Way”. Even the “normal” songs like “Yoü and I” (at least pre-“Joanne”) come across as weird by virtue of being placed next to something like “Electric Chapel”. And all this is done in the service not only of raising eyebrows, but in the name of fun. Even some of Gaga’s weaker efforts like “Venus” (or many others on “Artpop”) have a winking slyness to them that lets you laugh along with her. It rarely feels like she’s “serious” when she’s singing about love, sex, or dancing all night, but she gets you dancing anyway.

“Future Nostalgia”, by contrast, has few attempts at any kind of weirdness, and those it does have fall flat. I’ve already mentioned the cringe-y pseudo-rapping, but the spoken-sung pre-chorus of “Physical” is just as embarrassing, bringing the song’s momentum (its second-greatest virtue) to a screeching halt with an awkward phrase that feels totally unnecessary. And then there’s that sound effect on “Good In Bed”. These moments detract from the album because they feel half-assed, like Dua Lipa never bothered to commit to the bit she tacked on. And aside from this, “Future Nostalgia” remains pretty conventional Pop – she’s not exactly reinventing disco here, just emulating it for a new generation with mixed results. If only she could pull a “Heartbeat” or “Love Hangover” out of her bag, but the album is so radio-oriented that the songs rarely reach the 4-minute mark even when they find a groove worth hanging on to. It’s as if she mistook the law M.I.A. ironically lays down at the end of her biggest hit for sage advice: “Remember: no funny business!”

There is one more aspect of the poptimism that helped propel this album in the eyes of critics I have yet to discuss: the paradigm’s coinciding with the recent wave (is it the fourth? I’ve lost count) of popular feminism. This was significant for Taylor Swift at the moment of “1989” because it allowed for interpretations of songs such as “Blank Space” to reach beyond a simple commentary on her stardom and discomfort with media coverage, branching out into a more expansive reading of the song as representative of the ways in which women in general are demonized for their past relationships. Feminism, as a cultural framing device, was crucial in shaping listener perceptions not just of “Blank Space”, but of many other songs on the album. It also helped to launch a whole wave of emerging and returning Pop artists’ albums and singles that traded in similar (vaguely) politically-charged lyrics.***** In the years that followed, a veritable opening of the floodgates would happen with regard to public feminist consciousness-raising, culminating in specific incidents such as the #metoo movement.

For the record, I think this was largely good. I’m under no illusion that “1989” is in any way a politically radical album, but I think the return of pop feminism has generally had a net positive influence in getting pop artists of all kinds of re-think their music’s relationship to gender politics. That being said, there are two things I resent about its lasting impact. The first is the kind of forced extrapolation of songs that bring up gender in any way into “feminist” anthems when they’re largely about relations that have little to do with the matter. One case in point might be Dua Lipa’s pre-”Future Nostalgia” hit “New Rules”; inexplicably, I often see fans trying to make the song’s lyrics out to be some kind of political diatribe about the cruelty of men to women or something like that, when in fact it sounds more like a typical “bad relationship” song, the kind that have been on the charts for decades by now.

But the other thing I’ve come to dread from pop-feminist Pop is the inevitable half-assed “message songs” that seem designed to cash in on using feminism as a signifier that an otherwise apolitical artist is still hip and knows what’s up. Whether through “New Rules” fan encouragement or her own hubris, Dua Lipa has regrettably chosen to end “Future Nostalgia” with such a song: “Boys Will Be Boys” (no relation to the significantly better-written song of the same name by Stella Donnelly). I don’t really want to write a lot about this song because part of the problem with it is that it’s bad in a lot of boring ways, but I do think it’s significant that it was singled out by several other critics (even those who liked the album) as the album’s worst song by miles. I’m hoping this shows a change in perspective here, as critics get harsher about flops like this one, and hopefully the eventual end result from this pushback is that Pop stars will stop trying to convince us they’re “real feminists” with empty songs like “Boys Will Be Boys” that are tacked on to the end of their “bangers” album as a kind of placating afterthought.

So a number of critics have indeed placed too much stock in this album: contrary to the feeling you may have gotten from my relentless criticisms here, “Future Nostalgia” isn’t necessarily bad, but I wouldn’t call it “good” either. It sits in a mid-tier of Pop albums over-enthusiastically pushed out during this era of high poptimism. It’s not the next “1989”, or “Lemonade”, or “Body Talk”, or “WHEN WE ALL ETC.” It’s just a mediocre album with a few great songs that were somehow never released as singles.

Is the inflation of “Future Nostalgia”’s reputation a sign of poptimism’s imminent bust? Are we entering a period of critical groupthink and gradual decay? These questions are too big to answer here, or perhaps at all for now (likely we’ll know the answer for sure in another decade). But I want to end this on a positive note by singling out a singer I haven’t mentioned yet as perhaps the greatest Pop artist of the last 20 years: in all these comparisons, I never got around to bringing up Rihanna.

On one hand, much of the poptimist revolution in criticism has involved taking the studio albums of Pop artists as seriously as their counterparts in other genres. On the other, Pop has never really stopped being a singles genre, and few have demonstrated this better than Rihanna. This is not to deny that she’s released some totally listenable, or even great, albums in her own right: “Talk That Talk” and especially “ANTI” stand as excellent records that came along relatively late in her career. But, well, raise your hand if you’ve actually listened to, say, “Good Girl Gone Bad”. Now raise your hand if you know “Shut Up And Drive”, “Don’t Stop The Music”, “Disturbia”, and, of course, “Umbrella”. See what I mean?

Perhaps I could blame “1989” again in part for this shift in focus from Pop singles to Pop albums. It’s pretty remarkable, after all, that the album is as consistent as it is, and I think that might have caught a lot of critics who were expecting otherwise off-guard. I think another problem, however, resides in the dominant mindset among critics in the first place, the idea that albums are the more valuable art form, the standard by which greatness is measured. Even I find myself incapable of breaking free of that format of evaluation – I’m much less likely to seek out more of an artist’s stuff based on a few great singles of theirs compared to if I hear an entire album from them that I like.

