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rosheendubh · 5 hours ago

Text

Tragically Defined...

https://archiveofourown.org/works/62362927

Tragically Defined

SomberDendrite

Summary:

An excerpt extracted from part of a larger, emerging concept of Space Rock Opera Spoof, borrowing shameless, and with total copyright infringement, from all generas, all at once, and everywhere. Ain't nothin' sacred... Anyway, stereotypical magic-girl, who suffers from abduction syndrome, and has every supernatural power ever, overcomes stereotypical trauma events, waves magic fairy rainbows, can zap mosquitos by fluttering her fluorescent eye lashes, subsists off dewdrops, and farts butterflies, is so Mary Sue awesome, that every hero and villain falls in love with her. Even Thrawn. 'nuff said...if you like it, cheerio. IF not, move on...leave comments or not...

Notes:

Notes and Song Inspire at end-basically, the title comes from the CruxShadows’, ‘Angelus Everlasting’… “…Both in science and history We express what we know But it's a guess, I confess Educated at best And the truth is tomorrow You must first undergo You cannot claim godhood To know the unknown In yourself a definition that no other can see Right and wrong are separated by a few degrees So your knowledge is strength But it's not absolute You must open your mind To the beautiful truth…” ~~~

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

Tragically Defined...

Flickering ceiling lights cast a sickly yellow pallor over the huddled figures in the waiting area. The reek of antiseptic did little to mask the rotting miasma of sickness, a noxious aroma that stung Rhyanon's nostrils, and permeated the lower-level Coruscant clinic. She navigated through the press of a hundred alien bodies. IT-7, her medical droid, hovering at her side, optical sensors scanning the room, cataloguing various ailments. Endemic misery had long smothered all hope from the festering warrens of Coruscant's underbelly. And the reluctant elite could only be dragged down here from their glittering spires above by Imperial decree.

IT-7 bleeped, disrupting Rhyanon's reflections. A Rodian's skin, mottled and pulsing a sickly green from a fungal infection, snagged her attention. A hulking Gamorrean, tusks cracked and oozing, whimpered, his pained cries those of a child. A human woman, gaunt and hardened, cradled a feverish infant, its skin burning to the touch. Rhyanon treated them all. She dispensed medications and offered quiet words of comfort, her hands moving with practiced ease. But her heart churned. The uncertainty of Thrawn's promise gnawed at her, of unrestricted access to these forgotten levels with only IT-7 as her chaperone. A test of loyalty? A demonstration of power?

Hours later, after the last patient had been seen, she navigated the grimy cityscape towards Thrawn's residence. It was a monolithic structure of polished durasteel and tinted transpariplate windows, looming over its surroundings like a predator. The ceaseless grind of stratospheric lifts, speeder traffic, and the distant wail of sirens, served as a constant reminder of the ecumenopolis beyond its imposing halls. The air, blessedly cool and still, without the contaminants of the lower-city's stagnancy, felt alien after the clinic. She sought refuge in the training dojo, a spartan space of smooth floors and reflective glass walls.

Rhyanon gradually moved through rehearsed battle-forms, each motion delivered with flowing precision, but memories still rose, crowding her mind. *The night before...,* a sharp ache in her lower belly, a carnal possession, bruised flesh, a reminder of violated trust. She shifted into defensive postures, elbows and knees striking out. The image of Geis shattered the dojo's calm. *Her sister's face, contorted in agony, tears seeping from the vacant stare of her lifeless eyes. The Reavers, grotesque nightmares, their hands stained crimson.* Holding two fighting sticks, she cut the air in rapid sweeps. Her blows, beating back the phantoms where he had branded her wrists and thighs. An electro-staff, drawn with a snap-hiss. Its energy field crackled, a low static that mirrored the tremble in her hands. *Thrawn's iron control shattered, replaced by something feral, that had used her, taken her, left her raw and bleeding.* The staff became a whirlwind, a vortex of controlled fury. *A game, the Emperor's game. And she, the pawn, her sister the sacrifice.* Rhyanon stilled, completing the last of the session with a pounding heart, perspiration beaded along her forehead, dripping between her shoulder blades. Her raging breaths filled the otherwise silent training chamber, where the maelstrom of her thoughts still seemed far too loud.

A summons arrived, not from the usual alien staff, but from a female Twi'lek. Her green skin was flawless, her lekku swaying gently as she moved. Rhyanon recognized her from the clinic earlier that day. She had come in with a fretful toddler, his tiny lekku inflamed. Rhyanon had provided his mother with the anti-infective she otherwise couldn't afford.

"Thank you," the Twi'lek said, her Basic tinged with a musical lilt. "For helping my son. Few venture to the lower levels. Fewer still treat us as people."

Rhyanon inclined her head, a gesture that felt inadequate. "It's my duty," she murmured, the words hollow.

The Twi'lek's dark, gentle eyes, held an unsettling insight. "Grand Admiral Thrawn requests your presence at dinner. He understands you may have other obligations, but wishes you to know the decision is yours."

The invite was a summons disguised as a request. The Twi'lek's tone, her posture, made it clear that declining was unthinkable. A subtle display of power, a reminder of the web binding them all to Thrawn. Rhyanon considered it in silence, broken only by the residence's churning atmospheric cyclers. Sensing Rhyanon's unease, the Twi'lek ventured a tentative suggestion. 'He might find some comfort in seeing you tonight. He seems...troubled."

"As opposed to what? His usual of ebullience?" Rhyanon snapped. The Twi'lek's lekku twitched, her expression tightening, inducing Rhyanon's subsequent regret for her outburst. "It's fine," she said, her voice flat. "Just let me clean up, and I'll be available presently."

The Twi'lek nodded, a brief smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. She led Rhyanon to her chambers. A gown and an array of hair ornaments had been laid out. Jewels for her throat, ears, and upper arms glittered under the soft lighting. When she emerged, her appearance drew collective gasps from the assembled servants lining the corridor, their eyes wide with a mixture of admiration and fear.

Rhyanon entered the hall with the measured strides of a dancer, the diaphanous splendor of sorn-silk molding about her supple curves. The garment's rich amethyst swathes shimmered like an iridescent stone. Thin straps left her shoulders and arms bare, her skin almost alabaster in the dim light. A slim silver chain circled her waist, a subtle reminder of her status: a captive adorned for her captor. Her damp, moon-pale hair was braided, cascading over one shoulder, blood rubies and sea-ebonies woven into the strands. Matching ear-bobs swayed gently, catching the light. A slender, sea-pearl circlet graced her throat, and serpentine bracelets coiled around each slender upper arm.

She schooled her face to serenity, her ice-blue gaze fixed on the rhythmic sway of her Twi'lek escort's lekku as they moved through an outdoor arcade. The sounds of the city were muffled and distant. The path wound through towering Wroshyr trees whose long shadows stretched in the artificial twilight, toward a a meticulously crafted oasis that defied the sterile, urban landscape. An inner-courtyard garden, a bioluminscent sanctuary dedicated to nocturnal flora and fauna. Assorted shrubs, trees, and flowers flourished under the cloak of darkness, their petals unfurling in a silent, ethereal ballet. Insects like living jewels, and avian creatures with starlight plumage, flitted through the air, lacing patterns of light against the velvet night.

Rhyanon gasped, composure momentarily faltering. Slowly, she turned, ensnared by the marvel of the garden. The walls surrounding the courtyard were constructed to resemble a tumbling mountainside, descending into a vale. A small stream, alive with glowing, darting fish, crawled its way through the scene, the water's surface rippling with glittering sky-midges. The tinkling waters spilled toward a fountain-pool in the middle of the glade, surrounded by a bounty of floral species from planets beyond number. And rising from the center of the pool’s placid, dark surface, stood a magnificent Orga tree. A living relic recalling the first night she'd met Thrawn. Back then, it had been a pathetic cluster of dried twigs. Now, its luminescent branches reached towards the artificial sky like supplicating arms, a lush tapestry of gleaming leaves and heavy, fragrant blossoms.

Beneath the Orga tree's canopy, sat Thrawn, on the fountain's edge, a smudge of white against the gloom, garbed in the impeccable uniform of his new rank. Grand Admiral. His back was to her. Having heard her astonishment, he angled himself in her direction. He didn't rise, but inclined his head, a slight motion conveying an absolute authority, as though he could compel the very air around him to his bidding. His eyes, like chips of polished garnet, fell on her. Anxiety constricted her ribs, but Rhyanon schooled her features to practiced placidity.

He nodded once toward the Orga tree. "Impressive, isn't it?" he said, his voice, slicing the silence like glass slivers through smoke, ominous and alluring. "Your touch, Yhana. It lingers."

She bowed her head, a small, noncommittal gesture. "It was nearly dead when we first met."

"And now?" He turned towards her fully, his crimson gaze unreadable. "Is it merely alive? Or something more?"

She stepped closer to the Orga tree, the lithe lines of face and form vivid in the glow cast on her features. "Life finds a way. Even in the most sterile of environments."

"Indeed. Evolution. Adaptation. All things you understand intimately, wouldn't you say?" he replied, musing on her words, the banked coals of his eyes scouring her.

She lifted her chin to him, her gaze, cold as ice. "I understand the will to survive, Grand Admiral. As do you."

A smile ghosted over Thrawn's lips. "Astute as always, Yhana. Even last night, after the throes of...passion." He paused, seeing her wince. She felt the weight of understanding in his gaze. Thrawn, different last night, his iron control shattered. Palpatine, unable to read Thrawn through the Force, had devised last night's encounter. Seeking any glimpse of sedition strewn through the protean genius of his pet admiral.

"It seems you were right about Palpatine's machinations, after all," his features tensing as he spoke. Perhaps recalling how she had fought him through every moment of that macabre dance.

"The Unknown Regions," she said, her tone clipped. "A inconvenient censure. Especially on the eve of the Empire's final push."

"The Emperor's plans are not always transparent. Even to me." He paused. "I considered questioning the assignment. Briefly."

"But you didn't." A prime military leader sojourning, like a scavenger, in his command ship beyond the edges of Imperial territory. The obvious political slight would have left most officers of his rank fuming.

"Discretion, Yhana," he said softly, "is sometimes the better part of valor. Even for a Grand Admiral."

"Two weeks," she whispered, her gaze drifting towards the Orga tree's brilliance. The words belied the horrors playing out in her mind. "The blood under my nails, matted in my hair. It was two weeks before I'd realized it was my sister's. The Emperor made me forget all of that."

Uncertainty held them speechless for a few moments, Thrawn's expression shadowed. He had an unnerving ability to sense the currents beneath the surface. She refused to make this easy for him, as he reached for his next words, in a rare lapse of awkwardness.

To which, he reacted, predictably, by retreating to the cerebral. "Loyalty,” he posited, voice imbued with irony, “never questioned, yet always tested."

Rhyanon turned to him, eyes flashing. "Fragile. Easily broken," she challenged.

"And yet," he continued, his gaze unwavering, "the greatest betrayals come not from enemies, but from those we trust."

"Or those who claim to protect us," she countered, a hint of bitterness in her voice.

He inclined his head. "The Emperor sees what he wishes to see. And uses whatever tools are at his disposal."

"Including us?"

A flicker of regret crossed his crimson eyes. "We are all instruments, Yhana," he said softly. "In the hands of fate. In the hands of the powerful. Do we choose our own music? Or simply dance to the tune played for us?"

A pained laugh, a despondent shake of her head, sharpened her words. "How metaphoric of you. I imagine my patients wonder who stiffed them with their selection of tunes." She turned from him, staring hard into the sparkle of winged insects flitting amid the waters and flowers of the fountain.

"I imagine so. You do good work. I wouldn't dream of impeding such essential service," he replied equitably, drawing another fierce glare from her. "Regardless," Thrawn continued, keeping his tone bland, "If Nuso Esva is anywhere, it's in the Unknown Regions. And Tyber Zann with him, not including whatever factions are supporting them." The names caught Rhyanon off-guard, a manifestation of the galaxy's shifting political chaos. A tainted favor of sorts, determined by Thrawn from the ghosts of her memories, having given her the viable targets of her vengeance. Someday, making the perpetrators of Geis pay for the horrors committed. For her abduction. For her sister's death.

Sensing her anger, he tried easing it, gesturing to the garden around them. The vibrant, teeming life. "Tell me," Thrawn probed, his voice low, "does this please you?"

"It's extraordinary," she admitted, letting carefully orchestrated beauty surrounding them temporarily soothe her resentment. "But still, life under glass." She ignored his low, considering hum, humoring her critique.

She stepped around the pool, drawn to the Orga tree. Bioluminescent mycelia ran in pulsing sapphire veins along its trunk and branches, plaited by delicate fronds, trailing in scintillating cascades into the water. A soft gasp escaped her lips when a nebulous geyser of light erupted from the top branches into a blazing spectacle.

"I thought the flames were just a projection," she exclaimed, in wonder, as strands of shimmering mist spun out from the Orga tree's blossoms, coalescing around her. Glitterbugs and nymphadoptera swarmed through the tendrils of scarlet light that wound about her arms, over her form, a twinkling, primatic halo drawn to her energy.

"What is this place?" she asked, breathless. Living fire plumed from her palms, intermingling with the sparkling insects

Thrawn's crimson eyes, reflecting the garden's kaleidoscope, absorbed her wonder. "A retreat," he said softly. "A refuge. A sanctuary. A homage to the worlds I've lost—“ his voice dropping. A peculiar shyness she found unsettling. “A place of worship. How did that tale end?” his next question, unexpectedly dredging the past. "The one you told, the first night I’d requested your company?"

"Of Blodeuwedd. The Lady of Flowers?" she replied, distant, captivated by the spectrum of currents spiraling about her. “Why, she fled from her maker, Gwydion ap Don.” From her extended hands, forms resolved between her palms, like miniature organic galaxies. Continuing her narration-“A woman, sown of blossoms, who left a track of stars across the heavens. The path of her freedom, my ancestors called the Milky Way." The ancient myth resonated with her own yearning for autonomy.

Oblivious to Thrawn’s presence in that moment, she traced the lifecycle of the glitterbugs. "They lay their eggs within the Orga fruit," she explained, intrigued, “a symbiotic relationship. Each relies on the other."

"The effect," Thrawn added, his voice a low rumble, "produced by spores, pollen dust, the release of water vapor. It stimulates the bioluminescence of the winged fauna, and the mycelia sprouting along the tree bark." He paused, fascinated by the subtle energies she summoned. Then-"I've never seen a closer embodiment of the Red Flame.”

"Spare me," she teased, trying with levity, to breach the rapture of his voice, the intensity of his gaze. "I thought lectures on obscure iconography were off the agenda. For tonight, at least."

"No lecture," he assured with a wry look, familiar with her impatience when engaging his cultural fetishes. "Just an ancient belief. An imparted philosophy. The Red Flame. Cunning, courage, discipline, and preparedness. The culmination of an elevated mind and body in perfect harmony with the universe.” He stood and approached, stopping just before her, amid the swirling strands of light. “Beauty." The last poignant word, snaring her with its magnetism.

Reaching out, his palms hovered in the glowing nimbus just above hers, a silent offering. "Ever since my brother's death," he began, voice strained by old grief, "I dreamt of climbing a great ladder into the heavens, trying to carry him, you, my crew... even my enemies. Trying not to leave anyone behind, reaching for the stars but still flailing, falling. Like he died, I imagine, crashing in that colony ship. I haven't had that dream for years," he confessed. "Until last night."