This might be slightly unfair of us critics, but there are workarounds to help correct this bias. One of those workarounds is the compilation. If an artist can make an album’s worth of great songs, but they happen to be spread across a number of their otherwise-mediocre albums, they can still win favour by collecting all (or most) of those gems in the same place, a “greatest hits” collection being the most common******. This seems like a pretty reasonable way of enjoying singles-oriented artists for those of us who are still stuck on the old album format.

But compilations have also never been as popular to review among critics as studio albums (I don’t know, maybe many feel like it’s cheating to collect the best stuff in one place?) and, as stated, it seems like poptimism’s paradigm shift has only reified the bias towards albums by putting more weight on Pop artists’ studio albums than before. Further, as compilations have started to die out (since anyone in the streaming age can assemble their own “greatest hits” playlist that will have all their own personal favourites on it), recent Pop artists often aren’t even given the chance to be evaluated at their best in a compilation format. I wonder if this is also a contributing factor in the hype surrounding “Future Nostalgia”; though it would probably be better remembered for its singles which could be collected on a later “Best Of Dua Lipa”, the fact that such a collection is unlikely to materialize pushes critics towards trying to sell listeners (and themselves) on this being Dua Lipa’s “definitive statement” and reason to take her seriously as an artist simply because it’s the most consistent thing she’s released so far.

Regardless, Rihanna is a model artist in terms of being a singles-oriented Pop singer deserving of a great compilation. If someone were to put it together, I’m fairly certain it could rival Madonna’s “The Immaculate Collection”, the former (basically archetypal) gold standard for a Pop artist’s greatest hits. Imagine hearing “Umbrella”, “Work”, and “We Found Love” all in the same place, uninterrupted by the inevitable string of lesser artists’ hits you’d inevitably hear if that place was the radio or some poorly algorithmically-generated playlist. My concern is that with the death of the compilation and shift in the expectation for the Pop artist’s studio albums to be their defining moments, such an album will only ever exist in an unofficial capacity. Which is fine, I guess – if you hate pop canon. But I don’t, so I patiently await the return of a collective memory for singles that extends beyond the radio and the playlist.

*Interesting to see how these examples have aged.

**Don’t get me wrong, I like “1989”! But its potentially negative influence will be detailed further as I continue.

***This isn’t a criticism of songwriting teams in general – certainly great songs have come out of the modern collaborative approach to pop songwriting, and I’ll get to those soon.

****And of course there’s a whole other conversation to be had about the ways in which hip-hop and R&B, formerly more separate genres, have been in the process of merging for the last two decades as performers in each have realized how much their interpretive approaches have in common.

*****It should be noted that this trend started several years earlier in “underground” and “indie” scenes and only just made its way into the Pop mainstream around 2014, but that’s a discussion for another article.

******Actually, even if an artist has only one great song, multi-artist compilations can step in to help. But since I’m focusing mainly on the respective cults of personality of specific Pop artists here, I won’t get into those. I should also add that Pop is by no means the only genre in which this happens: there are definitely so-called “classic rock” artists who I wouldn’t bother listening to outside of a compilation of their best stuff (Queen, for example).

#Music #Music criticism #Pop music #Dua Lipa #Future Nostalgia #Rihanna #Billie Eilish #Beyonce #Taylor Swift #Robyn #Lady Gaga #Ariana Grande

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scrunchie-face · 4 years ago

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My ranking of TS8 based on absolutely nothing but my personal opinion

From least to most favorite:

peace: this is the only song on the album i really don’t like. her accent/cadence sounds a little affected to me and there aren’t any lyrics or musical moments that really resonate.

invisible string: i feel like i might get some pushback on this since so many people seemed to LOVE this one but hear me out. This one is clearly about Joe and their relationship and for me, there is not a single song about him that she has written that has been as good as “Call It What You Want” and “New Year’s Day.” Every other song she has written since then about being happily in a relationship with Joe has fallen flat for me. Also, I’m not gonna lie, the more cynical and less romantic side of me finds the whole concept of the “invisible string” to be a bit trite and saccharine. “Isn’t it just so pretty?” To me, yes, it is a pretty thought and that’s all it is.

mirrorball: this song is pretty, and reminds me very strongly of the Speak Now era, but with the complexity and maturity that she’s obviously acquired since then. That being said, to me the metaphor feels like it’s trying to go in two different directions at once and neither one quite gets there, leaving a song that feels somewhat unfinished. It’s either a very pretty love song or a darker reflection on identity, but it never feels like it commits to either.

august: this is where we really start to get into “there’s nothing really wrong with it, I just like other tracks better” territory. Lyrically, I think it’s very poignant, with its reflections on love, time, and memory. Unfortunately, I think the whole “Teenage Love Triangle” hint actually does this song a disservice by indicating that the speaker is the “other woman.” Since the bent of the other two songs (”cardigan” and “betty”) seems to indicate that those two singers/speakers are the couple that is “meant to be” it gives the poor unnamed “august” singer a bit of an uphill battle for sympathy in context. That’s not to say I don’t have any sympathy for her; I have by far the least sympathy for James. Unfortunately, James gets a catchier song (more on that when i get to “betty”). Which brings me to the real reason for this low-ish ranking: I just don’t find the song as musically compelling as most of the others on the album.

this is me trying: as I suggested in the previous paragraph, a lot of the way I rank songs personally is by how much the music resonates with me. I can forgive a lot lyrically if the way the music moves gives me goosebumps. With “this is me trying,” there are several lyrics that I love. The repeated “I have a lot of regrets about that”? PERFECTION. Musically, however, the song as a whole doesn’t really impress itself upon me, making all but the couple lyrics I really love forgettable to me.

mad woman: this song, and the two on either side of it, were ranked somewhat arbitrarily. higher than “this is me trying” for having a little more edge and a more engaging tune, lower than “hoax” because I generally prefer sadness and angst to anger. This is by far the most vindictive track on the album, and while I understand it and think it’s executed very well, the tone isn’t totally appealing to me personally.

hoax: this song, to me, has a very strong Hozier vibe that I enjoy very much. As i said in my blurb about “mad woman” I connect more emotionally with the sadness and turmoil here, hence its higher ranking. “stood on the cliffside screaming ‘give me a reason’“?! Gorgeous, and if you’ve ever felt that way, the line resonates in your bones. “the only hoax I believe in” is such a complex line that I could probably write paragraphs about it; it’s got psychological, emotional, and even religious elements to it that I think are part of what makes such a sad and personal song still feel universally relatable. It asks you, what are your hoaxes? Which ones do you believe? Is it because you want to? Because you have to? betty: ranking this song was difficult, because i find the character of James to be incredibly irritating. Unfortunately, the questionable nature of James’ behavior and attitude towards Betty and the unnamed girl is not enough to condemn the song to a lower ranking because the tune is just so catchy and fun. It’s got one of the best hooks on the album: the rhyming of “Inez” and “she says” just delights me every time. The “--most times--” caveat is amusing and very in character for a teenager trying to explain himself. And then “the worst thing that I ever did was what I did to you.” It sounds super trite, yes, but it would’ve probably gotten my forgiveness when I was seventeen. Also I love “will you kiss me on the porch in front of all your stupid friends?” Bold words for someone in James’ position but I love the bravado and the way it pairs with the music. The triumph here may be premature but it’s SUPER contagious. epiphany: so this one is perhaps the most arbitrarily placed because I realized when I got the the end of my list that I had forgotten it.... BUT that being said, I really like this song. It seems to be one of the more divisive on the album; people either love it or think it’s boring. I like it a lot. When we talk about big events--wars, pandemics--it’s very easy to distance ourselves from them and forget that those more affected than we are are people too. This song gently rehumanizes the people we see in books and newspapers and tv reports, reminding us that they are suffering, they are trying, and reminding them that they are seen and loved. It’s extremely beautiful and moving.

the 1: based on my previous claims that the music is my most important factor in song ranking, this one may seem unfairly high. Like with “peace” I find the accent/modulation of her voice in this song to be somewhat affected and irritating. The tune, while fun and catchy, doesn’t really have much power behind it. But I enjoy it just enough that, paired with some absolutely spot-on lyrics, this becomes a song I was deeply attached to from the first listen. Anyone who has ever had an important relationship that came to nothing will recognize the brief emotional rollercoaster of “I thought I saw you at the bus stop, I didn’t though,” and feel absolutely convicted by the bridge. “persist and resist the temptation to ask you/ if one thing had been different/ would everything be different today?” If you’ve lost a friend or a lover, you’ve tormented yourself with that question, I guarantee it. Even off her musical A-game, she absolutely nails the emotions here, and I love it.

my tears ricochet: this song actually started out pretty close to the bottom and slowly made its way up. Honestly, the reason for its low ranking was that I still can’t quite figure out what it means. Taylor occasionally writes songs that are very hard to tease out into any sort of linear narrative or neat metaphor; you feel them more than you understand them. And for that reason it usually takes me a little more time to get to a point where I appreciate them. The relationship here is tangled; it’s not the simple bad guy/good girl that we would’ve seen in the Speak Now era, and I would argue that at times it’s unclear which party is even the speaker. Once my analytical mind got past that hurdle, I remembered that this is one of the most musically powerful songs on the album. The bridge? GOOSE.BUMPS. The way the music builds and pounds at “just not home... in your bones.” Shivers. Even if I don’t totally understand what the song means, i can feel the conviction and emotion in the words and music and that is what makes it such a pleasure to listen to.

cardigan: this song is simply beautiful. just lovely. sad and nostalgic and hopeful and it just hits on some stuff that is absolutely true. “when you are young they assume you know nothing./ But I knew you.” I recently had a conversation with my husband about this very concept. This idea that adults look down on young people simply because they don’t have “perspective.” But the truth is that young people know something very important: what it is like to be young and to experience things AS A YOUNG PERSON. Not as an adult looking back on being young, but as a person to whom these experiences are fresh and real and important. “cardigan” takes that whole concept: the struggle between youthful experience and adult perspective, and absolutely NAILS IT. Add in a touch of the sentiments from “the 1″: “i knew you’d haunt all of my what ifs.... i knew i’d curse you for the longest time,” and combine it with a melody that rises and falls and slows down and speeds up and you just have this gorgeous tribute to youth and life and love.

illicit affairs: i love this song so so much. I’ve never been in an “illicit affair,” but the regret and the confusion and the attachment and the love and the hate and the feeling of being trapped are all so raw and visceral that even if you’ve never felt anything like this before in your life you can feel it now. Underneath the fairly simple melody of “don’t call me kid, don’t call me baby,” you can hear the screaming anger and heartbreak. “look at this idiotic fool that you made me!” Gah. I can’t even. It’s just so real. So there. This is a song that you both understand AND feel and it’s so powerful it’s almost overwhelming. Taylor and her killer bridges absolutely ending me every time.

the last great american dynasty: this song is so fun. The story is funny and sad except the indomitable Rebecca doesn’t for a moment let you feel sorry for her. As soon as you see her pacing the rocks looking out over the ocean--a wistful, often angst-ridden position--the song turns right around and informs you that she stole a neighbor’s dog and dyed it green. And then, “and then it was bought by me.” The story has been so definitively about someone ELSE this time until suddenly SURPRISE! The twist at the end is delightful; every story we tell, every story we love, we tell it and love it because it’s about us too. And like i said, there is a quiet undercurrent of sadness and loneliness that never becomes the focal point of the song but is there giving it depth and something more to think about that facts and funny anecdotes. This song is a unique one in Taylor’s discography, and it stands up very well to that status.

exile: is my love for this song partially colored by the fact that Justin Vernon’s voice makes me swoon? Probably. The duet between him and Taylor is hair-raisingly beautiful and heartachingly melancholy. But that aside, I think the thing that first caught my attention was Taylor’s verse. The “staring honey/understudy/knuckles bloody” rhyme drives me absolutely WILD. It’s SO GOOD. It flows perfectly and poetically and honestly i transcend my body and scream with delight into the ether at those three lines every time. That is not an exaggeration. Also, “I’m not your problem anymore, so who am I offending now?” And of course the juxtaposition between “never gave a warning sign (i gave so many signs)” is this perfect description of how, to quote another, much older, lyric “miscommunication leads to fallout.” This song reminds me very much of “Story of Us.” In case you couldn’t tell from previous comments, this whole album, for me, recalls Speak Now, very strongly in many ways. I see her revisiting a lot of similar themes and stories with a more mature perspective and a different sound. Red as well, actually, but I digress.