"That was the memory Palpatine dragged from you?" Rhyanon asked hesitantly. What he suffered upon her, even if it had been at the Emperor's impetus, still left humiliation stinging like a fresh cut.

A flicker of something cold and hard touched his crimson eyes. "No. All Chiss learn to fortify against telepathic intrusion. A precaution, should one fall into enemy hands." He paused, his gaze locking with hers. "It was you. Whatever opened between us during our—" a rough catch in his voice, "—initial encounter." Thrawn reached toward her, hands passing through phosphoric mists that parted like fog. His long and elegant fingers folded with hers before she could retreat away. Rhyanon’s gestures slowed, stilled within his gentle grasp. The small, amorphous clouds of light stayed floating, swirling, between their palms. His mesmerizing, silken whisper filling the tranquil garden. "My people speak of a prophecy. So old, some scholars say it dated from before the Primordial Migration off Riy'a'silva, long before Csilla's Ice Age. Of a girl who sacrificed herself to flame, bringing light and warmth to her kin. She rose from the ashes of her pyre, awakening the sun and stars with the First Dawn. And left behind an eternal ember hidden away in time and space before fleeing into a distant sun, mounted upon a Thunder Hawk."

HIs gaze was a bloody sunset, searing her soul. "The Red Flame was her oath of protection against evil. A promise of rebirth, in the form of a woman who would appear in a time of great darkness. Bringing justice. Commanding the secrets of elemental life."

His conviction left her bewildered. "That seems an impossible feat for anyone. In one lifetime—or a thousand," her remark, couched in a brittle, humorless laugh.

"An aspiration, then," he allowed, amused by her attempted deflection. “Serving through one’s lifetime, or—“ the allusion to the prophecy not lost on either of them, “—a thousand lifetimes."

"Thrawn," she whispered, a fragile protest, as he closed the small distance between them. "Please, I—" gasping, breath swallowed by the sudden press of his mouth on hers. A kiss that left her reeling, both question and conquest at once.

"You are amber and silver and starlight to my sight," he murmured in Cheunh, against her. "Fleeting dawn and fleeing dusk...ephemeral, Rhyanon." The words echoed in her mind with longing. *Let me bathe of your essence.*

Caught in the whirlwind of his emotions, the sheer force of his will, Rhyanon surrendered. Her fingers tangling in the midnight strands of his hair, her body molded against him. The vibrant currents flowing from her hands pulsed, swirling around them. She felt his heartbeat, a counterpoint to her own, the rush of his blood, a mirror of the heat that coursed through her veins.

A low groan vibrated through his chest as he shifted, his arms tightening around her. The kiss deepened, a dizzying vortex of need, raw and untamed. His skin tasted of salt, the warmth of his breath, spiced by Corellian ale, lingering on his tongue. He clutched her to him as if he feared she might vanish like smoke. In that moment, at the heart of that enchanted garden, beneath that magnificent Orga tree, she was his, and he was hers, and the rest of the galaxy faded into insignificance.

Thrawn swept her up, a swift, fluid motion, and carried her away from the pool. Kneeling, he set her gently upon a blanket spread over soft grass, a bed strewn with glowing star-lilies. A low table nearby was laden with an assortment of delicacies – exotic fruits, glistening meats, crystal decanters filled with what she suspected were expensive vintages. A testament to Thrawn’s meticulous planning. His desire to seduce her senses, offering her a taste of the pleasures he could provide. A feast untouched, forgotten.

Rhyanon couldn't look away from him. He was a paradox, this man. A warrior and a scholar, a pragmatist and a dreamer, a captor and a lover. And in this moment, in the heart of this mystical arcade, she was utterly, irrevocably, lost in him.

He released her, his fingers grazing down her arms, tingling paths of pleasure burning along her skin. She watched as he undressed, each movement deliberate, almost ritualistic. Piece by piece, the stark white of his Grand Admiral's uniform fell away, revealing the alien blue of his skin, hard muscle sculpted by rigorous training. Intricate tattoos adorned his arms and shoulders, standing out in stark relief against the broad expanse of his chest, the scars puckered across his torso, an old scorch mark, marring his thigh.

Rhyanon's heart skipped as he turned to her, his physique chiseled by shadow and the garden's dim light. A masculine perfection that stuttered her breath from between parted lips. His eyes blazed with a hunger that mirrored her own. He reached for her gown, brushing against bare skin, a jolt of electricity. She shivered, anticipation warring with resistance.

His fingers tarried at the base of her throat, roving to the thin straps of her gown, slipping them from her shoulders. The fabric pooled around her hips, then her feet. His gaze darkened, lingered over her breasts, his nostrils flaring as he drew a deep, steadying breath.

With one hand resting lightly on her chest, he urged her backward. "Lie down," he commanded, his voice husky.

She obeyed, sinking onto the blanket of glowing star-lilies. He followed, his body a welcome weight, radiating heat. He shifted, settling to his knees, his hands framing her supple contours, possessive and oddly reverent. Leaning forward, he drew her legs apart, exposing her to his gaze.

His fingers traced a slow path from her throat, down between her breasts, to the juncture of her thighs. The caress dallied there, awakening a dampness that betrayed her physical response. His erection pressed against her belly, the heat of him, an insistent pressure, exuding the musky scent of arousal.

"Thrawn..." she sighed.

He didn't answer with words. Instead, he moved lower, between her parted knees. His gaze, unwavering, held her captive. "I've no record of your people," he said, his voice hypnotic. "Their artistic expression, spatial or aesthetic progression." Then, shifting into her native Brytonic, a direct transmission to her mind, *And you-an enigma...oeth and anoeth.* the thought trailing off as his tongue dipped, warm and demanding, to her core. She gasped, fire blooming, flushing her skin as she arched against him, fingers tangling in his hair.

"*Vurawn*", she whispered. His birth name, a ripple in the bridge linking them. A relic from his life before the Empire, wrought a tempest of conflicting emotions within him, that echoed back to her. Desire battled with apprehension, her senses devoured in the flames stoked by his wandering hands and lips. Yet, did the shadow of past trauma still sour their burgeoning passion.

Thrawn felt her turmoil, shared it. His name, spoken in the intimacy of their thoughts, awakened unfamiliar feelings he tried burying, seeking the intoxication of her flesh and mind. His lust, a storm gathering force.

Amid the exquisite torment of his exploration, a tendril of thought, shaped out of Brytonic, reached her. *Do you wish me to stop?* <Ydych chi'n dymuno i mi stopio?>

Sensations, sharp and sweet, overwhelmed her. Rhyanon trembled, her hands knotting in his hair, her hips rising instinctively, a primal surrender. A gasped "Yes," escaped her lips, a plea born of despair. She still craved his touch, even as she yearned for it to end.

He opened his mind to her, a conscious offering. He needed her to understand, to see beyond the Grand Admiral, beyond the Empire's shadow. A crusader, driven by a purpose purer than Palpatine's twisted authority. To see the man beneath, yearning for a connection that transcended their circumstances.

Thrawn's voice, low and resonant, evoked the ancient music of her native tongue. "Do you want me to stop?" <Ydych chi eisiau i mi stopio?>.

Her heart twisted, a pang of grief piercing the haze of desire. His need, his vulnerability, drew a shuddering sigh from her. "Vurawn," his name, a melancholic surrender. Her eyes closed.

The secret vestige of that name stirred something within him. *Vurawn*-in Brytonic, it became a croon that resonated from Rhyanon's mind back to him. *Fuaran*-artesian waters bursting forth from the Earth. *Varuna*-a god of lost oceans once circling that dead Earth. The glide of his tongue along her slit, the way he savored her taste, a tremor of their surging lust, became a torrent sweeping away all resistance, leaving only raw craving.

Thrawn rose above her, seeking her mouth, her tang flavoring his lips. "Don't fight me," he breathed, pressing against her entrance.

She reached up, tracing his shoulder. He leaned in, nipping at the delicate skin beneath her jaw. She shivered. He continued his exploration, nips and languid licks tracing her neck, down to her shoulder, then back along her collarbone to the frantic flutter at the base of her throat.

Slowly, he ground his hips, sliding himself sensuously against her nipples. Pleasure soaked her core. Her hands found his neck, smoothed down over his shoulders. He moved with slow, deliberate thrusts, his member hard, each stroke against her mound a throbbing ecstasy.

Gripping her from beneath, he lifted her close, hitching her knees against his waist, spreading her open. And plunged his length into her heat, tearing a strangled cry from her.

Her nails raked across the taut muscles of his back as he shuddered against her with a staggered groan. Her legs wrapped around his hips. She taunted him with nips and fierce, hot kisses, sweeping wet warmth along his neck. Biting, suckling at the pulse line of his throat.

He sank into her again, and she sighed, desperate in her rising desire. Her thighs tightened around him as he bottomed out, and she tilted her hips, each upward sway driving him deeper.

Turning her head, she pulled his lips between hers. A sharp gasp escaped him. He bit her lower lip, their limbs locked, motions turning brutal.

Releasing her legs, Thrawn settled against her, their bodies aligned, skin to skin. His thrusts set an instinctive rhythm, his hands tracing her sides. His fingers digging into her hips as he pounded against her with tender savagery.

One of his hands found its way to the back of her head, grasping her hair. The subtle tug elicited her ragged sigh. His face was right beside hers, mouth just to the side of her lips, so close she could feel the heat of his breath on her skin. Muscles deep inside clenched, and she ground herself up against him, meeting each exquisite downstroke.

Rhyanon opened her eyes to his gaze. Those enigmatic red slits held no secrets from her now, the most unguarded she'd ever seen him, rabid and carnal in her embrace.

His pace increased, each thrust powerful, driving her higher. A litany of sensuous sounds poured from her lips.

A single, sudden thrust, and she felt him pulse, buried deep inside her. His low groan sent her into a euphoric spin, hot seed flooding her. She rocked against him, clutching into his buttocks, waves of fire washing up from her battered cleft, along her limbs, leaving her dragging for air, wrung and exhausted. They clung to each other for precious moments, breath mingling. Their sweat-slicked bodies racked together in a final, spastic release as he collapsed over her, both of them gasping, spent.

Thrawn rolled onto his back, with a slow, contented sigh, one elbow bent behind his head. Rhyanon shifted with him, nestling into his side. Above, the Coruscant night glittered through the skylights, an endless stream of traffic punctuated by the distant flares of planetary shields resetting. A universe away from their haven. She rested her head on his shoulder, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath lean muscle.

His breath caught at her fingers, prodding lightly along the ridges of his abdomen. Mapping the vast scar spanning his right side, where a percussive incendiary had ripped into the viscera. Rhyanon allowed herself a passing gratification. A vague concavity in the strictured, blue-tinted epidermis was all that now remained from the collagenic layering, testifying to her medic’s training. Studies enhanced by her innate biopsionics. Those Talents exploited by Palpatine, who deployed her as a populist foil of Imperial charity. And privately, hoped she was the antidote promising restoration against the ravaging decay of the Dark Side.

”Acquiring you proved one of the Emperor’s wiser gambits,” Thrawn said, watching the progress of her fingers along his scar. His words, always so deliberate, gauging adversaries’ reactions.

She glanced up at him, seething. Baste him! Was it the action of an adversary that saved his life? The words unspoken, but clear in the firm pinch she gave to delicate, newly healed skin.

He grimaced, jaw tightening at the discomfort.*No,*, the simple word floated into her thoughts, flavored by his particular solemnity. *But it is the action of a courtesan in service to Palpatine.*

That stung, as he meant it.

“You know full well,” she admonished, “the Emperor never takes random chances on anything. Or anyone. Especially you. I imagine you didn’t tumble into his service by mere chance. Whatever that backstory involved,” she huffed, dropping back against his shoulder, eyes fastened on Coruscant’s river of lights blinking across the ceiling casings.

Her hands remained resting on his stomach. She felt the falter in his breath, how he stiffened. "I was exiled." There is was, his bald declaration. A old wound rising from a void of melancholy he shuttered away. The black brows skewed in a brief, vanishing scowl, dulling his glowing irises. "I never conformed,” he continued, “to the strictures of Chiss hierarchies. Even in the Defense Fleet." A sigh. "The Patriarchs, the Aristocras...they saw me as a threat. Too unpredictable. Always contradicting the rules.”

Vexation or remorse, she’d pierced at something more fragile than he would admit. And left them both fuming in aggravation, even while they remained twined in each others arms. She hated what she read of him, through this novel intimacy. How he’d hurt, humiliated her. How he believed this toxic alchemy between them absolved him of any responsibility. And entitled him to her affections, fully cognizant her position lent little by way of choice.

Ultimately, the spell of sylvan ambience faded the remnants of their anger. The fountain bubbled through the darkness, the trickling waters, a balm mingling with the soft glow from the Orga tree. An animated illumination of spectral avians, and twinkling insects, dancing amid the shadows, soothed their prickled tempers. Thrawn seemed enticed by the way the gentle breeze, a relish of alpine heights, caught at the loosened strands of her hair. He stroked the luxuriant tresses spilling over her shoulders. The braid had come undone at some point in their coupling, the jewels sewn through, hopelessly scattered about the grass.

Breaking the quiet, she murmured, "You should return to your people, Thrawn."

For a moment, she thought the only response would be the hum of winged insects, and the splash of falling waters filling the garden. Then- “There's no returning. Only leaving it in the past,” his utterance edged in steel. *Or,* he hesitated, before pushing the rest of the thought into her sense, *reconquering it.*

Startled by the menace in the words, Rhyanon turned, rising onto his chest, peering from beneath lowered lashes into his scarlet gaze. "Huh," she exhaled. her head cocked slightly. "A tyrant.” His brow creased, and she smoothed away the lines there. "And still an outsider. Envisioning a new confederation, joined by other outsiders." Her fingers played along his scalp, into the thick blue-black tousle, combing lightly through the flecks of white dusting his close-clipped temples. "Willing, I wonder? Exiles amongst exiles."

His lids closed as her touch trailed beneath the hollows of his eyes, over the sharp hook of his nose. His thin lips, in repose, relaxed at the corners. Most sentients, unfamiliar with Chiss infrared vision, misread him as cold. Rhyanon understood that emotions, read through temperature changes invisible to the human eye, lacked the usual markers.

A sad smile quirked her mouth. "That's what we are," she said. "Exiles. From home. From love."

She leaned down, brushing Thrawn's lips in a tender caress. A hushed gasp, a flicker of scarlet as his lids fluttered open. He didn't expect spontaneous displays of affection from her. Truth be told, she was equally unused to giving them. Against her tongue, she tasted the warmth of his surprise, the sweet liqueur of his yielding, as the kiss deepened, folding both of them into a dizzying breathlessness.

His gaze followed her as she drew back. Desire burning through her veins from that look. Tainted, or course, by his fleeting smirk. "As I said, you'd find pleasure in anger." Oh, that familiar smugness.

"Anger?” the word punctuated by her short, smoky laugh. “That wasn’t anger that happened, just now.” The levity too quickly receding before the disquiet haunting Thrawn's eyes. His awakening to the complex tangle of her emotions inundating his mind. Her hand drifted up, the backs of her fingers sliding along his cheek. *You'll never ask my forgiveness, will you?* her question, weighted by resignation of reparation he owed her.