seven: i knew from very early on that this would be my favorite song on the album. Taylor’s voice goes places I have NEVER heard before, evoking something elemental and primal. “Before I learned civility/ I used to scream ferociously/ any time I wanted.” Her forays into actual childhood in her songwriting are periodic but relatively rare, and this is unquestionably the best of the lot. Here we see children, almost too young to remember exactly what happened, but marked forever by their experiences of nature and relationships. “I can’t recall your face/ I’ve still got love for you.” This song evokes all the things that dance around the edge of your memory: faces from long ago, the feeling of flying, the fear of falling, the irresistible impulse to plant yourself on the ground and fling your existence out into the world with your voice. The need to feel safe. The references to a friend’s troubled home life are oblique: “your dad is always mad... you won’t have to cry or hide in the closet,” and the solutions are childlike: “come live with me...and be pirates,” “move to India forever.” The song is an immersive experience, charged with feelings you can’t quite express, but that you know and remember, although they are perhaps faded a bit around the edges.

#taylor swift #folklore #ts8 #phew that was way more than i intended it to be #glad i did it tho

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clonerightsagenda · 5 years ago

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Way back in 2016 once I knew how TLC was going to end, I wrote a... send-off of sorts. Like anything else postgame, this is compliant rather than canon to that ‘verse, but I thought I might as well share in the spirit of posting a lot of ancient stuff out of my Dropbox recently.

A new universe out of seed B2 finally blossoms, and Skaia gets to work. The imbalance has been removed; the proper order of things has been restored. Now the business of repairing the multiverse can begin. There are lotuses to be planted, temples to be founded, and wheels to be set in motion. Something is different – a few of the terminals are disconnected; the texture of the new world doesn’t compile the same – but the agents will take care of that. Skaia plays the long game.

It gives them a few years to settle in. Victors don’t like to be reminded of the game too soon. Some get upset, even if the game is what has raised them to their exalted state. Most are too tired or lost to object, but they had to be fighters to get this far. Better to let them grow comfortable now that the war is won. But the seeds of the next game need to be planted, so after a decade it sends the first temple meteor through.

The Witch appears in a shimmer of green fire and waggles her finger at it like it’s a naughty animal. Then she snaps her fingers, and the meteor shrinks to the size of a pebble, which she catches and squeezes in her fist. Without the temple, a whole game session that could have been fizzles and dies, taking its Veil and Reckoning with it, and the meteor itself vanishes in a puff of displaced probability.

This is not how things are supposed to go.

Sometimes heroes are uncomfortable with their universe’s inevitable future, especially if they are closely involved in the welfare of new races. The rare winners to have offspring of their own tend to be even more militant. Sentimentality can be useful in small doses. Skaia can afford to wait. It gives them a century, long enough to become familiar with death, decay, the passing of time, long enough to appreciate the need for measures to shed a dying universe and birth a new one. Then it sends a temple lotus, and they let it blossom. That’s better.

When the temple is fully grown, the Time heroes and the Page visit it, running through the halls, admiring the carvings, and calling to each other. They even leave small objects scattered around it – offerings?

Then the Maid grins wickedly, punches a button, and the temple goes up in smoke.

Next time, the Prince unsheathes a comically large katana and chops through the entire meteor, sending the two halves spiraling harmlessly into space. Skaia does not even attempt to interfere. It can’t help but let a good callback happen. His hand gesture afterward is uncalled for though.

Most players do not last long. Even those that claim godhood turn on each other or make poor choices, dissolving into nothing but scraps of legend and memory. That is best – fewer variables, no one with the power to challenge the greater good. The only ones who evade death are those who do nothing. It is part of the plan. Skaia has never encountered this before. Most heroes are too shellshocked or grateful to object, or they’re inflated in self-importance, believing the new world is their due. They don’t grasp eternity. The eventual restart of the cycle doesn’t bother them. They don’t have to play again.

But these players have taken offense. They block its attempts to seed their world, and it cannot send them carefully curated dreams on Prospit anymore to guide them in the way it wants.

Skaia has no voice, and the game guides who remain have refused to heed its commands, but it has ways of being heard. It contacts the Seer of Light. She of all people can understand thinking toward the future.

“We were charged with protecting the universe,” she says. “We’re doing our jobs.”

Can’t she sense the death throes of every genesis frog they prevent? Isn’t her vision full of the opportunities falling away? The Lord of Time no longer forces them down any one path, so broken loops wither and die, but the pain remains. There are rules, Skaia says.

The Seer’s voice turns deadly. “This is not a game.” Then she summons a cloud of void (since when do proper Light players do that?) and cuts the connection.

If Skaia could feel, it would have started to get annoyed.

The next time a meteor passes through a defense portal, Skaia knows the players cannot interfere. One does appear, but she does nothing but watch as the meteor crashes into the planet that was born in a universe long since gone.

You cannot prevent this. Skaia has not had to interact with anyone on this level in a long time. Its thoughts are rusty, long worn into established patterns. If you do, your timeline is forfeit. This loop is already done. The game must be played.

“I know,” says the player. There is something unsettling about her. “I played it.”

She wears the garb of a Muse, rarest of Classes. She hails from a session that is yet to be, but one that has already shaped her. Time is not Skaia’s domain, but this at least is simple. Then you understand, Skaia says. Are you finished with these pointless acts of defiance?

“Haven’t you noticed?” she asks, and her voice is unsettling too. “We let you have this one. But nowhere else. Nothing else. It ends here, with this session, this loop. You’re finished.”

Creation has no end.

“Of course it doesn’t. But you don’t own it all.” She spreads her arms. “Can’t you feel it? All around us?”

Worlds are dying that were never born. Worlds you prevented. Are you proud?

“We’ve helped worlds to become, too. There’s a new system. A new game. Our rules.” She frowns. “You really can’t sense them, can you? You’re as blind as he was. What was left of him, anyway, just like you’re what’s left of her.”