Thrawn’s gaze narrowed, concentrating on this rediscovered Third Sight. Bewilderment cracked his composure. His hand rose to cup hers, savoring her touch against him. *You're not likely to grant it, are you? Not yet, anyway?* Palpitine's manipulation smarted at his ego, even if acknowledging how long he'd coveted Rhyanon.

"No," she admitted softly. "Maybe, in time, forgiveness. But...it's bigger than just you, Vurawn." The name wielded like a key, claiming a hidden part of him.

His fingers traced her face, drifted down. Pausing between her breasts, he brushed her nipples, eliciting a sharp inhale. Pleasure stirred, unwanted yet undeniable.

In his eyes, she saw herself transformed into a constellation of light, her nanoplexus a network of shimmering energy.

"You are...*Oeth and anoeth*," he murmured, his fingers moving over her lips. Her native words a strange delicacy on his tongue.

*But not so unique, amongst my own people*. A confidence she quickly sublimated, feeling the predatory glare from Thrawn's gaze. This, she realized, was how he ensnared others, coaxing secrets through art and word, a subtle brilliance, manipulation aided, she now understood, by a dormant, preternatural insight.

Instead, softly against his finger, she replied in carefully enunciated Cheunh, "We are all creations of wonder. At least, that's how I perceive this marvelous travesty of a universe." <Nah cart sea vsaecim bah ch'er. Mah ch'itt'tam, csei cart veah Ch'ah ran'cah csei s ch'esen'bo ch'irvim'i bah ch'a in'ezasr>. *And I'll be damned," she vowed, directly into the calculating tangents of his mind, if I'm ever enticed into revealing my people's home sector to you, Mitth'raw'nuruodo.*

Across a distant wormhole lay shining Celtica. independent and proud. A Fringe system, defying the Core Parliament of the Terran Federacy. Her sister's dying words returned to her. *Cofiwch pwy ydych chi*, <Remember who you are>.* *Eurein yn euryll*. <A Golden Gem in a Golden Jewel>. Thrawn's prophecy, pitched to adoration, threaded throughout. *Of a girl, who sacrificed herself to flame...<*Cofiwch pwy ydych chi*,>...And left behind an eternal ember...<*Eurein yn euryll* >...hidden away in time and space...<*Cofiwch pwy ydych chi*>...before fleeing into a distant sun...<*Eurein yn euryll*>.

Beneath her hand, his laughter thrummed through his chest. A single word, returned. "Perhaps."

Fin

--Alas, the reference to Keltia is a not-so-very-oblique homage to Patricia Kenneally-Morrison's so very awesome, 'Celts in Space' trilogies of Aeron and Arthur. Unalasly, I do think she was pretty not-so-supportive of the fic-'verse, so we'll call Keltia 'Celtica' for right now, and toss it into the Firefly-Serenity 'verse, as a Fringe sector (b/c, like every space opera ever literally has Outer Rimmers--yeah, I meant double entendre there--and Fringe systems. So do I...). That's actually b/c, in my 3 way Collision of Firefly-SW/OT-TTT/and/the Keltiad, I have a unhealthy obsession with River Tam crossing paths with Thrawn, and the Chiss Skywalkers...since she shares the same abilities as a Pilot/and psionic. Also, my counter-culture version of Nuru Kungurama, as a lost cousin of Thrawn, actually known as Kivu'Rama'Nuruodo, (Rama-I think he features in the most popular Indian/Hindu Myth ever, as well as Judith Tarr's so very awesome space opera...), have a 30s/40s style comedy spoof regarding his criminal name, 'Spiker', with Rhyanon (in a much later part of this timeline), coincident with TTT), where she's drunk, and keeps making various versions of 'Spiker the Biker'. SExual tension, he renews his connection via fhe Force/he and Luke team up/yadayadayada...). And at some point, on Nirauan, after the Empire of the Hand has temporarily held off the Virathi/Coroniaid (read: Grysk/Vaagri), Thrawn has finally caught up with Yhana (who escaped Coruscant after Endor, lands on Dathomir eventually-aquires a sexy Dathomiri witch-lover/cyber-slicer...based on Cindra/Kalinda from the GoodWife), indentures her into the Healers'Guild, as part of the deal with transwormhole Terran Federacy, to which Keltia complies temporarily), Rama pulls a 'Say ANything', William Wallace/Braveheart, "it's rainig scene", and blasts the Terran rock ballad by Peter Gabrial beneath Yhana's windows, in her apt complex courtyard (much to the consternation of the celibate physicians/medics/nurses/healers/etc), and heists off with her on his speeder bike-Son's of Anarchy and Dykes on Bykes (she's bi-but whatever, or demi-???). I said, spoof Space Rock Opera...

Notes:

Angelus Everlasting -Cruxshadows-IDK, off some album... "Dum vita est spes est Deo volente [so long as there is life, there is hope. God willing--roughly] Dum vita est spes est Deo volente "So why does it happen It disintegrates with time Thermodynamics is Tragically defined With entropy's arrow The elegance concealed Life and experience Becoming So much less than real "In love everlasting Hold tightly to the spark Though the darkness surrounds you Remember who you are I've found it here always And I hope you'll find it too In love everlasting The angels will bring it back to you "A song of perception To navigate your way Hold precious each moment Before it slips away No concessions to sorrow There's power in your dreams Your life is a gift filled With infinite Possibilities "In love everlasting A sentience in the spark In the end all that matters Follows who you are I've found it here always And I hope you'll find it too In love everlasting The angels are calling back to you "Both in science and history We express what we know But it's a guess, I confess Educated at best And the truth is tomorrow You must first undergo You cannot claim godhood To know the unknown In yourself a definition that no other can see Right and wrong are separated by a few degrees So your knowledge is strength But it's not absolute You must open your mind To the beautiful truth "In love everlasting Hold tightly to the spark Though the darkness surrounds you Remember who you are I've found it here always And I hope you'll find it too In love everlasting The angels are standing next to you In love everlasting Hold tightly to the spark Though the darkness falls all around you Remember who you are I've found it here always And I hope you'll find it too In love everlasting The angels will bring this back to you "In love everlasting A sentience in the spark In the end all that matters Believes in who you are I've found it here always And I hope you know it's true In love everlasting The angels are singing back to you..." ~~ In the beginning, there was a song. And a group. Cruxshadows. And they made a song. One of their many ballads, this one being 'Angelus Everlasting.' When I heard this song, I just couldn't get over Thrawn, singing the lyrics of 'Angelus Everlasting', on the first night he meets OfC, who gets assigned to a private dance performance for the (then), Admiral. Sensing her displacement, and loneliness, he breaks into his New Wave/Goth Wave/Synth Pop/DarkWave musical exposition, sort of 'Moulin Rouge' cinematic-pop musical-style, counseling OFC on *remember who you are*, as she she's lost everything, and learning how to survive in the Byzantine court of Palpatine. Suffice to say, he shares something of a 'Black Book' dynamic (yes, the WW2 movie about the Jewish lover of a Nazi/SS Officer) style affair with OFC...and Eastern Promises-that scene where Vigo M-'s character tries doing the best he can, advising a prostitute in a human trafficking situation to simply survive...toxicity abounding, if you thought this was about healthy relationships in a space opera universe, you've come to the wrong place... That said, I can totally see Thrawn reciting that line, "Right and wrong are separated by a few degrees..." Last point-b/c this isn't really canon, and probably more AU, the timeline isn't precise. My Thrawn is not your Thrawn. He's Zahn's Thrawn (but not since Disney completely crap-shot the character...ugh). Nope, my Thrawn is played by Henry Cavill, and has the voice of Stephen Dillane when he played Thomas Jefferson, in the HBO series, 'John Adams'-a West Country, cultured cadence--oy, yum... For OFC, imagine Daenerys Targaryen, in the gown she wears when she steps into the funeral pyre in Season 1..

#Thrawn #Star Wars #Chiss #Rhyanon ferch Garowen #the Keltiad #Firefly-Serenity #AU-major non-canon-with some canon preserved elements

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jules-has-notes · 7 months ago

Text

collaboration spotlight — The Phantom Showman mashup by Fernando Varela

youtube

When classical singer Fernando Varela first saw The Greatest Showman, the visual spectacle and soaring music reminded him of one of the shows that had originally inspired him to pursue singing as a career, Phantom of the Opera. After some noodling, he found that the songs from both shows could be combined rather nicely.

Details:

title: The Phantom Showman

performers: Fernando Varela (Raoul), Leah Lowman (Christine), & Tony Wakim (Phantom)

original songs / performers: "Never Enough" by Loren Allred as Jenny Lind (vocals) in The Greatest Showman (2017); "All I Ask of You" & "Think of Me" by Sarah Brightman as Christine Daaé & Steve Barton as Raoul de Chagny in The Phantom of the Opera (1986)

written by: "Never Enough" by Benj Pasek & Justin Paul; "All I Ask of You" & "Think of Me" by Andrew Lloyd Webber, Charles Hart, & Richard Stilgoe

arranged by: Fernando Varela

release date: 9 April 2018

My favorite bits:

the tinkling music box version of the instrumentation

Fernando's lovely clear voice, with just a touch of vibratto

Leah's hopeful princess-y tone

the echo on the Phantom's call

the little flip up into head voice on the second ♫ "never be enough" ♫

the way the songs from both shows weave together

gotta love a dramatic key change

the big harmonized belting moment with a sudden cut-off

pulling back to just tentative vocals and the music box to end

Trivia:

Being a tenor, Fernando cast himself in the role of steadfast Raoul, who falls in love with his childhood friend Christine when they meet as adults. Which is fitting, in a way. After all, Fernando has admitted that the reason he initially pursued opera as a teenager was to spend time with a girl he liked.

This video was filmed at The Ballroom on Church Street, the same location PattyCake used as their castle interior for "Beauty and the Bieber" a year earlier. With brighter lighting, it made for a decent opera house.

Leah and Tony's costumes were both originally created for VoicePlay's "Phantom of the Opera" music video in 2015.

A few months before this recording, Fernando had been a part of the Royal Christmas Gala tour across Europe, which was headlined by Sarah Brightman, who originated the role of Christine in Phantom.

In the lead-up to the release date, Fernando posted a series of coundtdown images on social media.

This is Tony's third filmed iteration of the Phantom. Before VoicePlay's full version of the show's title song, he sang an excerpt in their "Aca Top 10 — Broadway" countdown, which they also performed on the 2015 Sing-Off tour.

PattyCake had released their own Greatest Showman medley in the form of "The Disney Showman" celebrating the life and legacy of the illustrious Walt a month earlier.

Layne later arranged a portion of "Never Enough" for VoicePlay as part of their "Showman Medley" video with Rachel Potter at the end of 2021.

#Fernando Varela #music video #Leah Lowman #Tony Wakim #mashup #Broadway musicals #music from movies #video #music #PattyCake Productions

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casual-video-transcripts · 2 years ago

Video

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Art Mania: Red Velvet's "Feel My Rhythm" by mera

Video Transcript by CCKN is under the cut

[0:00] Theater kids are going to be manifesting in my house tonight, huh?

[0:03] Red Velvet are my go-to group for creativity

[0:06] and I am in love with the melange of

[0:08] intense and varying art inspirations in “Feel My Rhythm”.

[0:11] This era includes references to different styles of illustration and drama,

[0:16] portraiture and painting, architecture and fashion, music and dance.

[0:20] K-Pop has a few notable ballet concepts,

[0:21] but I love this provocative ballet

[0:24] and references to the psychedelic theater.

[0:26] Costuming, effects, set design, movement,

[0:28] even the lyrics paint this picture of art

[0:30] colliding in a euphoric mania.

[0:33] I love songs that celebrate music

[0:35] and this release has it lyrically, sonically, and visually.

[0:38] Soaring between classic violin, dance pop beats, and the rattling metal

[0:42] of a carousel,

[0:43] “Feel My Rhythm” is sweet like a “Velvet” title and

[0:46] vibrant like a live performance of “Masquerade” from Phantom of the Opera.

[0:49] I love the second couplet of the chorus where the members trickle down their vocals in a ribbon as

[0:53] as the wave of violins and viola rolls to the front.

[0:56] The song ends a little suddenly like a music box snapping shut,

[1:00] rather than winding down

[1:01] but I love the fragrant vocals and the contrasting musical influences.

[1:05] Elegant orchestral strings, bursts of carnival game beats,

[1:08] and lofty vocals suddenly buckling down into chants and talk singing.

[1:12] “Feel My Rhythm” is surprisingly bracing,

[1:14] shiny black spikes poking through lace,

[1:17] frosted all over with Bach’s “Air for G-String”.

[1:19] “Feel My Rhythm” speaks of music as if it were bottled and personified into five women,

[1:24] five muses of art, each with her own season and stage.

[1:28] The lyrics and arrangement never stay still for too long.

[1:31] The members seem to trade dialogue and rebuttals from the constant switch-ups,

[1:35] and then suddenly ride into the heavens as one.

[1:37] At parts they stare into the audience as one Greek chorus and at others they're training secrets

[1:41] or cutting each other off with interjections,

[1:44] a lot like play characters and a massive ensemble song putting in their own perspectives.

[1:49] In my mind there are a handful of songs that deserve to be openings for pop musicals

[1:53] like “After School” by Weeekly

[1:55] where everyone gets a personal actionable line that builds into a big centerpiece.

[1:59] “Feel My Rhythm” feels like a one-thirds mark threshold song,

[2:03] where the play invites you, the audience,

[2:05] to leave the known world behind and enter the story.

[2:07] I'm always a little on the fence when it comes to K-Pop sampling classic orchestral pieces.

[2:12] Sometimes you get a really over-starch song like “Hands Up” by Cherry Bullet

[2:17] but I think “Feel My Rhythm” uses “Air For G[-string]” more like perfume than costume

[2:21] and it works in their favor

[2:22] “Feel My Rhythm” has some just classic Red Velvet moments

[2:25] a lot of moments both visually and

[2:27] musically reminded me of “Cool Hot Sweet Love” or “Cool World”

[2:31] These creamy, sensual, emotional touches that Red Velvet does really well.

[2:35] We haven't seen them do black box dancing since like “Automatic”.

[2:38] The video also has these classic collage pop scenes,

[2:42] these extremely cinematic death of glamour scenes,

[2:44] and a good blue jeans moment.

[2:47] And I think it works because this song is about the manic collision of art into celebration.

[2:52] I love art that celebrates art,

[2:53] I'm a huge sucker for it,

[2:55] and when you put Red Velvet vocals on it, you're gonna make me happy.

[2:58] After listening to the album three times,

[3:00] here is my initial ranking of the songs

[3:02] according to my preference.

[3:03] Number one: “Bambaleo”.

[3:05] I am in love with this super sweet, falsed-out chorus.

[3:10] “Bambaleo” is the song that evolved the most the more I listen to it.

[3:13] You start in the city with the quiet synth and funk

[3:16] but as you drive out into the night, a spotlight from outer space

[3:19] begins to lift you up into the sky.

[3:21] Parts of the song suggests some sort of vacation to paradise

[3:25] but the synth scratch adds some pulp from b-sides like “Look”.

[3:28] The cocktail of cocaine-high singing, psyched-out soundscapes, and retro dance in the middle of it all,

[3:34] feels like drinking distilled hallucinogens,

[3:36] but in a nice way, I really love it.