…

She squints, like she’s trying to look at Skaia, although of course there’s nothing to see. Skaia is everywhere and part of everything. It is used to this. Still, she should direct her attention elsewhere. “I suppose you’re not exactly her. It’s a situation more like the alpha timeline and how it was a reflection of his will. I wondered if she left a splinter of herself, like Dirk used to. Something inspired. I can’t imagine what it must have been like to grow up all alone. I know why you see them all as chess pieces. I had to learn. You never could. I wish we could teach you, but I don’t think there’s much left.” She leans forward. “Can I teach you?”

There is nothing to learn.

“I thought I should try,” she says. “Everyone deserves a chance.” She regards the planet of her birth in silence for a while and then turns away. “Goodbye,” she says. “Calliope.”

At the end of things, Skaia is there to bear witness. It does not feel sadness or satisfaction, just a knowledge of what is. All other routes have been blocked off. Its only path is through this session, a session that feeds back on others and spawns no new worlds. The chain of universes is broken.

There are victors there to watch too, although not as many as there were. Skaia does not understand this. It does not see heroism in arms spread wide, cannot grasp the dignity in being ready to be finished. It is used to sacrificing pawns when need be, but these things are beyond it.

The Heir is one of those that remain. “I don’t have a terminal,” he says, “but I don’t think I need one anymore. Your name is Calliope. You are.”

Your name is not Calliope. You are not a you. You are an it, a force, a process that cannot be questioned or challenged or changed. Aren’t you?

Then what is this you, that thinks these things?

There are memories faded and warped like files copied over one too many times. They bubble up: the years of loneliness, the crystal cave, etching visions on the clouds and sending them into people’s dreams so they’ll make what ought to happen true. All in the service of what must be, marshaling countless children torn from the ashes of dead worlds to serve your will. Expendable. Forgettable.

What have you done?

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Remembering is hard sometimes. But it’s worth it in the end.” Then he blinks away.

The Maid goes last. She watches the universe tearing itself to shreds, blank white nothingness poking through. There are few places left to be, so when she turns she is looking at you. You? Is there anything to see?

“Well,” she says, “this is it. It’s been fun. Are you ready to go yet?”

It’s hard to find words. You are an echo of someone who died a long time ago, nothing but her voice cast into the void. But a named thing is a real thing. It can choose. G… “Go?”

“To whatever’s next. I’ve shown a lot of people the way, but I’ve never gone myself. But everyone else is there, so we’d better go.” She holds out her hand, and Skaia (Calliope?) (you?) wish you could take it. In some sort of metaphysical way (and everything is metaphysical here, at the end of all sessions, as creation swallows its own tail) you do. She smiles. “You’ll see. It’ll be an adventure.”

#kat writes fic #tlcverse #and now to get ready for work

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hollenius · 4 years ago

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@exhumingmccarthy tagged me to post my current top 10 songs so uh, let’s see

“E-bow the Letter”/“Leave” -R.E.M.(been listening to these two back to back so much it’s almost like one song. Heavy car rotation when I was doing a ton of driving last weekend.)

“Sweetness Follows” - gotta get one more R.E.M. song in there, a nice depressing one. This is heavy stuff! Mike and Bill aren’t even on this recording because it’s basically just Peter’s demo...plus a cello. And some more feedback, presumably, because it is Peter, but he does play very musical feedback.

“The Sun Whose Rays Are All Ablaze” - Gilbert & Sullivan, from The Mikado. This song was really forgettable to me for a really long time; I was probably 8 or 9 when I first saw a production of The Mikado, and as a child, I was much more interested in the comedy than the pretty songs. And this song, the lyrics are sort of mocking the egomania of the singer in the operetta in context, but if you’ve ever seen the film Topsy-Turvy, the setting really changes the context, and the beauty of the music shines through and hits you (I hate this phrase!) “right in the feels”. And the lyrics suddenly become very sad. I dunno. Go watch the movie, but if you don’t have three hours, at least watch the scene.

“Changes” - Phil Ochs. Speaking of emotional stuff, man, this is the only song that ever made me cry at a rock show, and it was at a birthday concert for a friend of mine who died earlier this year and who I just went to a memorial for via Zoom recently. I hate that Phil’s political stuff gets all the attention because it’s really the inferior stuff from a musical perspective, as political stuff almost always is.

“Waterloo Sunset” - the Kinks. If this isn’t a perfect song, I don’t know what is. Ray Davies comes across as such a piece of work, and his last couple solo albums revealed his muse has long since left him, but man, that high water mark of the Kinks between 1966 and 1972 or so has some beautiful stuff. I’m just devolving into sappy sentimental favorites; I’ll try to get back into some recent stuff.

“Alone Again Or” - Love, sorry, I keep putting 60s stuff in here because it’s great; I’ll try to put in something more recent

“Gun” - John Cale, right, this isn’t that much more recent but it’s a total jam

“Domino Dancing” - Pet Shop Boys, shhh, my not so guilty pleasure. Had a singles comp of theirs on in the car while on a 5 hour drive last Monday. Good stuff to keep you awake.

“Jump Rope Gazers” - the Beths, I don’t know what this song or album title means, but there is something sweet and nostalgic-feeling about it. I haven’t sat down to look at the lyrics though, because I am famous for not doing that...

Uhhh, I think that was ten. This is a mess. Should’ve consulted my last.fm or something instead of my head.

#meme #music

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too-lit-for-fanfic · 4 years ago

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The Dead Don’t Die; A Review. (Spoilers - it was shit a disappointment)

Hey guys! It’s Roen, one of the owners of this account! I’ve just watched ‘The Dead Don’t Die’, directed by Jim Jarmusch and honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever been more disappointed in a film for a long time, and that’s saying something. The star-studded cast was completely wasted, the talented likes of Adam Driver, Bill Murray and Steve Buscemi have some enjoyable scenes, though they were few and far between, and at the best of times barely raised a smile to my face.

Let’s start on a high note, the cops. Genuinely stole the show for me. Driver and Bill Murray? Yes please. They worked so well off each other and the chemistry was really good. The dynamics between their two characters was very refreshing as well, unlike the same bland emotionless voids everyone else (aside from Buscemi) appeared to be. Loved the little nod to Star Wars, the red car scene was probably the best in the movie, actually enjoyable to watch the two with their bits of banter, actually believable characters. Just get rid of the female cop, I’m all for diversity and inclusion, but again; she added nothing to any of the scenes she was in and had little to no chemistry with the other cast. You can’t have the entire set of characters acting nonchalant and then have one just fucking bawling their eyes out all the time. Got annoying real fast. The romance between the female cop and Ronnie (Driver) was not believable at all to me. I think they were aiming for a relationship like Tim and Dawn from the UK The Office but it fell so short. Not a fault of either actor, they did the best they could with the material given, however it just seemed like a pointless side piece left out to dry in the sun for too long.

Steve Buscemi, aka Farmer Miller was probably the best consistent character. I am a massive fan of a Buscemi so that probably has something to do why I liked his performance so much but i believe the little bit of *flavour* to his voice, the passion, the anger, just made the character stand out so much more from the rest. I would have loved to have seen more of his character, he only had like three scenes which was a massive injustice. I feel as if the framing/filming of the movie could have been done so much better than it was. It may just be the directors style but it felt as if there were so many pointless scenes, like the extended amount of silence in the car with the three fucking hippies that amounted to absolutely no character development that didn’t even fucking matter because they died practically the very next scene. It was just so infuriating how so much screen time was wasted on insignificant details (like any scene with the alien, the unneeded bonding between Bill nd the delivery man, the extra bit of the two diner workers just chit chatting, the hippy trio section) when it could have been spent on actually interesting characters like Miller. Also, that hat was comedy gold.

The homeless dude pissed me off to no end. What even was his purpose? He was like some bootleg token The Lorax, wandering about the woods high off of mushrooms commenting on the capitalist ideology of the townsfolk. Did he offer anything to the plot? No. Was he interesting in the least?!for the first five minutes. Could he be removed form the story by a disembodied Martin Freeman voice? Absolutely. I don’t know if this is just the directors style but what the fuck. The last bit on phones and technology and capitalism was such a slap in the face to the audience. Propaganda. Like okay, we’ve payed to sit here and wasted over an hour of our lives to watch one of the most disappointing movies recently released, with fucking Scottish aliens, even though it was marketed as a zombie movie, to be lectured on the usage of technology? Fuck off. Pick a genre and stick to it. So much valuable screen time wasted. I think the problem with this movie in particular was, there was such an abundant cast that the movie couldn’t really spend that much time on any of them, not allowing itself to develop their characters or for the audience to form an actual bond with them. If you are to do this with such a large cast some groups must eventually merge in order to provide a semi coherent story. A big downfall on the directors behalf.

I don’t really have much to say about Bill or Hank. They were okay, bu weren’t given enough screen time for me to actually care about them dying. Their characters needed some more spicing up. I’m not dissing the actors for this though, they matched the tone of the movie very well, some things are just irreparable. Could have been done better, could’ve been done worse. The beginning scene with the delivery man and Bill was unnecessary and devoured valuable screen time, so did the awkward as hell interaction between him and the Selena Gomez character.

I don’t even know who the three teen actors were. I’m not throwing shade, but for such a star studded cast i would of thought all man members would have some notoriety. Maybe they do, please correct me if I’m wrong, I just didn’t recognise them form anything I’d seen. Their acting was alright but the few scenes they had were just so pointless. They added nothing to the story and didn’t influence the plot in anyway; at least the Scottish alien lady inadvertently got the two main characters killed, that was something. Was this part of the political propaganda the film was trying to push? If so it went completely over my head unlike all the other in your face narration. Ate up valuable screen time that could of been spent developing far more interesting characters. What even happened to them anyway? The just sort of ran off screen and that was the last we saw of them. Maybe the director forgot about that side plot, I don’t blame him, they were just as forgettable to the audience.

Don’t even get me started on the fucking.. i don’t even know- Scottish Alien?? I thought this was a zombie movie but okay. She’s literally the token badass that just fucks off in a spaceship after ultimately leading the main characters (the cops) to their death by requesting they meet her there for no apparent reason than to flex she can be free and they can’t. Honestly, personally I think this was just an excuse to subvert expectations and throw a curve ball in there for the audience. I’m sorry but just because something’s shocking or doesn’t necessarily fit doesn’t mean it’s going to wow audiences, plot twists have to make sense. If they don’t it’s just bad writing and incoherent story telling. It was worse than the *subverdion* of Game of Thrones.

Overall it was such a waisted potential and an actual chore to get through. Would not recommend, at all. If you like this film I’m genuinely happy for you and glad you’ve found something else to enjoy. However, I feel that this is the long awaited final nail in the coffin for zombie movies (which is a shame because I love the likes of Shaun of the Dead). No matter how talented the cast, and by-god did they try to make the script work, if you have lousy material and a dead story there’s only so much they can do. As a Brit, however, I do feel it may be partially down to personal preference (although the shady plot and general inconsistencies are universal) particularly in relation to the comedy. Not to be insulting but I think I was expecting more witty/intelligent humour akin to Blacladder of Shaun of the dead, the contrast with the laconic style just really didn’t do it for me. Don’t think I laughed once apart from that red car scene. However if you enjoy that type of humour good on you, it’s just it something I connect with very well.

REVIEW ENDS HERE, BELOW IS MY INTERPRETATION OF EVENTS.

‘Oh it’s easy to throw criticism, I beg you couldn’t have done any better.’ Is an argument I am anticipating, so let me pitch to you my possible plot for the movie. First of all, get rid of the three juveniles in that delinquent-prison - seriously, what the fuck was their purpose in this film? Offered nothing to drive the plot forward, didn’t effect the story, had no even slightly funny scene - and replace their screen time with the buddy-cop-duo of Adam Driver/Ronnie and Bill Murray/Cliff. Just get rid of the female cop, the chemistry was better without her input. Bill and Hank? Had potential but I think they should’ve partnered up with Steve Buscemi’s character Miller to form an unlikely passive aggressive, comedy gold, getting by on the scrape of their teeth, trio. The homeless man, again, had potential. Instead of having him as some fucking narrator with a sociology degree I would have placed him along with the Billy-Hank-Miller trio. There could have been some great scenes filled with tension between Miller and him. Out of town hippy trio? Still a thing, but for two scenes max.