[3:38] Number two: “Beg For Me”.

[3:40] Whooo, baby!

[3:42] A Red Velvet b-side in the taste of Irene and Seulgi's Monster album.

[3:45] Absolutely delicious.

[3:47] “Beg For Me” starts as this very low menacing club song

[3:51] that breaks into a red demanding mantra.

[3:54] They are yelling at you about the good vibes,

[3:56] it's a little scary at points.

[3:58] I see this played in a vampire club right after you've been bitten

[4:02] and there's venom in your bloodstream,

[4:04] and the club matriarchs are like floating around,

[4:06] reminding everyone what an intoxicating time you're having.

[4:09] I love the tagline “dance for me, work for me, beg for me”

[4:12] and a vocal howl at the moon.

[4:15] This album has a lot of surprising tasteful talk sections.

[4:18] Number three: “Feel My Rhythm”.

[4:20] The chugging mechanical daydream sounds from “Zimzalabim”

[4:23] have been repurposed into something more musical

[4:25] but equally psychoactive.

[4:27] “Feel My Rhythm” has these rising sweet vocals,

[4:30] like braces of a cathedral rising up to a point.

[4:33] I really enjoyed the lyrics on this track.

[4:35] It's a love song, but it's not to a lover.

[4:37] It’s to music and the places where music touches other art forms,

[4:41] or in this case where arts are piled on top of each other with rapture.

[4:45] Number four: “In My Dreams”.

[4:47] Killing Eve's song,

[4:49] change my mind.

[4:50] Tell me this doesn't make you think of the two of them.

[4:52] I love the quiet patter of beat,

[4:54] and the high dots of notes

[4:56] as the song slowly dissolves into symbols and desperate singing.

[4:59] “In my dreams, you love me back”.

[5:02] It's a little too early my time to be having these emotions

[5:05] but I love how the chorus kind of bursts out of the speaker

[5:08] but then she loses her courage and has to deal with the words in the room.

[5:12] Number five: “Good, Bad, (and) Ugly”.

[5:14] Mapled and starched like an old photo,

[5:17] “Good, Bad, (and) Ugly” has a spotty rainy ambiance in the background

[5:20] that reminds me of phonographs and classy umbrellas.

[5:23] “Good, Bad, (and) Ugly” falls into that subcategory of Red Velvet b-sides that

[5:27] that play in film noir band bars.

[5:29] It's a little bit of a cafe song,

[5:31] and a little bit of draping yourself over the piano,

[5:33] and stealing the pianist's fancy black hat

[5:36] while you sing about your tragic but passionate love life.

[5:38] Okay, okay, apparently that is the description

[5:41] that I wrote for this song when I was listening to it.

[5:43] It's too late to change it at this point, whatever.

[5:46] And number six: “Rainbow Halo”.

[5:48] I appreciate the brass inclusion at the end,

[5:50] but I feel this song is a little too repetitive for my tastes.

[5:53] It's got some great moments but

[5:54] I feel I would like zone out way too easily

[5:57] while listening to the song and forget that I left the stove on.

[5:59] I really love how this era is soaked in art

[6:01] and the kaleidoscope of musical influences all over the album,

[6:05] let alone the single.

[6:07] There's so much passion for each medium,

[6:09] and you can tell that each crew member was like really excited to

[6:11] reference their favorite piece of art in the video.

[6:14] I might do a follow-up video

[6:15] specifically about each member's solo scenes

[6:18] because I think there's a ton to talk about there

[6:20] but for now I'd like to know what you thought of the era

[6:22] and what your favorite song off the album is.

[6:24] Okay, bye!

YouTube Channel: mera

Video Description: A bite-sized review of Red Velvet's "Feel My Rhythm."

Disclaimer: None of the videos I transcribe belong to me. They belong to the content creators and the crew behind the videos. My transcripts may not be 100% as I am not a professional. I'm just someone who wants to provide video transcripts for people to understand and enjoy these videos. For this video, I focused on the speaker. If there are any corrections you would like me to make, let me know in the comment section of the post.

If you like this video or any other video from mera, please support by watching her videos on the YouTube platform and through other means by them.

Personal Notes: This is probably one of the Red Velvet albums that I replay nonstop, also because my Spotify would always play the songs from this album on shuffle. I’m honestly surprised I haven’t gotten tired of Feel My Rhythm but it really is THAT song.

The album, The ReVe Festival 2022 - Feel My Rhythm, and the title track, Feel My Rhythm is available on YouTube, music streaming platforms, and to purchase as a digital or a physical album.

Click here for the YouTube playlist version of the album. As for the physical albums, either check your local stores, K-Pop and not, near you or you’ll have to look online to find any available. I’ve listed a few down below but I do recommend to look for anywhere else if you don’t prefer these sites:

SM Global Shop (It’s all sold out as of writing and posting this but I do recommend checking every once in a while to see if they’ll restock again)

KPOPTOWN (I mainly showed the search results in case you want either the ReVe version or the Orgel version or both)

Catchopcd (The ReVE version is out of stock as of writing/posting this but I do recommend checking back every once in awhile to see if they’ve restocked it)

SubK Shop (I mainly showed the search results in case you want either the ReVe version or the Orgel version or both)

KAVE SQUARE (I mainly showed the search results in case you want either the ReVe version or the Orgel version or both)

Kpop-shop (for those in Ukraine)

It’s all sold out as of writing and posting this but I do recommend checking every once in a while to see if they’ll restock again

If there are any other sites that sell Red Velvet albums, you can reblog or tag or comment below. Spread the knowledge.

That’s about it on my end. I’ll catch you all on the flip side.

-CCKN

#mera #red velvet #feel my rhythm era #CCKN transcripts #irene red velvet #seulgi red velvet #wendy red velvet #joy red velvet #yeri red velvet #bae joohyun #kang seulgi #shon seungwan #park sooyoung #kim yerim #son seungwan

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softguarnere · 2 years ago

Note

would eat up anything with spears x a combat medic/nurse reader :)

Learn to be Lonely

Ron Speirs x reader

A/N: The way that I went feral upon seeing this request in my inbox. I immediately knew I had to commandeer it to add to my soft!Speirs agenda. Thank you for the request, Anon, and I hope you enjoy this! 💕

Warnings: sickness, mentions of war, the author probably confusing "lie" and "lay" (it is what it is; we're just going with it at this point)

Amidst all the chaos, it's the little pockets of peace like this that make you feel, just for a moment, like things could be almost normal again. Despite the fact that some of the Haguenau buildings that Easy has been quartered in have missing walls, are covered with a thin tissue of dust, and that the world perpetually looks as dull as an oncoming rain cloud, waking up before the men and sitting up at the kitchen table sipping on warm coffee provides a moment of what's as close to relaxation as you can get under the circumstances.

Eugene always arrives shortly after you sit down with your coffee. Neither of you talk much, but you're grateful for the company -- your thoughts become a little too loud if no one else is around, but something about your fellow medic provides a sense of comfort. Even when you do talk -- even when it has to be about the war you're both trying to forget for a moment, and the men, and how they're doing -- it's pleasant.

But this morning, something seems to be on Doc Roe's mind.

There's no denying that you're both observant; it just comes through in different ways. Whereas Eugene is quiet and enjoys people-watching, picking up on the men's little ticks and mannerisms, you're more outgoing, getting to know them and their thoughts and feelings on a personal level. It's what makes you work so well as a team -- you're able to compare notes and spot problems with them almost immediately. Which means that you can also spot problems with each other.

Eugene sits across the grimy kitchen table from you and takes a sip of the bitter coffee you brewed. His brow is furrowed, which wouldn't necessarily be unusual, but he keeps frowning into his coffee cup. Several times he opens his mouth slightly and draws a breath, like he's getting ready to say something, but then he stops himself and takes a sip of the coffee instead.

"Something wrong?" You finally ask.

His slender frame jerks as he looks up at you. He blinks. "Oh. No." He pauses. "I'm not sure."

You sip your coffee, waiting for him to continue.

His voice is quiet, like he's afraid someone might overhear him, and he looks almost puzzled when he admits, "I think that something might be wrong with Captain Speirs."

"Speirs? That's the last thing we need. First Lipton, now him . . ."

"Well, I'm not sure." Eugene frowns down at his coffee again. He shakes his head. "He's hard to read."

"That's an understatement."

"I noticed it last night, when most of the men were downstairs, joking around and playing cards. He stayed towards the edges of the room, and then I saw him slip out early and head upstairs. I assume he went to bed."

That in itself wouldn't be so unusual; Captain Speirs is a private person, and when Easy Company isn't in active combat, he's often more of a presence than a part of the group.

"I don't know," Eugene says again before you can point this out. "Something about him just seemed . . . different. Off, even."

"Maybe he was just tired," you suggest, even though you're not able to think of a single time during the whole war that you've seen the legend of a man anything other than alert.

"Yeah." Eugene agrees. "Maybe."

Voices approach the kitchen, and a second later, some of the men start shuffling in, roused and fortified by the smell of coffee -- however bad it may be.

"You checked on Lip yet?" You ask your fellow medic. And then your morning continues just like any other one.

Something is not right, you think to yourself as you watch Skinny and Liebgott march off in defeat, looking frustrated. It's the fifth time since that morning that someone has asked you if there's any chance that you know where Captain Speirs is. And, you have to wonder as you make your way towards the bedroom in the quiet corner of the house most of the company is quartered in, maybe no one has thought to do the obvious thing and check his room.

You pause just outside the door, unsure. You don't know Speirs particularly well. He's the Captain, yes, but he's more distant than other officers. Would he even want someone to check on him? Where others might see it as a gesture of concern and goodwill, someone like Speirs might see it as overstepping, you reason as snatches of rumors play in your memory.

No. You make up your mind -- you're a medic and it's your job to watch out for the health and wellbeing of these men. If he sees it as overstepping, then it's his problem. Your raise your fist and knock on the door before you can talk yourself out of it.

It's quiet, and slow, but from the other side of the door, you can just make out the sounds of movement. A moment later the door handle squeaks and a pair of dark, sunken eyes peers at you from the door's crack.

The door opens wider to reveal Captain Speirs, but not as you've ever known him. Whereas your Captain stands tall, alert, and ready to move at a moment notice, this man moves slowly, and keeps blinking, like he can't get his eyes to focus. Not to mention the shakiness in his hands as he opens the door.

"(Y/N)?" His voice sounds hoarse.

It takes you a minute to find your voice. "Captain Speirs, Sir. Are you okay?"

He blinks rapidly for a moment and then leans against the doorway. Even in the low lighting of the hall, his face glistens in a sheen of sweat. "(Y/N), I think . . . I think that something is wrong." He squints at you. "Aren't you cold?"

"No, Sir. Are you? You're sweating."

"Am I?" He sounds shocked, but his brow only furrows slightly.

"Captain, everyone has been looking for you all morning."

The Speirs that you know never would have been in a situation like this, you have to remind yourself, but if he had, he would have jumped into action the minute he realized something was wrong. But this Speirs doesn't seem fazed. Yes, you affirm, something is wrong.

Speirs shuts his eyes and draws in a deep breath -- or at least, as deep a breath as he can manage. You step forward and prod him with gentle hands, back into his room, back into bed. He doesn't protest.

"Sir, have you eaten anything today?" You ask as you cover him with a blanket. "Have you had anything to drink?"

He shakes his head. You had assumed as much. You're already planning a course of action for how to deal with this. Making sure that the Captain doesn't get dehydrated from isolating himself all morning is just another step in that plan.

"I'm sick, aren't I?" He asks when he sees you rummage through your medic kit for something to give him. Something in his voice is different than you've ever heard it. He doesn't sound defeated, exactly, but he sounds tired and . . . sad?

"I'm afraid so. You might have picked up Lipton's pneumonia. We'll have to figure out what this is so we can fight it."

Strong hands scrub themselves over his face as he sighs. "Hate bein' sick," he mutters.

You reach out and pat his shoulder -- without even thinking about it, just like you would for any of the other men -- as you assure him, "We're going to fix that."

What would you do without George Luz? you have to wonder. You've seen other men in Easy practically beg him for the chocolate bars and cigarettes being shipped in, only to be refused. But the second that you asked for an extra food ration and had only sent him a beaming smile when he asked why you needed it, he tossed one to you with a wink, and even gave you first dibs on some of the medicine that had arrived that morning. Being friends with the radioman in charge of supplies has it's perks.

Even though it takes a minute for him to pack some medical supplies into a box and asks you to take some to Doc Roe, you don't think much of it -- someone as private as Speirs probably isn't very keen to have you rushing back to play doctor in a space as personal as his room.

You're in such a good mood after seeing the shocked looks on the rest of the company's faces when Luz gives into you that you smile all the way to Lipton's room, where you know Eugene will be. You trade off some of the medicine Luz sent you with with a quiet "I found the Captain" before you head back.

You knock lightly on the door of Speirs' room before entering with the food ration and medicine, despite the fact that you know he's inside, and that he should be lying on the bed.

Should be.

He's sitting on the side of the bed, feet flat on the floor, hand on his knees and head bowed, looking fatigued.

"Captain?" You question.

"I thought --" he stops, swallows thickly. "-- I was going to look for someone."

"For who? Me?"

He nods. "I just . . . nevermind."

Well okay then. If it weren't for the fact that you were so worried about him, seeing him act so unlike himself might be a bit funny. Who would have thought that Ron Speirs, of all people, would be a person who would get loopy when sick? You would have imagined him to be someone who muscled through it.

Gently, you help him lie back down. You make sure he eats and you give him some medicine. You even give him gentle reassurances that he'll be better soon, just like the good medic that you are. But something stops you from leaving him and moving on to see if anyone else in the company needs looking after.

"Will you be okay, Sir?" You ask.

He shrugs. "Do I just stay here? And sleep through this?"

"That would probably be the most conducive to your recovery. No paperwork and overworking yourself like Sergeant Lipton."

You wouldn't be surprised if he protested, insisting that there are things to be done and that he's going to do them. Instead, he frowns.

"I'm quarantined in here by myself." Something about the way that he says it tugs at your heart strings. You're trying to decide if the sickness is causing him to act unlike himself or reveal something about who he really is when he says, "I hate being alone."

"Really?" There's no time to stop the surprise from slipping out. If he notices, he doesn't care. He only nods. "But everyone thinks that you prefer it."

Silence starts to settle over you like the dust that perpetually covers so much of the house's interior, but you decide to break it before you even really figure out why. "I could stay with you, Sir. If you would like."

He blinks up at you. "You would? You're not afraid of me like the others?"

He might as well have punched you in the gut, what with the way the sentiment lands. You're just as guilty as everyone else, thinking of Speirs as some sort of demigod who prefers solitude to human companionship.

But suddenly he's not that person anymore. He's not Speirs the Killer. He's not Speirs the Legend. He's Speirs the man. He's a man. And he's sick. And he's lonely.

And he seems like he really wants you to stay with him.

You perch on the edge of the bed and run your hand through his sweaty hair under the guise of checking his temperature. "Why would I be afraid of you?"

A hum of contentment escapes him as your fingers card his dark locks. His eyes flutter shut, but just before they can, he sighs, "Well, I'm glad you're not." And then he falls asleep before you can ask what he means by that.