Now that the playing field has been set let’s get into my rendition of the story. We start off in the diner with Harry and Frank watching the news and having some not so friendly banter. Insults based on race, lifestyle and beliefs are thrown (the hat, which was hilarious, stays) to establish character dynamics. Scene ends with Frank/Buscemi leaving the diner as the theme tune begins to play. Cut to Ronnie and Cliff stood in a cell looking over the dead woman, Ronnie’s flippancy should remain whilst Cliff should behave like a much more real human, this adds a conflict of character that the movie only briefly explored. The two are in the midst of passive aggressively talking to one another over the body - Ronnie forgot to call the people to collect it - as a client steps into the station. Cliff engages in conversation with the client who is informing him of Miller/Buscemi and Homeless dude getting into a fight on Miller’s driveway. In the background, Ronnie, in an attempt to hide the dead body, drags it off into the background, horribly failing at subtlety.

Once the client is gone the body is placed in the receptionists chair, to ‘make it look like they got around to hiring that new member of staff’ and the duo drive to the scuffle. In the car they briefly chat about the scientific events occurring with the theme playing in the background, develops the world they’re in and further establishes their dynamics and relationship. Once they arrive Miller and Homeless dude are close to throwing hands, Miller with one chicken in his arm and a shot gun in the other and homeless dude with a skinned animal in his. Ultimate cop duo extinguish the scene with jokes thrown in, homeless dude just fucking slaps Miller with the skinned rabbit, Miller nearly shoots him, that hat gets briefly confiscated by Cliff. Scene ends with the four parting ways, cops in the car, Miller up to his house in search of the rest of his chickens and homeless dude off into the wilderness.

Diner deaths happen, but the lady screaming with the mop is considerably shortened. The following scene with cops pretty much stays the same, except the female officer is no longer present. That tiny red car for the absolute tank that is Adam Driver? Absolute gold we are keeping that. Homeless dude, who had seen the dead the night before absolutely fucking recks the crime scene losing his shit trying the convince Cliff. Ronnies already on board but must maintain the law. Homeless bro gets detained by Ronnie but manages to run off with only one hand cuffed. Immediate cut to Hank talking with Billy about weapons and zombies yada yada yada except this time he’s actually a traumatised old man. As Billy goes on a tangent about zombies I imagine Hank to be like ‘Moose’ played by the old guy in Jumaji: the next level. Completely gormless but hanging off of every word.

Scene at motel happens, along with the amazing line ‘fuck farmer Miller’ delivered perfectly by Murray.

Skip to night time; cop buddy duo set out on the town with a load of guns and other assorted weapons they managed to scrounge up, their mission is to keep the poeple of the town safe, do they succeed? No. Cliff accidentally drives someone over believing them to be a zombie. At the same time Miller, absolutely fuming about his chickens, is off in the woods behind the store Billy and Hank are camping out in in order to catch the homeless dude in the act of skinning a chicken. Billy and Hank have completely boarded up the front door but unlike in the film, they realise there’s a back door because Miller comes bursting through searching for another shot gun, the undead right on his trial. The trio officially buddy up, gather weapons and set off into the woods, absolutely shit but sumultaneously amazing fight scene ensues as they make their way out of the town.

Our unfortunate trio stumble across homeless guy literally eating one of Millers chickens in the woods. Miller tries to shoot him but is stopped. Banter is tossed, a mini argument happens, everyone has some chicken (Miller begrudgingly). We cut bsck to the cops who now discover the hippy trio dead at the motel, that scene is the same. Cutting back; At the prospect of teaming up Miller throws his chicken away and stomps off into the woods, Billy and Hank following. Homeless dude chases them and attaches himself with the one free hand cuff to Miller. He now has to come.

At some point Cliff absolutely totals the car, I’m not against keeping the zombies in wheels scene. And the two cops are backed into the graveyard. The amazing four are already there struggling to survive. Miller and homeless man keep trying to run in different directions and falling over, Frank has no idea what to do with a pair of branch cutters, Billy is far too happy to be able to finally use his vintage sword that turns out to be pretty shit in the end. Fight scene ensues.

Miller and homeless dude are the first to go, they couldn’t get along if their lives depended on it, which it did. The group scramble and in the process the pair can’t make up their minds. They die arguing. Something along the lines of ‘thank god for that’ but funnier is said by someone idk who. The next to go is Billy. His flimsy sword actually brakes and he’s left weaponless. Hank goes next, he’s been bit and Murray has to shoot him. I picture the scene from Shaun of the Dead, with Ronnie telling Cliff he has to shoot him.

The final scene is when Cliff and Ronnie finally reach another town, beaten up and evidently bruised. The only problem is, the towns already been overrun. The two share one last exasperated look before they charge in to battle, the screen fading to black as the theme song plays. Akin to the ending of Balckadder season 4 But less emotional.

(I know it’s not perfect but by god it’s not any worse than the actual fucking film. If anyone else has any thoughts or ways they think the story should have progressed please message me! I’d love to hear what you guys think!)

#bill murray #steve buscemi #selena gomez #the dead dont die #jim jarmusch #the dead don’t die movie #the dead don’t die #tilda swinton #tom waits #danny glover #ronnie #caleb landry jones #adam driver

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aotopmha · 5 years ago

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Attack On Titan Chapter 119 Thoughts

The shoe or rather, the head, finally dropped!

All that character building was great, but a bunch of it felt a little redundant and headless to me at this point.

Didn't think Eren's character would head in that direction, specifically, though.

All that said, I think out of all the aspects of the chapter, I think I value the characterization the most.

I never cared too much for Porco or Colt, Porco is just kind of fine to me, sort of being to Reiner what Jean is to Eren, except simpler and Colt is just sort of forgettable, but I think they got the best ends you could give them.

Porco trying to one-up Reiner even as he sacrifices himself and Colt just holding on to Falco to stay with him and protect him till the end were both good, impactful moments for the level of importance and time their characters were given as side characters. Killing Reiner would’ve felt anti-climactic even with him constantly surviving (or at this point even because of him constantly surviving because it sets the audience expectation that the story clearly has something planned for him), so I think this is the best compromise to have Falco turn into a Titan, which is also clearly part of the gameplan and for another purpose later on (part of me feels like it’s to free Annie).

Maybe Colt could've tried to run away, but as it was, he probably would've been killed by Falco's transformation anyway and in the end he chose to be with his brother till the end, what in his perception was for the purpose of protecting him.

I also really like the continued nuanced characterization of Zeke here.

He doesn't want to turn Falco into a Titan, but waiting in that situation is just not possible without some sort of possible interference to his plan from either side due to it all happening in the middle of a battle.

He also clearly at least seems to care about Eren as we see from his reaction at the end of the chapter and when we take the context into account.

He continues to be fleshed out. He is extremely horrible in a general sense, killing his opponents in extremely cruel ways and aiming to steal their freedom from them, but his one human character trait is having at least some compassion towards the people he interacts with and has connections with - Eren, his other father figure in Xaver and all the warrior candidates (as he actually directs Falco to eat Reiner).

The moment of him saying sorry to Colt actually reminds me of another moment with a bearded character from earlier on in the story:

(Chapter 10)

Anyone remember Kitz Weilman? I remember Kitz Weilman being actually one of the earliest disliked characters because of him not having any perspective or not listening at all. Despite what anyone said, he was set in his ways and went through with shooting Eren, Mikasa and Armin anyway and was only stopped by Pixis the next time.

I guess Zeke and Kitz share that much in common. They are sure about just what exactly they want to do and fiercely stick by it even if they are given "good" reasons not to do what they have in mind.

As opposed to fear, Zeke is just motivated by his plan all the way and has some ability to compromise: as said, he sends Falco to eat Reiner.

It's a strange as hell and random similarity, but a good expression of tunnel vision that happens when someone is so strongly stuck in their goals they have set in their head beyond any reason.

Eren, Erwin, Reiner and Gabi are all notable examples that have a version of this, too, that keeps driving them forward in various ways in different stages of their lives and from which also their character arcs build out of.

Having tunnel vision is a big character flaw a large portion of the characters in the story have, even, in some shape or form.

Mikasa and Armin have it in it’s own form, too, for example. Mikasa grows to see and care about the bigger picture beyond caring about those she loves and Armin only sees the bad things in himself at first.

It's a huge thematic part of the story, so, of course, Eren's and Zeke's potentially single-minded plan full of possible tunnel vision and a lot of potential danger to the world gets stopped by Gabi, who just finished her arc (or at least got some growth and somewhat of a resoluition for now) of learning to see the world in a more complex light.

We don't really know if either the 104th assisting Eren or Gabi shooting him were the best choices because Eren's goals are unclear, but there was a possibility bad things could go down, so as of what we know now of this chapter, Gabi shooting him might’ve been good.

Eren also kind of had it coming with all the dickish stuff he has pulled in the recent story. If nothing else, I think it was appropriate karma.

I also feel like he's definitely not dead. If he were, all these chapters of developing him and building up what his actual goals are would be pointless.

I think he probably could end up transfering his conciousness, seeing Ymir (maybe those two together) or (which is to me less likely because we really don’t seem to have any indication of doing it) using the War Hammer Titan powers and having a copy of himself somewhere - it feels like the perfect time for something like that and having something important relayed through that. The only thing that would make the regeneration stuff tricky is that Eren probably needs time to regenerate and just like with Zeke's scream, this might be tough because of the battle going on.

In terms of Eren, I also liked his little "wait" moment - as seen from some other moments like him not wanting to pass down his Titan, I think he clearly seems to care in some ways at least, the question is just how specifically.

Aside from all that, Pixis and Nile get turned into Titans. I've always liked Nile because he was sort of a "reasonable" antagonist in the sense that his criticisms of the SL always had logical basis and were understandable. They killed and put civilians in danger. They did have reason to suspect Eren and Mikasa.

(Chapter 19. This is not a Nile m oment specifically, but is another great foreshadowing detail in hindsight and I will always like how balanced and reasonable the courtroom moment as a whole was. It wasn’t just opposing the SL for no reason, it had various nuances to it, both, antagonistic and reasonable.)

Pixis is sort of alright, I guess, my only real attachment to him is that I remember the shitty war criminal he's based off of because people can't shut up about how supportive of fascism and racism the story is. I guess in that sense, he also had it coming.

There are sort of some continuity leaps and mistakes in the chapter, too. Pieck sort of just gets back into action without us seeing her transformation. Eren still has his clothes intact. Pixis is on a horse in one moment and sitting down drinking in another. Gabi can ride a horse.

I hear it's because about half the chapter was completed in two days, but I don't think these are too big of a deal. They just ask us to fill in the gaps based on context.

Small stuff like the clothes thing happens here and there. Gabi could’ve learned basic riding skills during her stay with the Braus family at their stables. I don't think it's a stretch for Pieck to remain in action (though her transforming again-off screen and Magath reloading are probably the two biggest stretches) and it really matters whether Pixis transforms on his horse or not - he’s probably leaning on that building for cover from the enemy.

I feel like at least some of these are pretty easily fixed and will either be fixed in the volume release with extra pages or some alternations or at the very least in the anime.

Finally, Gabi is just so wonderfully competent and I don't think she shot Eren because of specifically her hatred for the wall people, but because her goal and orders were to take out Eren (these were the orders and goal for all the Marleyans). She's grown to be one of my favorite characters because of her character arc and very well-defined personality. Everything she does makes sense from her character’s perspective, she has understandable positive and negative traits, even if she hurts your faves. I think she's great.

One problem with female characters I see around is that they're often either not allowed to be wrong at all or are wrong all the time, but I think Gabi is such a well-balanced character in terms of that.

As said before, I thought this chapter was great overall for all the character stuff, the head finally dropped and I'm looking forward to what's coming next!

#Attack On Titan #Shingeki No Kyojin #AoT 119 #SnK 119 #Chapter 119 #AoT #SnK

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