It would be easy to leave. He's asleep and he wouldn't notice. There are other things you could be doing. But you said you would stay, and you have no intention of turning yourself into a liar.

Part of you wonders if he'll feel better when he wakes up, become embarrassed by what he admitted, and send you away. Something that you can't quite name stirs within you as you watch him sleep, and you find that you don't want that to happen.

However you two might feel about what has just happened is something you can deal with later. For now, you're content to just watch the legend -- no, the man -- look uncharacteristically peaceful while he sleeps.

128 notes · View notes

venus-haze · 2 years ago

Text

My Fading Voice Sings of Love (Vampire!Austin!Elvis x Reader)

Summary: You’re catapulted to stardom when the release of your debut album becomes an overnight hit. With so much attention on your still blossoming career, a residency at the International Hotel seems like a good way to start putting on your own shows. It’s not just the world’s eyes that are on you, though, as a hauntingly familiar and unsettlingly strange man decides to take you under his wing and guide you during your successful residency at the International. Until, inevitably, like all good things, it comes to an end.

Note: Read the warnings for this fic before interacting! This is based on a request by @brotherhood-of-feels and Jeff Buckley’s song Grace, which is where the title of this fic comes from (please for the love of god listen to the song). Reader is a woman and definitely naive, but no other descriptors are used. This takes place in the 90s because the existence of smartphones would complicate things. As for the Phantom of the Opera AU aspect, I figured instead of doing the mask thing, it’d be more fun to have him hide in plain sight as one of the dozens of Elvis impersonators in Vegas. Do not interact if you are under 18 or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 5.5k

Warnings: Dark themes such as emotional blackmail, death, blood, and obsessive and manipulative behavior, which some people may find disturbing or triggering. Brief mention of suicidal ideation. Explicit sexual content that involves coercion. Some corruption kink. I’m going to give a warning for bloodplay, but it’s oral sex while the reader is on her period so it’s not too intense(?) Do not interact if you are under 18.

You tried not to shake too much as Aileen, your makeup artist, applied glittery eyeshadow to your eyelids. It was only a rehearsal, you had to remind yourself as much, but you felt like you didn’t deserve it. The astronomic rise in fame and popularity you experienced in the blink of an eye seemed too good to be true, especially when within a few days of your debut album releasing, your manager, Chiara, informed you that the International Hotel in Las Vegas had reached out, interested in booking you for a residency there. The two of you looked over the contract with the lawyer from your label, and after some back and forth with the hotel, you’d accepted the offer of a three month residency playing two shows a day, four nights a week.

Chiara used to manage some up-and-coming Disney starlet, but dropped her as soon as she heard your demo. Her faith in your ability as a singer kept you motivated, even when you felt hopelessly overwhelmed by the music industry. It was all unfamiliarly cut-throat, and you had known your chances of being successful were slim. Between Chiara’s connections and your natural talent and work ethic, you’d generated enough interest in your first album through singles and interviews with every radio station and TV channel that offered. When it was finally released, your album was one of the most successful debuts in history. Chiara said it was all you, but you thought it was just a fluke.

Much to Chiara’s excitement, the first two weeks of shows had completely sold out. Though you forced a smile for her sake, you couldn’t help but feel the pressure overwhelm you. In your opinion, you still had so much to prove and lose. You didn’t deserve to take such a coveted spot from a more established artist.

You figured at least you’d get to spend a few months in a hotel room that was nicer than any apartment you’d ever rented. The penthouse suite was inaccessible due to renovations, at least that was the excuse on paper. You’d heard from one of the stagehands, however, that the penthouse had been pretty much unoccupied for years, and the old wiring meant the lights would turn on and off and the automatic curtains would sometimes open and close on their own. It didn’t help either that the elevator closest to the showroom was broken, the International Hotel’s management unable to give you a timeline as to when it would be fixed.

When Aileen let you know she was finished, you thanked her, letting out a shaky breath as you took in your appearance. The sparkling outfit complimented your body type and skin tone perfectly, with tastefully placed cut-outs that you had to talk Aileen out of applying body glitter to. Your hair was styled perfectly to suit the outfit and your face. In all honesty, you’d never felt so beautiful. Still, it wasn’t enough to calm your nerves as you made your way on stage.

The only people sitting in the showroom were Chiara and Aileen, which should have made you feel better. On your signal, the backing band began to play your opening song. When it was time for you to actually sing it, you only managed to open your mouth for a moment before clamming up. Shaking your head, you waved at the band to stop playing.

“I’m sorry,” you said. “I just—you know I’ve never done anything like this before, putting on my own show.”

“Well get used to it, because this is gonna be the rest of your career,” Chiara said.

“What if they’re all disappointed? I mean, I’ve only ever opened for other musicians. Now all of these people are going to be here just to see me.”

“Don’t even think about that. It’s just us, Y/N,” Aileen assured you. “There’s no one else here.”

Being the most recognizable man in the world meant Elvis Presley didn’t have the same freedom that the dozens of other vampires in the world had, able to roam as they pleased as soon as night fell. In truly the most twisted irony, the only place he could do as he pleased was Las Vegas, a city so full of people pretending to be him that he was practically invisible. The crowds of tourists that flooded the city each night hardly looked his way, except to request the occasional photo and comment on how good of an impersonator he was, to his amusement. He supposed it worked out, though he hated Vegas and being tethered to the International Hotel, there were plenty of unsuspecting victims out and about, an endless buffet if he so pleased. He didn’t feed often enough to impact the city’s unsolved murder statistics that much, anyway.

Sometimes he’d wander the streets of Las Vegas until the sun teased its beautiful amber rays on the horizon. It was the closest he could get to seeing it again, as he discovered exposure to sunlight even through windows or tinted glass would result in painful burns on his skin that would take days to heal. Another unfortunate plus side to being a vampire in Vegas, it was a city full of windowless rooms where he didn’t have to worry about sunlight exposure. He missed the sun’s warmth and beauty, though, and in his second decade of loneliness, he increasingly considered staying outside as the sun rose, letting the fire consume him.

He could never work up the nerve to do so, and would slink back to the International Hotel before dawn. His enhanced abilities as a vampire were useful in threatening Kohn into allowing him to reside in his penthouse suite indefinitely, but he found little use for them besides that. Few, if any, of the hotel’s staff knew the truth about the penthouse’s mysterious resident, and he preferred to keep it that way.

Other artists held residencies at the International through the years, but they hardly interested him. Even if their music was to his taste, he could hardly stand to bring himself to the showroom where he had so many terrible memories. He missed performing, though, and playing piano or guitar alone in his suite didn’t give him the same thrill as putting on a show for a crowd of adoring and energetic fans.

In all of the years he’d been at the hotel, though, he never saw as much chaos leading up to any residency besides his own until you came along. He found himself staring at the crisp, colorful poster that announced your shows to support your debut album. He’d never heard of you before, but he figured Y/N Y/L/N had to have been something else to snag a residency with only one album out.

He stood in the shadows during your rehearsal, catching the subtle tics that betrayed your nerves after you fumbled your first attempt at opening the show. Despite that, you were breathtaking, and as you gained confidence, your vocals blew him away. You sang passionately and earnestly, and he could have sworn you looked right at him with an adoration that made him feel alive for the first time in nearly twenty years. You finished your performance with an exaggerated bow and a giggle that was just as musical to him. As soon as the two women sitting near the stage began clapping, he retreated back to his suite, his mind overwhelmed by thoughts of you.

Chiara and Aileen stood up to applaud you and your backing band, with Aileen jokingly shouting for an encore. You had another week to rehearse, and even then, Chiara had assured you that the good thing about your Vegas residency was that you could see what worked and what didn’t for the audience and adjust accordingly. You only hoped that the rehearsals would be enough to quell your anxieties about performing.

The following day, you arrived at the showroom three hours before the scheduled rehearsal time, hoping to practice a bit more on your own and not embarrass yourself as you did the day prior. Even though everyone had told you that you’d done a great job, you could hardly sleep as your mind replayed every time you fumbled over your own lyrics or missed a cue. The residency was so much bigger than just yourself, so many people were relying on you to do well and sell out the rest of the shows. People’s livelihoods were on the line, and for the first time, you found yourself half-regretting pursuing music as a career.

As you dropped off your things in your dressing room, you could hear the faint sound of a piano accompanied by singing. Furrowing your eyebrows, you wracked your brain for who else could be in the showroom too. When you walked onto the stage, you were taken aback to see an Elvis impersonator sitting behind the keyboard, playing Unchained Melody as he sang along. He sounded beautiful and sang with a confidence you were envious of. Even more strange, he looked almost exactly like him if you didn’t know any better. In fact, you found yourself staring at his face, studying his features until his downturned eyes looked up at you through thick lashes, catching you in his gaze as a smile spread across his lips.

When he finished singing, you were in awe, unable to articulate anything coherent. “You were incredible–I mean, hi, I’m Y/N, and–”

His voice was velvety as he acknowledged you. “I know who you are, mama.”

“That’s great,” you said, rocking on your heels during the awkward silence that followed. “I’m sorry–are you supposed to be here?”

He nodded, getting up from behind the keyboard and walking over to you. “I’m gonna help you with your show. Nerves used to get to me too.”

“Chiara didn’t tell me she was bringing in a musical director.”

“Yeah, real last minute thing,” he said.

“Do you always dress like that?” you asked.

He raised an amused eyebrow. “My clothes?”

“Yeah, the whole Elvis impersonator thing,” you said. “I mean, you do a great job of it. You look just like him, really. Sound like him too.”

His answer was a noncommittal shrug. You felt kind of ridiculous accepting his help, like you were in the plot to some corny made-for-TV movie where an aspiring starlet is mentored by an Elvis impersonator, only for it to actually be him as an angel or ghost or something, disappearing by the end of the movie after she’s learned whatever generic lesson about friendship or being humble. When you asked what his name was, he even told you to just call him Elvis. You hoped Chiara knew what she was doing by hiring him, but she hadn’t led you astray yet.

To your surprise, he was a good mentor, giving you pointers on your performance and advice in engaging with the audience during the show. You found it odd when he asked you not to tell anyone else that he was helping you with your performance, assuring you that he was updating Chiara on everything himself. Even when you brought up that his advice would be useful to the backing band or stagehands, he insisted he was supposed to be mentoring you only.

You felt out of your element when he suggested you keep things light-hearted by joking around with them every few songs. You could certainly see his point. It’d endear them to you, make you that much more relatable if your nerves meant your singing had some hiccups here and there. The jokes and quips you’d written down were mediocre at best, with songwriting undoubtedly being your strong suit.

“I wrote some, I don’t know, jokes for the audience. I don’t think I’m much of a comedian, what do you think?” you asked.

He took the paper from you, and you cursed under your breath as the paper cut the delicate skin on your hand.

“Y/N,” Elvis whispered upon seeing the blood bead up and then drip down the side of your hand. He stared wide-eyed at the wound as if afraid of it.

“Hey, it was an accident. Don’t worry about it,” you said.

Just as you were about to pull your hand away, he grabbed it so quickly that if you had blinked, you would’ve missed it.

“Does it hurt?” he asked softly.

“I mean it stings a little,” you said.

He nodded, and in a move that made you feel like you were losing your mind, brought your hand to his mouth and licked the blood away, moaning as he did so. You’d never had an experience like that in your life, and you hated how the sound and sensation went straight to your pussy. Out of all the warning signals blaring in your mind at just about every interaction you had with Elvis in the few days he had been mentoring you, that was the blood red flag that stood out the most.

Looking up at you with hooded eyes, he kept his hold on your hand. “How about now?”

Unable to speak, you shook your head, disappointed when he released you at your confirmation of your well-being. You could hardly focus the rest of the evening, and when you returned to your suite later that night, you replayed the incident over and over in your head as you played with your clit, unaware of the voyuer who could hear you moaning his name as you brought yourself to orgasm at the thought of him and your own blood.

He didn’t bring up the incident the next time you saw him, which you took as your cue to not mention it either. As the next few days led up to opening night, you spent more time on stage with your backing band than with him. Though Chiara and Aileen assured you that you were ready, showing so much improvement from your first rehearsal the week before, you only truly felt ready when Elvis told you he knew you’d do perfectly–as long as you did what he told you.

“You’ll be there tonight, right?” you asked.

“You might not see me, but I’ll be there,” he promised.

You let out a sigh of relief. “Good, I think I’d cry if you said no.”

“Go on and give ‘em one hell of a show, baby,” he said, giving you a kiss on the cheek.

While you still felt nervous on stage, you didn’t let it get to your head as Elvis’ words the previous night echoed in your mind. They wanna see you do good, baby. That’s what they’re there for. Your backing band went right into your opening song, and to your relief, you started off strong, that confidence staying with you through the rest of your performance. It was fun to watch audience members react to your music, especially the ones who stood up from their tables and started dancing along.

The jokes you and Elvis had come up with were corny, sure, but they got a good reaction from the audience, and even the few you made on the spot landed well. Throughout your performance, you scanned the crowd for Elvis, but he was nowhere to be found. You were disappointed, but didn’t let it show as you introduced your last song of the evening.

You ended the show to a standing ovation, crying as Chiara handed you a bouquet of flowers from her seat in front of the stage. It went better than you could have imagined, and as the curtain dropped, you hugged every member of your backing band, thanking them for sticking by you despite the rocky start. Backstage was flooded with people fighting for your attention, but Chiara pushed her way through to give you a hug.

“You were amazing! Holy shit, I can’t believe you ever doubted yourself.”

“I couldn’t have done it without Elvis,” you said.

Chiara looked a bit confused, but nodded with a smile anyway as she continued congratulating you. As much as you appreciated everyone’s congratulations and well wishes, there was one person in particular whose opinion you desperately needed. Barely able to slip away from the pandemonium, you found him near the broken elevator. He gave you a dazzling smile when he saw you, making his way over to you.

Elvis pressed a kiss to your forehead before engulfing you in a hug. “You were perfect, baby. I’m so proud of you.”

You beamed at his words, squeezing him tighter against you. “Thank you. You’re coming to the afterparty, right?”

He released you from the hug, giving you an apologetic glance. “I can’t tonight, mama. You have fun. I’ll see ya tomorrow.”

When he turned around to leave, a smirk spread across his face at the dejected look you gave him when he told you he wouldn’t be at the party. With every day that passed he became more convinced that you were the companion he needed to keep the loneliness of being one of the undead at bay. He couldn’t rush it, though. The incident with your hand was a risk he had taken far too soon, and he considered himself lucky that you actually enjoyed it instead of being scared away.

The next few months were consumed by you. He spent as much time as possible with you, or would lurk from the shadows to observe jealousy as you socialized with everyone who wasn’t him. You didn’t seem to notice that just about every man who made a pass on you at the hotel’s bar or casino disappeared not long after without a trace. Sooner or later, the message would get across that you were off-limits, and he was perfectly fine feeding on whatever bastard tried to get in his way of being with you.

Your residency was going fantastically, and you even had to work on an encore set because audiences started demanding it. Every time Elvis praised you or told you he was proud of you, it felt like getting struck by a bolt of lightning. Usually you and Elvis would work together before your nightly performances, as you found being around him gave you the confidence and motivation you needed to perform well.

For one reason or another, the two of you decided to work on one of your days off from performing, but as soon as you got to your dressing room, you regretted it. Knowing whether or not you’d get bad period cramps was a crapshoot, and unfortunately, they were especially bad that day. As much as you tried to mask it from Elvis, he could see right through you.

“You alright, mama?” he asked.

“My cramps are killing me today,” you said, wrapping your arms around your torso. “I took aspirin earlier, but I don’t think it’s helping.”

He responded with a silent, intense stare, and you interpreted his reaction as disgust.

“Don’t be immature. It’s natural.”

“I don’t disagree with you at all,” he said. “You know, opera singers don’t perform when they’re on their periods. Somethin’ about it messin’ with their vocal range.”

“I didn’t know that,” you said, wincing as you sat down to yet another cramp.

He licked his lips, inhaling through his nose as he added, “You know what really helps with all ‘a that?”

Yes, you knew exactly what he was referring to, and one more than one occasion had masturbated to relieve especially painful period cramps. In fact, you had considered doing so earlier, but you weren’t sure you’d have the time before meeting him.

His voice was so dark and deep you wanted to drown in its depths when he offered his assistance in alleviating your discomfort. It almost embarrassed you how quickly you agreed and ended up naked on your bed, his head buried between your legs as he lapped at your pussy. You gasped as you felt teeth graze your folds, but nothing more. His moans put the one you’d gotten off to before to shame, you wished you could record it–put it as the backing track for a salacious song like some of the metal bands you indulged in did.

He rubbed your clit with his thumb as he ate you out, his pace relentless as you could feel yourself reaching orgasm. Still, it wasn’t enough; you needed more. Sometimes you liked to drag things out, edge a bit to amplify the pleasure when you finally did come. In this instance, however, you allowed your greediness and desperation to guide you.

“Elvis,” you whined. “Elvis—fuck, faster.”

Elvis. You wished you knew his real name, feeling like an idiot helplessly moaning the name of a dead rockstar while getting eaten out by a man almost twice your age who dressed like him for a living. Regardless, you carded your fingers through his greased up black hair, pressing his face closer against your cunt. Just weeks ago you would have considered the thought of this disgusting, but now, seeing your blood on his face only turned you on, and you were too determined to find release to even begin thinking about what that said about you.

An all-consuming ecstasy sent white-hot waves of pleasure through your body that verged on being painful. More intense than anything you’d ever felt before, the moan you let out was guttural, coming from a place of depravity inside you that you weren’t aware existed. You couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, only feel as you orgasmed and then promptly passed out on the bed.

Still in your state of unconsciousness, Elvis continued eating you out like a man possessed. Truly, he may as well have been, because every time he tried to pull away, the taste of your blood on his tongue went right through him, until finally, he had to force himself to stop. His eyes gazed over the blood that was smeared on your body, and he swore he’d never seen anyone so beautiful in his life. Cursing himself for not having a camera to capture the state of obscenity he’d left you in, he made a mental note to keep one for next time.

Feeding had become sexual, the release he craved in lieu of actually being able to fuck, one of the things he missed most about being human. Taking blood, taking life sent orgasm-esque waves of pleasure through his undead body that he long since stopped feeling guilty for. If tearing someone’s throat out was sex, going down on a woman when she was on her period was foreplay, the least he could do before the inevitable.

As you lay unconscious beneath him, he reached out, gently caressing your warm cheek. He didn’t want to kill you, it’d be such a waste. Between your beauty and talent, he finally felt close to the sun as he could in his endless night. There was no way of knowing if anyone like you would cross paths with him again, and so, resisting the instinct he’d developed, he pressed a bloody kiss to your cheek before leaving to find a way to satiate his bloodlust before sunrise. Just his luck, she looked almost like you.

The late morning sun peaked through your curtains, waking you up to your bed looking like you’d been murdered in it. You felt nauseous with embarrassment at the thought of housekeeping seeing, let alone cleaning, your sheets. Elvis was nowhere to be found, and while you figured as much, you still found yourself disappointed by his absence. Knowing the ‘do not disturb’ sign was still on the door handle outside your room, you hoped a quick shower would help you brainstorm what to do with your damn sheets.

Your legs wobbled beneath you as you tried to stand up, stumbling like a fawn into your bathroom. As soon as you flipped on the lights, your eyes widened at the state of the lower half of your body. Dried blood smeared across your thighs and legs, and as you turned to inspect the damage, you could see where Elvis had held your hips from the bloody fingerprints that painted your skin.

Using the wall for support, you closed your eyes as you let the shower run until the water was warm to the touch. The blood didn’t immediately wash off your body as you’d hoped. Instead, you had to scrub to get it off, watching the rust-colored water pool at the drain. Even expending this bit of energy exhausted you even more than you already were. Throwing your washcloth aside, you sat down on the shower floor, resting your head on your knees until the water turned cold.

You got out of the shower, drying yourself off with a towel before putting on your bathrobe. Standing in front of your bed with your hands on your sore hips, you still had no idea what you were going to do with your sheets. In a fit of nervous adrenaline, you grabbed them and ran out of your room to the nearest laundry chute, sending them down in hopes the sight of them wouldn’t trigger a homicide investigation.

When you met Elvis at your usual time, in your usual spot, later that night, he greeted you warmly with a kiss to your forehead, pleased to hear you were feeling better. You had so many questions, especially about the previous night, but unsure of how to articulate them, went about business as usual as he continued to mentor you through your residency.

The intimacy that you had developed with Elvis confused you. He wasn’t your boyfriend, yet he’d become frighteningly irate and disagreeable when you’d mention interest in other men, even in passing. Calling him your lover felt odd, as the only time the two of you did anything remotely sexual was when you’d be on your period, and he’d ravage you like it was his last meal and then act like nothing happened. The two of you were far too close for you to brush the relationship off as casual—casual had long since up and gone in the context of you and Elvis.

No one knew about him, though. He had asked you not to tell anyone about him, and whenever it seemed like someone would find the two of you out in some way, they either diverted course or he successfully disappeared into the shadows. Despite all of the time you spent with him, you hardly knew anything about him, long since giving up asking him any personal questions since he’d answer as if he were Elvis himself.

You could admit to yourself that the situation was fucked up. There was nothing normal about it, and you almost wondered how you ended up in that spot in the first place. Still, you weren’t sure if your residency would be as successful without him. Whenever you incorporated one of his suggestions into the show or followed the direction he gave, Chiara would tell you that critics were raving about the changes, and audiences couldn’t get enough—that much was true, as you found yourself having to work out elaborate encores. No one wanted you to leave. At the same time, the rest of the world was growing restless at your residency being confined to Las Vegas.

Chiara had excitedly approached you one evening before your first show of the night with a small stack of papers. As you flipped through them, she explained that your label had put together a report of cities with the most interest in you bringing your show to them as well as offers from international venues that wanted you to perform. Finally, she added that the label had pre-approved your next three albums—so long as you accompanied each one with a show similar to your Vegas one.

It was almost too much to take in at once. The money would be unbelievable, though, especially the international venues which were offering amounts that made your eyes nearly pop out of your head. The next decade of your career was practically set, and you gladly joined Chiara when she brought you to the hotel bar, ordering a bottle of champagne for the two of you to split in celebration.

You wouldn’t have to worry about a thing again, and you knew a large part of that had to do with Elvis. Breaking the news to him wouldn’t be easy, as Chiara had made no mention of him in the plans she had thrown out about your tours, and you wanted to keep true to your word that you wouldn’t bring him up. You supposed it meant he was only helping you during the residency and nothing more.

He was taken aback when you sheepishly told him the following night about the label’s offer and the plans to tour.

“I wanted to thank you for everything,” you said. “Chiara said the label wants me to take the show on tour–”

“You’re leaving?”

“I still have two weeks left of shows, but I couldn’t have done it without you. I mean, I’m pretty much set for life.”

He scoffed. “I’m sure you are. Let me tell you somethin’ mama. There are people out there who ain’t as nice as I am, ain’t lookin’ out for you the way I do.”

“Do you want me to just stay here forever?”

He shook his head, storming out of your dressing room. You didn’t see him again for several days following that altercation. Ever since you gave him the news about ending your residency, his direction was hostile and he withheld the usual praises he poured on you. During your last few nights of shows, he disappeared again, to your frustration.

You couldn’t bring him with you, no rational way to explain the odd relationship you had with Elvis. Chiara had hired him to mentor you, not be your overbearing–fuckbuddy? lover? bootycall? Not to mention, if he was this volatile, you weren’t sure the rest of your team would appreciate having him around. Still, the thought of leaving him made your chest ache. You’d miss him terribly, as much as it pained you to admit it.

You sat in your dressing room after the second to last night of shows during your residency. When you heard the door open and then close behind you, you could tell by the sound of the footfall that it was him. You almost wanted to chew him out for ignoring you the past few days, but when you turned around, he beat you to the punch.

“Y/N, I’ve been thinkin’ about it, your tour and everything,” he said. “Well, you’re not goin’ on it.”

You scoffed, after how he’d been treating you, now he suddenly cares again? “I don’t think that’s for you to decide.”

He smiled, in on a secret you were about to find out. “See, that’s the thing, it is.”

“And what sway would an Elvis impersonator have over my career?”

“I’m no impersonator, mama. I’m the real deal.”

Before you could respond, he bared his teeth, revealing unnaturally sharp canines. Your heart leapt to your throat, which you covered with a hand. Like stars that had aligned, everything made sense to you—his odd behavior, all of the anomalies in his stories and excuses, and most of all, his sexual inclinations. Just as quickly, those stars exploded into an uncontrollable supernova that overtook your mind as the reality of the situation caught up to you. Whether he killed you or turned you, you were going to die.

Your lip trembled as he approached you, hunger in his eyes and the slightest hint of a smile on his face. Using his finger to lift your head, he leaned down and kissed you slowly, sensually. Though the sensation made you feel dizzy, you couldn’t help but keen into his touch, opening your mouth the slightest bit to allow him access, to take what he wanted. If this was the face of death, you welcomed him with open arms.

“You wanna stay with me, don’t you, baby?” he whispered. “Want me to keep you all to myself?”

“Yes,” you breathed, gasping as his sharp fangs poked at your bottom lip. “Elvis, please.”

He grinned, pressing a kiss to your lips. “How can I say no when you ask so nicely?”

He pulled away from you, wrapping an arm around your waist, and without protest you allowed him to guide you to the broken elevator. He pulled a key out of his pocket, turning the access lock next to the elevator doors, which suddenly came to life as they opened before you. The button to the penthouse lit up when he pressed it, and you let out a weak laugh at the revelation that the off-limits suite was his.

Taglist: @eliseinmemphis @crash-and-cure @kittenlittle24 @im-lame-irl @loudwombatmugkid @rxsesss @roseymary04 @queendelrey @jovialladyaurora @positivitylane112 @moonknightswif3 @holy-minseok @datsavageavenger @21bruhs @luckyevansstan @djsjs13949 @butlerslut @ash-omalley @powerofelvis @sad-bisexual-bitch @peachy-deaths @kibumslatina @adoreyouusugar @raefoxiegirl @donnamarie23 @ilovehobi101 @memphis-menace @animeketsu-yander @phhistheloml @dkayfixates

#elvis x reader #austin!elvis x reader #elvis presley x reader #yandere!elvis x reader #yandere x reader #yandere!elvis #vampire!elvis #vampire!elvis x reader #elvis 2022 #austin!elvis #‘battie this is gross’ good

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forthegothicheroine · 4 years ago

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The King in Yellow, 1949

Much of this story is true. Warnings in the tags.

When I had pneumonia in my early teens, my mother brought home an armful of VHS tapes from the library to alleviate my misery. Knowing my snobbish preferences, she had grabbed copies of whatever she found in black and white. I remember something musical that I suspect was Busby Berkeley, I remember Mildred Pierce (a bad choice, as it turned out- the plot includes a young girl dying of pneumonia), and I remember a period piece called The King. I faded in and out of consciousness while I watched it, but it soothed me while I was awake and filled my fever dreams with sparkling images. I could never find it at the library again, nor at Hollywood Video or even early Netflix (once my father got the subscription service where you could order practically every DVD.) It was a bit odd that it seemed to be so obscure, given that it starred old Hollywood legend Ingrid Bergman (and, although I initially forgot it, Marlene Dietrich.) But even big stars make films that fall by the wayside in public memory, and it seemed that this was one of them. Google was no help, and at the time that was that.

I didn’t see the film again until I was watching Turner Classic Movies at my grandparents’ house. I loved watching that channel with them while filling out the crossword puzzle that came in their little TCM catalogue (all of it based on movie trivia, the only kind of crossword puzzle I’ve ever been any good at.) I recognized a certain scene where Bergman stood on a balcony, looking sadly at the moon. Her face had an expression of unutterable melancholy, and the crescent moon reflected in each of her eyes, giving the impression of two moons in one sky. I had very little time to catch up on what I’d missed before we had to go meet my cousins at the local Italian restaurant. I knew logically that the movie would be long over by the time we returned, but I turned on the channel anyway. Of course it had moved on to the lesser known Alfred Hitchcock film Stage Fright, but then I heard Marlene Dietrich sing before I could reach the remote to turn the tv off in disappointment. I knew that I had heard her sing before, and I knew it had been in The King.

Dietrich’s singing often comes across as somewhat campy today, with its Rs pronounced as Ws and it’s up-and-down tone. Madeline Kahn parodied it brilliantly in Blazing Saddles, such that it was a bit of a disappointment when I finally saw Dietrich’s western Destry Rides Again and found it to be lifeless and inconsistent next to the parody. Still, we remember her voice for a reason, and when I remembered it that night, I knew that its sardonic loneliness had rung through The King and made me shiver in my dreams.

The TCM schedule didn’t list The King in its time slot, but something else. If I had taken down the name, maybe it would have helped me find it. Sometimes the same movie runs under multiple names.

I didn’t see the film all the way through for many years, after I graduated college. I had found a web page that listed public domain film noir, including one called The Masked Guest. The website described it as a costume noir, and I curiously clicked on the link. Once I took in the credits running on the youtube window, my eyes grew wide and I did not move from my place on the bed until the movie had run its course.

The credits did indeed list it as The Masked Guest, but I recognized the strange repeating design on the title cards. They told me that in addition to starring Dietrich and Bergman, it was directed by Fritz Lang, and a character called The King was credited to “???” (I hadn’t seen that kind of credit since the first Karloff Frankenstein.) When the King finally appears on screen, though, it is unmistakably Orson Welles’s voice that booms out from behind his elaborate costume.

Here are the things I understand about The King, or The Masked Guest, or The Man in Yellow, or any other title I’ve found for it on public domain archive searches. Dietrich and Bergman play princesses named Cassilda and Camilla, respectively. Though Dietrich’s accent is German and Bergman’s is Swedish, they blend together to give the film the impression of being set somewhere on the map that I can’t quite find. The scenery and camera angles are very Freudian, with a great deal of archways and pillars.

The first act of The King involves frankly dull romantic plotlines, and the only thing that really saved it was the feeling that the suitors were supposed to be insipid, a suspicion lended credence by the fact that the love interests were listed so low on the credits. Dietrich is the scandalous sister and Bergman is the responsible one, though each takes on aspects of the other as the film goes on. Dietrich sings her song at a party, dressed in a fake 17th century gown and leaning against a piano. Although just a moment ago she had been laughing and joking with her gentleman friends, her song takes an abruptly serious tone (not seductive, not sentimental) as she tells the story of a city lost to time and memory. Bergman slips away from the party and onto the balcony, where we see that wonderful shot of the moon in her eyes. Is she mourning? Is she longing?

Dietrich cuts off the song by abruptly screaming “Not on us, King! Not on us!” She flees the party weeping and shaking, and from there on the film goes mad.

Though uncommon, it is not unknown for movies to switch between black and white and color, done most famously in The Wizard of Oz. The film The King recalls here is the silent Phantom of the Opera, which had a masqued ball scene tinted in shades of red and green that tried to provide a whole spectrum of color. The effect is even odder in the masqued ball scene in The King- the only color that appears is yellow, highlighting things like candlelight, Dietrich’s hair, a passing gown, a vase of tulips. It also highlights one particular masked figure, whose expressionless mask was decorated with a black pattern against a sickening yellow canvas- the same pattern I had seen in the opening credits. The color of his costume causes him to stand out from the crown even when he is far off in the background, just one head among many others. It must have taken long and painstaking hours of work to color in every frame.

Dietrich still seems broken up days after her song, though Bergman tries to coax her into joining the dance. Finally, at midnight, Dietrich goes out to face the party, but only to demand that every guest remove their mask. The yellow man with a voice that once warned America about a Martian invasion tells her that he wears no mask. Bergman reacts with disbelief, but Dietrich starts laughing like a woman unhinged. As she laughs, the yellow hue seeps out of the King’s clothing and face- if that really is his face- and begins to color the entire ballroom crowd. I think that what follows is bloodshed, but if there is any carnage (doubtful under the Production Code censorship), the blood must be tainted yellow and splashed across the camera like daubs of paint. Dietrich’s laughing face is doubled and tripled on screen until it dissipates, but even when it has faded offscreen, it feels as if her ghost continues to watch the proceedings.

By the end of the scene (filled with German Expressionist camera angles and mad violin screeching), only Bergman remains alive, cowering behind a grandfather clock. It does not hide her for long. The King steps towards her and extends his hand. Reluctantly, but with a fatalistic expression, Bergman takes his hand. They walk away together hand in hand. The screen shifts back into black and white, and then the credits roll before we can get a good look at all the bodies in the scene. The credits say it was based on a play called The King in Yellow, although Raymond Chandler of all people apparently had a hand in the screenplay.

As I said, that’s what I think I understand. It’s an oddly experimental art film for the era, and it may be awaiting rediscovery by the film festival crowd. I feel as if I alone know about it, though that obviously isn’t true. It is my little secret; I tell myself that my husband doesn’t need me to show it to him, it would be too odd for his taste. I’ve rewatched it many times, even if it seems like each time I search for it I have to find a different video platform or torrent. Naturally, no subscription site has it available. Maybe I am the last person who will ever watch it. Maybe no one will ever think to look for it again after me, and it will be completely forgotten.

When I was hospitalized, they let me use my laptop at night before I went to sleep (no power cord, though, in case I tried to hang myself.) I found a youtube link for The Man in Yellow, and I watched it every night. It wasn’t a soothing sort of movie, but having it in my mind all day and then watching it in the evening allowed me to think as opposed to crying endlessly while the other patients shot me awkward looks. I clutched the childhood stuffed animals my mother brought me when she visited, and I always held them extra tight when the masquerade scene started.

I watched the movie when I had to move away from my beloved San Francisco. I watched the movie when I lost the last of my grandparents. I watched the movie when a doctor unwisely took me off my medication and I couldn’t manage to eat for a month. I watched the movie when the whole world got sick and we all locked ourselves away from each other. I don’t mind that I don’t entirely know what it means. I don’t mind the nightmares. In the hospital they kept telling us about mindfulness exercises, and maybe the fact that I can focus on every aspect of the film so closely that all else falls away is the reason I keep coming back to it. I’m being mindful. I’m not letting any stray thoughts invade my head. I’m just watching and waiting for the next beat of every scene, leading inexorably to that yellow-stained bloodbath.

Streaming media doesn’t last forever, and each time I find The King, I worry that it will be the last time I ever can find it. My efforts to download it have so far been unsuccessful, odd considering that it is in the public domain.

When I watch The King, I am once again a child in my bedroom being cared for in the throes of agonizing sickness. I am once again sitting on the couch with my grandparents in front of the tv, both of them alive and lucid again. I am once again in the hospital, all alone except for my stuffed animals and the staff trying to keep me alive. The film reflects in my eyes like the crescent moon in Ingrid Bergman’s gaze. It sings to me.

I am determined to find a way to obtain The King under any name so that I never have to worry about losing it. During some of the worst times in my life, it is the only thing that has kept me sane.

#the king in yellow #cw mental illness #cw disordered eating #cw institutionalization #cw suicide

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immaturityofthomasastruc · 4 years ago

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IOTA Reviews: Truth

Hey. Hey guys. Remember when I said I was feeling optimistic about this season? God, that was funny, wasn't it?

Let's just... Let's just get into the actual first episode of Miraculous Ladybug's fourth season: Truth.

We start off with Gabriel repairing the damaged Peacock Miraculous, which also restores Duusu's sanity, before he quickly gives it a test run by transforming with both it and the Butterfly Miraculous.

And good lord, the result looks atrocious. This is the design for the new and improved Hawkmoth? First off, the peacock feather eyepatch looks stupid. Is he trying to be the Phantom of the Opera? When Mayura had the same thing, it didn't completely cover her eye and matched her color scheme. It just doesn't match with this new design here. Other than the feather, the peacock aesthetic is barely visible here. The most we get is a peacock feather pattern on the back of his jacket. And then there's the popped collar and coattails, which only look more ridiculous than menacing. What made the original Hawkmoth design work was how sleek it was. It was simplistic, which reflected Gabriel's no-nonense personality. This just looks gaudy and unnecessary. How was this right after the amazing suit the animators gave Dragonbug?

So after Gabriel designs another stupid looking outfit, we cut to Marinette, who's still trying to figure out how the Miracle Ball works. She accidentally opens it, letting the Kwamis out, who wreak havoc on her room because Marinette suffering is going to be a big part of this episode. This just raises the question: Why can't Marinette simply order them back into the box like Su-Han did, or rather, is going to do? It's still not established what gives the Guardians authority over the Kwamis in the first place.

Two of the Kwamis accidentally start a video chat with her friends, leading to some more Unfunny Marinette Slapstick. But Alya thinks something's up with her friend.

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Has Marinette even told Alya she's already in a relationship? Like, at all? It feels like all Alya is there for now is to remind the audience that Marinette and Adrien are “meant to be”, even if they're both in relationships right now. It's either that, or teasing Marinette over her crush and doing nothing to help her anxiety.

Marinette accidentally ends the call, before Luka calls to thank her for the pictures of Adrien one of the Kwamis accidentally sent him. Yeah, even though he barely appears in this episode (barring his scenes at Cat Noir), they're going to talk about Adrien a lot. Marinette continues to stammer around Luka (once again making fun of people who have speech issues), but Luka, being the ray of sunshine in any abysmal episode he's in, is completely understanding of it. He also sets up a pretty funny joke.

Apparently, Marinette missed her last date with Luka yesterday to see a movie that was re-released, Crocodile Heart, that was actually Jagged Stone's first movie. I wonder if it's connected to Crocodile Dundee.

While walking to the movie, Luka and Marinette play a game finishing the lyrics of a Jagged Stone song, establishing the former as a huge fan of the rock star. Before we can actually get an on-screen kiss for Lukanette, Mr. Pigeon attacks yet again, because I guess he's the first villain Hawkmoth wants to use in his new form.

Cat Noir sneaks up on Ladybug, causing her to accidentally throw him off a building before catching him, chastising him for the stupid jokes, yet Ladybug has to apologize for missing patrol with her partner, who casually acknowledges her new status as Guardian before the two go and fight Mr. Pigeon.

By the time they defeat him, the movie ends as Marinette gets back, disappointing Luka. We then get a montage of Marinette bailing on Luka multiple times to stop Akumas and Sentimonsters. To his credit, Luka is seriously torn up by all the times Marinette leaves him, showing he isn't just a calm soul.

After Marinette gets back, Luka takes her underneath a bridge to listen to the echoing sound of the water. Luka says that he never knew his father, and he would always go here to relax whenever he got stressed. He uses this to segue into asking Marinette where she constantly disappears to. He doesn't pressure her or anything like Alya, and he even says that if she still loves Adrien, he'll understand. He only asks for the truth. Unfortunately, Marinette can't tell him the truth, which just breaks the poor boy's heart.

Hawkmoth, now calling himself Shadowmoth, sends out an Akuma and an Amok for Luka at the same time, corrupting a guitar pick signed by Jagged Stone that Marinette gave him. And again, to Luka's credit, he fights back against Shadowmoth's influence at first, saying he trusts Marinette, but the temptation of knowing the truth is too good to pass up. He tells Marinette to run before being akumatized into Truth, assisted by the Sentimonster Pharro.

Truth's design is... pretty forgettable. The guitar pick being prominent around his neck is a nice touch, but it's just a generic black bodysuit with light blue highlights, and he has a third eye instead of a visible mouth. Pharro is also pretty boring, just a giant eye that freezes people in place so Truth can use his powers to make them tell the truth.

So Truth goes back to where everyone else was hanging out before he was akumatized and asks Alya to tell him the truth about Marinette.

Yeah, he's right, Alya. That's what you believe. We're supposed to treat Alya saying Marinette loves Adrien as an unbiased source. Truth asks Rose, Mylene, Tom, and Sabine what Marinette's secret is in this episode, and they all say she's in love with Adrien. That isn't actually the truth. It's like asking an atheist if there is a God. You know what they believe is the truth, but you don't know if that answer is actually the truth. Why not have them reveal other secrets about Marinette, giving the audience subtle character details? Like the writers could make someone say stuff like she still sleeps with a nightlight on, or that she secretly gets cookies from another bakery.

You know what also would have worked? Instead, have Truth catch Marinette before she transforms into Ladybug, ask who she actually loved, and then she'll blurt out Adrien's name, shocking both her and Luka. This could also make Ladybug's confidence in herself waver throughout the episode, wondering if she actually loved Luka at all. That would have been much better drama than what we're going to get instead.

Ladybug charges in to stop Truth, but is zapped by his truth ray, meaning she'll be forced to tell the truth when asked any question. Before she can admit her identity, Cat Noir saves her by retreating with her into the Seine, before reassuring Ladybug that he wouldn't force her to tell the truth by force. It's a nice bit that does show he respects Ladybug's secret, a far cry from his behavior in episodes like “Syren” and “Frozer”. Truth turns his attention to his mother Anarka, and asks who his father is.

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Yes. Seriously. This is happening. Luka's father is actually Jagged Stone. I have... mixed feelings regarding this development, but my biggest question is, well... they're doing this now? They couldn't save this for another episode? I mean, was focusing on Luka and Marinette's relationship (something that had been established since Season 2) not good enough of a plot for the writers? Why shoehorn in this plot development? Why not save this part as a teaser for a future episode? You know, have Luka walk home, and remember what he made his mother say as Truth, setting up an episode focusing on his relationship with Jagged Stone.

But no! Instead, we're just supposed to go along with the plot taking a detour. I can't believe I'm saying this, but I don't want Jagged Stone to appear in this episode.

Truth heads over to the hotel where Jagged Stone lives and asks him if he's actually his father, the latter admitting that Anarka was right. Truth naturally isn't happy.

Well, to be fair, it's still a better title than his first drafts, like “It's Not My Fault the Condom Broke”, or “Up Yours, I'm Not Paying the Child Support, Bitch”.

Honestly, I can get what the writers are going for, and I like the idea of them trying to give some depth to a character who was mostly used for comic relief in earlier episodes. The problem is, as much as they want to portray Jagged as regretful for walking out on his family, it still doesn't excuse him for never even bothering to check in on his children and their mother while writing a song about it. He doesn't even bother to give some money to the person he knocked up.

I'm not saying a conflicted relationship like this can't work in animation (a decent example being Steven Universe slowly growing to resent his mother for her time as Pink Diamond and believing his birth was an excuse for her to avoid responsibility), but you need to put more emotion into this. I don't come from a broken home, but if it turned out my dad was, let's say, “Weird Al” Yankovic, even if I enjoy his music, I wouldn't be happy that he decided to come back now of all times without so much as a “hello”.

Truth goes to Marinette's house/bakery, and starts looking for Marinette's diary to find out her secrets. It's almost like the minor plotline that he has a deadbeat dad was only there to eat up airtime. Ladybug is still affected by Truth's powers, and not long after she summons her Lucky Charm, Cat Noir is zapped too, so he starts asking questions that basically amount to complimenting certain qualities he and Ladybug have. When Ladybug asks him what he thinks about her being Guardian, Cat Noir says nothing's changed between them. It's a nice strategy, very reminiscent of when they had to talk in rhyme when fighting Frightengale. I'm also glad they aren't trying to play up Cat Noir not feeling as important immediately now that his partner has access to top secret information.

Cat Noir Cataclysms Pharro, but rather than destroying the Sentimonster, it causes it to go out of control, accidentally paralyzing Truth with some manipulation from her and Cat Noir. Ladybug then de-evilizes both the Akuma and Amok, defeating Truth.

Marinette struggles to find the words to explain things to Luka, but he says that he'll be waiting for her when she's ready. While walking back to his houseboat, Luka runs into Jagged Stone, who promises to write a song together with him. Because I guess Shadowmoth was kind enough of him to not erase that part of his memory. And of course, Luka just accepts this despite the fact that Jagged was absent from his entire life.

So according to this show, you shouldn't bother to give mean people a second chance, but it's okay to give your deadbeat dad a second chance without harboring any negative feelings? I'm sorry, but I just don't see the point of shoving in this subplot if you're barely going to do anything with it before coming to a resolution. If there was more detail put into it, like if Luka just angrily lashed out at Jagged for abandoning his mom, I would have been more open to it. But in the end, this major character revelation is nothing more than filler the episode doesn't need.

We cut to what I'm surprised doesn't happen at the end of every episode given how much crap she gets, Marinette crying in her bed, saying it's too dangerous to have a boyfriend thanks to Shadowmoth. One of the Kwamis apparently doesn't know what crying is, so Marinette asks them to give her a hug, and the showrunners really need to find another song to play at the end, because the upbeat song playing doesn't go with Marinette crying at all. Imagine if this song played at the end of Deep Space Nine's “In the Pale Moonlight” when Captain Sisko confessed to basically being an accessory to the murder of an alien ambassador. It'd be tonally jarring, wouldn't it?

Even the ending image doesn't feature Luka and Marinette together. Instead, he's hugging it out with Deadbeat Stone like everything's okay.

So yeah, that's how the episode ends. In case you couldn't tell, I thought it was awful.

Remember in my New York Special review, where I theorized that Astruc rewrote it to focus more on Adrienette to stop people from shipping Lukanette? I have another theory that I also want to be taken with a grain of salt. I think this episode might have also been rewritten a little to follow up on that. I mean, why else would Astruc spend two seasons building up Luka's relationship with Marinette only to rip it away the episode after they officially get together? It would also explain why it feels like there's two separate episodes going on with how shoehorned in Jagged Stone is.

But other than that, this episode managed to screw up the one thing I was actually looking forward to about this season, seeing Marinette together with Luka. Even if they were going to break up, I was hoping there would at least be a character arc for Marinette where she realizes what she truly wants in a relationship isn't with Luka, leading into a relationship with Adrien where she feels more confident in herself. I was at least hoping their relationship would last more than A SINGLE EPISODE.

In fact, remember that tweet Astruc made soon after the New York Special, defending Marinette and Adrien essentially cheating on Luka and Kagami respectively?

What exactly was so complicated about Season 4 when you're immediately going to break up a couple you spent two seasons building up? Astruc's predictions are about as accurate as Uri Geller.

And then there's the fact that all everyone talks about this episode is Adrien. Marinette's wall is covered with pictures of him, Alya thinks her friend's abnormal behavior is because Adrien's in the room with her, Luka somehow knows Marinette loves Adrien and is actually cool with it, and everyone else thinks that it's her biggest secret. How convenient is it that all of this happens when barring his scenes as Cat Noir, Adrien doesn't appear in this episode barring a five second cameo?

When I was writing this episode, I saw a tweet Astruc made addressing a question someone posed, asking why Adrien didn't get as much screentime in the recent Shanghai Special. He said that “history does not revolve around him”.

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For the love of God, writers, just give Marinette a plotline that doesn't revolve around her feelings for Adrien for once. People already started to get sick of it halfway through last season. Either have her confess and make the Love Square canon, or stop letting it dominate the main story for once. Why can't the writers just let her move on from Adrien for more than a single episode? Give her a goddamn break already.

I once again have to ask: what was the point of building up a relationship between Luka and Marinette since Season 2, if you're just going to break them up the second they get together? Why make a big deal about Marinette's conflicted feelings for both Adrien and Luka if you're just going to ignore her feelings for the latter in favor of the former? And remember, chronologically, this was right after the end of Chloe's “damnation arc”, another plotline that had been built up since Season 2 only to be aborted in favor of “sUbVeRtInG tHe AuDiEnCe'S eXpEcTaTiOnS”. It feels like the writers are trying to punish people for getting emotionally invested in any storyline that doesn't relate to the holy pairing that is the Love Square.

This episode is just frustrating to watch. Part of me knew Marinette and Luka were going to break up, but I didn't think it would be this bad, and it would be so soon. I'm glad they're on somewhat good terms, and I liked the buildup to Luka realizing Marinette might not trust him, but the timing of this episode is what baffles me the most. Is it any wonder I think Astruc may have rewritten this episode?

If any Lukanette shippers need to recover, I'd recommend checking out @mc-lukanette. They have some wholesome one-shots and fix-it fics for some of the weaker episodes of the series. In fact, she already wrote a fix-it to this abysmal episode that’s so much better than what we got.

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anothersievefistedfind · 3 years ago

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Fugazi, Trocadero Transfer, San Francisco, CA USA 11/5/1995 (FLS #750) & 11/6/1995 (FLS #0751)

Some two and a half years after having played the Fort Mason Pier in San Francisco on May 1, 1993 (listen as Ian references this event, location and its abominable acoustics during the night one introductory remarks), Fugazi would return to the city for a two-night run in the fall of 1995, more than halfway into their US/Canada tour.

The venue of choice turned out to be the Trocadero Transfer, “an after hours dance club in San Francisco from its opening in December 1977 to the late 1990s” which not only hosted numerous bands, but also provided a space for many DJs, Disco parties, Clubs or Nostalgia parties. Dance space features included “a narrow metal spiral staircase [also known as The Crystal Staircase] with clear plastic arms that went up from the dance floor to the balcony above where people could watch the dancers below” and “[h]anging from the ceiling at the center of the dance floor, there was the hypnotic mirror ball cluster—about a dozen mirror balls of various sizes which continually spun around and were the focus of the dance floor.”

While both of these Fugazi recordings do not offer anything really out of the ordinary in my opinion, they do make up a nice little collection and document solid, joyous performances delivered in very good audio quality that are fun to listen to, particularly since you get a good sense of the enthusiasm of the audience as well.

The recording of the first night showcases some 18 live cuts and draws mainly from Red Medicine (8) and In on the Kill Taker (6) with little of their earlier work mixed in, e.g. Repeater (3) and the 7 Songs debut EP (1).

My highlights here include the whole midsection from Target up to Blueprint which features a bit of an alternate ending to Suggestion (“there’s your funky breakdown boy”) as well as the closing trio of songs which features another great version of Shut the Door (arguably tagged Phantom of the Opera).

The recording of the second night presents a mere 16 live songs, almost half of which off of Red Medicine (7) while the rest of the set list does bring some more variation as well as some early live staples. In on the Kill Taker (3), Repeater (2), the 3 Songs seven-inch (1) and Margin Walker EP (3) are the sources of choice here.

This (second) recording is the one that I probably favor slightly given the general loose feel to the instrumental play and little improvs here and there. It provides a bit of a peculiar set list as well (dubbed “pogoish and backwards” by Ian for the occasion) with Long Distance Runner unusually yet successfully opening the show and transitioning smoothly into Turnover and another high-energy stretch of songs (much like the opening pace of the previous night).

My highlights include an incinerating version of Public Witness Program, followed by a great rendition of Song #1. Although Birthday Pony is not one of my favorites, it works well here, especially in combination with a notable performance of Rend It. Promises, again, is monumental, and a fierce rendering of Do You Like Me unexpectedly closes out the set with a BANG!

Note that the San Francisco Weekly published an interesting article titled “Margin Walkers” a couple of days prior to these shows, read it here.

The set lists:

November 5, 1995:

1. Intro 2. Smallpox Champion 3. Styrofoam 4. Do You Like Me 5. Interlude 1 6. Great Cop 7. Rend It 8. Interlude 2 9. Birthday Pony 10. Target 11. Suggestion 12. Interlude 3 13. Forensic Scene 14. By You 15. Instrument 16. Blueprint 17. Bed For The Scraping 18. Encore 1 19. Back to Base 20. Cassavetes 21. Shut the Door 22. Fell, Destroyed 23. Sweet and Low 24. Outro

November 6, 1995:

1. Intro 2. Long Distance Runner 3. Turnover 4. And The Same 5. Target 6. Repeater 7. Margin Walker 8. Bed For The Scraping 9. By You 10. Interlude 1 11. Forensic Scene 12. Returning the Screw 13. Interlude 2 14. Public Witness Program 15. Song #1 16. Encore 1 17. Birthday Pony 18. Rend It 19. Promises 20. Do You Like Me 21. Outro

#FLS1995 #fugazi #trocadero transfer #san francisco #CA

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365days365movies · 4 years ago

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February 19, 2021: The Phantom of the Opera (2004) (Part 1)

I love musicals.

Hands down, when talking cinematic adaptations of musicals, my favorite is Little Shop of Horrors. I’ve seen it MANY times, and will see it many, MANY more. And I’m not the only one. I mean, obviously, but in this case, I’m referring to my girlfriend. She’s chosen to represent herself with a GIF from her favorite musical, Hairspray. So, here she is:

Ravishing. Now, because it’s currently our anniversary, I let her pick today’s movie from my list. And so, she chose a musical that neither she nor I have seen: 2004′s The Phantom of the Opera. And some of you may now be saying, “What, this guy said he liked movie musicals, and he hasn’t seen TPotS? That’s like saying you haven’t seen Grease, or Singin’’ in the Rain, or, PFFT, West Side Story!”

...About that...

Yeah, yeah, I know! It’s insane, and I’m a hypocrite. I’ll be getting to the rest of those eventually, and one of them’ll be coming in the next couple of days, I promise. You can probably guess which one. Anyway, fact of the matter is that we’re gonna watch it tonight, and I’m looking forward to it.

However, there’s another factor to this, and that’s the fact that this film...doesn’t have the best reputation amongst fans of the original musical. And, yeah, this should ideally be the Michael Crawford version, but the Butler version is the one I have access to, so we’re going for it. SPOILERS AHEAD!!!

Recap (1/2)

Paris, 1919, back when the whole city was in black-and-white for a year. They lost the budget for color after World War I. Anyway, at an old opera house, an auction is taking place, and items found within the theater are for sale. One of these is a music box with a monkey on it, an item which sponsors a bidding war between an older woman, and an older man in a wheelchair. I’m sure we’ll find out who they are eventually.

Anyway, a broken chandelier is also up for option, and was involved in the mysterious disaster of the “Phantom of the Opera” fiasco. They turn it on with electric light, and as they raise it to the ceiling, the organist goes fuckin’ NUTS. The song’s so loud that it REVERSES TIME, and we’re now in color, in the year 1870 at the same opera house.

The theatre, managed by the soon-to-retire Monsieur Lefèvre (James Fleet), has just been purchased by Richard Firmin (Ciaran Hinds) and Gilles André (Simon Callow), who are there to observe. On stage, a rehearsal for the opera Hannibal is taking place, and the costume’s are already...like, a LOT, not gonna lie. The headliner for the show is soprano (and drama queen supreme) Carlotta Giudicelli (Minnie Driver), and is being funded by patron Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny (Patrick Wilson).

The background dancers are instructed by Madame Giry (Miranda Richardson), and include her daughter, Meg (Jennifer Ellison), and her adopted daughter, Christine Daaé (Emmy Rossum). As the rehearsal takes place, an accident happens on stage, almost injuring Carlotta. Enraged, she leaves, and refuses to perform.

Meanwhile, Madame Giry finds a letter from the Phantom, who demands his normal monthly salary of 20,000 francs, as for Box 5 to be left open. While the new owners think that this is ridiculous, they also note that it’s pointless without a lead singer for their show.

However, Christine is volunteered, and shows that she is indeed a talented singer. The show goes on, and Christine is a smash, much to Carlotta’s dismay. At this point, Raoul also discovers that this is his long lost childhood friend (and possibly long lost love) Christine, which she also noticed earlier.

But this is because of a mysterious teacher, who sings to her from the walls of the theatre. Meg comes in to congratulate her (through song), and asks who her tutor is. Meg responds...in song (”Angel of Music”).

Afterwards, Madame Giry also congratulates her, and tells her that the Phantom is pleased with her. Right after, Raoul also pays her a visit, and the two reconnect on shared memories of times in an attic in the summer. She tells Raoul that she is visited by an Angel of Music, and cannot go to the dinner that night with him. And the Phantom agrees, as he locks Christine in her room. YIKES.

And as literally every person in the theatre except Christine leaves, the Phantom serenades her, angered by Raoul’s presence, and Christine’s potential dalliance with him (”Mirror”). And through the mirror, he takes her to a mysterious crypt beneath the theatre. And as they sing their strange duet in the form of the title song (”The Phantom of the Opera”)...I try to resist talking about Gerard Butler until later. And it’s hard. It’s SO hard, guys.

But, OK, he takes her away on a...sewer horse...how the FUCK did he get that horse down there? And wait, WAIT, does he put her on that horse to walk her, like, 20 feet to the gondola? Like...WHY DO YOU HAVE THE HORSE? That is...monumentally wasteful. Where do you keep the horse? Does he feed the horse? How much? How often? With what? Does the horse eat the sewer rats? Is there naturally growing sewer hay? Does the Phantom’s salary go towards buying food for the horse, or buying new horses when the original ones DIE OF STARVATION - WHAT THE FUCK IS WITH THIS HORSE?!?!? WHOMSTVE THE FUCK

And yes, I love this fuckin’ song (not the singers, but we’ll get there), but this is distracting me alongside the statues of naked men in the sewer, because...well, Joel Schumacher. What can I say, it’s kind of his aesthetic. Anyway, we get officially introduced to the Phantom of the Opera (Gerard Butler), a very handsome-looking man who likes wearing a half-mask.

I say handsome, because the Phantom in this movie, looks...fine. HE LOOKS OK. HE LOOKS LIKE A DUDE WEARING A MASK. What, did somebody throw a hot candle at his face once, and he freaked out over it and ran into the sewers forever...WITH A HORSE? NOT OVER THE HORSE SHIT.

Look, the Phantom is supposed to be HIDEOUSLY scarred. Famously, in one of the film adaptations of Phantom, actor Lon Chaney Jr. purposely distorted his own face using adhesive face in order to play the role of the hideously disfigured character. Now, other versions have just given him severe, and I mean SEVERE burn scars. But behind the mask, Butler looks...fine. HE LOOKS FINE GODDAMMIT. He looks like he’s wearing the mask because it looks edgy and shit.

But OK, what’s happening in the movie? Oh, right, more serenading (”Music of the Night”), with another song that I like quite a bit. This and the previous song were songs Id heard before, and that I’d already had on my playlist. They’re great, what can I say? Now is Butler doing it justice? Ehhhhhhh, we’ll talk about that in the Review.

During this song he kinda seduces her, or attempts to, and also shows her a wedding dress. She sees herself in it and IMMEDIATELY faints, Jesus! Curtain falls on Christine while she’s in a bed, and we go back to her room, where Meg is looking for her. She finds the mirror, and is about to go back there, but her mother finds and stops her.

Meanwhile, stagehand Joseph Buquet (Kevin McNally) tells the chorus girls of the legend of the Phantom, and describes a physical description that doesn’t match him...even a little. We cut back to Christine, who wakes up in what my girlfriend refers to as a “bomb-ass HQ.” Which is fair, let’s be honest. Anyway, she heads over and tries to unmask her new masked lover (?).

He’s not the biggest fan of this, and he emos all over the screen (”Stranger Than You Dreamt It”). And then, as he puts his mask on, we suddenly (and I mean suddenly) jump to 1919, where the old woman, Madame Giry, bids farewell to...wait, that’s Raoul? HOW DOES HE LOOK SO MUCH OLDER THAN HER, WHAT???

Back in the past, inexplicably, the theatre owners and manager sing about the theatre and the Phantom’s demands ("Notes..."), and are soon joined by Raoul, who brings them a separate note, saying not to look for Christina any further. THEN, Carlotta joins them, delivering a letter of her own from the Phantom, warning her not to return to the theatre.

In his letters, he details how his theatre is to be run, threatening a disaster if Christine is not cast in the lead role, and if Carlotta is not cast in a silent role. However, the theatre owners and Carlotta refuse to obey, and Carlotta is cast in the role, as the owners try to appease her (”Prima Donna”).

That night, during a performance of Il Muto, Carlotta’s singing the lead role. Additionally, Box Five is full, and the Phantom is PISSED. So, like a Phantom do, it’s time for some good old fashioned petty revenge! He switches her throat spray, causing her to lose her voice on stage, and causing the audience to laugh when the show ends abruptly. They quickly and publicly recast the role, giving it to Christine instead. Well, mission accomplished by the Phantom! Guess we’re good without retribution. And then he hangs the stagehand.

Well...fuck, man. Realizing that the Phantom is EXTREMELY dangerous, Christine goes to save Raoul, who she...is in a relationship with now? Wait...wait, hold up, the fuck did I miss? I mean, yeah, he probably is gonna kill Raoul, but there is, like, NO lead-up to their connection before this point.

Anyway, as Christine explains that there is a Phantom when Raoul says he doesn’t exist...wait, WHAT? MOTHER FUCKER BUQUET JUST NOT MURDERED IN FRONT OF EVERYBODY WHAT IN THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN????? YOU LITERALLY HEARD THE...you know what? Break. BREAK. This is...this one’s tough.

See you in Part 2!

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