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kingstylesdaily · 4 years ago

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Why Harry Styles Just Scored His First No. 1 Song

Like any boy band alumnus, he first had to overcome radio’s bias against teen heartthrobs.

Late summer is a great time for sleeper hits: songs that have been hanging around the charts for months and finally hit their stride. Four years ago, in August 2016, Sia’s “Cheap Thrills” reached No. 1 after knocking around the charts since the prior winter, getting its final boost from a Sean Paul remix. In September 2018, Maroon 5’s year-old “Girls Like You” slipped into the top slot after wafting around the Top 10 for more than four months, with a Cardi B verse putting it over the edge. Last year around Labor Day, Lizzo finally topped the Hot 100 with “Truth Hurts,” a song that was two years old and had been rising gradually on the chart since the spring.

This year’s sleeper hit is “Watermelon Sugar,” a wisp of a song by boy bander–turned–self-styled rock star Harry Styles. With a name inspired by Richard Brautigan’s hippie-era, post-apocalyptic novella In Watermelon Sugar, Styles’ lackadaisical tune is not only a sleeper but a grower, the sort of hit that sneaks up on you—I wasn’t sure it even had a fully written chorus the first time I heard it, and I’m pretty sure I’m not alone. Indeed, the whole nation took its time deciding that this quirky ditty would give the starriest, most eccentric member of One Direction his first-ever U.S. chart-topper.

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“Watermelon Sugar” is the third single promoted from Styles’ second solo album Fine Line, which was released last December. That alone is remarkable, given the challenge in the digital age of generating chart interest in anything other than an album’s first couple of singles. Generally, in an era when all of an album’s songs are available to be consumed the day the album drops, you need a remix or a special guest of some kind to gin up chart action months after the song first hits streaming. “Sugar” has none of those. To be sure, there was some gimmickry fueling the song’s leap to the top, albeit of an old-fashioned kind: The song had its best week of sales ever thanks to an assortment of limited-edition vinyl and cassette singles that came bundled with a digital download. Those sales got “Sugar” the last mile on the charts, but Columbia Records wouldn’t have put the physical goods on sale if the song wasn’t already a radio smash—“Sugar” currently has the second-biggest U.S. airplay audience—and they knew they had an opening between current hits by Taylor Swift and a pair of lascivious female rappers I’ll almost certainly be writing about in this space next week. So, fair play to Team Harry: They took advantage of an open chart window, a tactic as old as the Hot 100 itself.

As “Sugar” leaps from No. 7 to No. 1 on the Hot 100 this week—essentially switching places with his ex-girlfriend Taylor Swift’s “Cardigan,” which falls to No. 8—Styles scores only the second-ever chart-topper by a member of One Direction. That includes all of the hits by 1D itself. In its five years of recording, from 2011 through 2015, the band never scored a Hot 100 No. 1. This despite topping the Billboard 200 album chart with its first four studio albums, the only group in history to launch a career with that haul. So … what was that other 1D-affiliated Hot 100–topper I mentioned? It was by ex-member Zayn Malik, the only member to break from the crew while it was still active. Zayn’s smoldering, Weeknd-esque boudoir jam “Pillowtalk” debuted at No. 1—and spent a solitary week there—in the winter of 2016, fueled by blockbuster streams and downloads ginned up by 1D superfans still mourning his departure the prior year and the group’s resulting, presumably permanent hiatus.

Explaining how the top-selling boy band of the 2010s could shift so many CDs and downloads but generate only two No. 1 singles means briefly recapping the fraught history of boy bands and the charts. Selling albums has never been hard for pinup pop groups, since the days of Meet the Beatles! and More of the Monkees. And in the ’70s and ’80s, such precision sing-and-dance troupes as the Jackson 5, the Osmonds, and New Edition managed to generate both gold albums and chart-conquering singles. In 1989, New Kids on the Block had the year’s second-biggest album and four of the year’s top singles, including a pair of No. 1s. But starting in the ’90s, as U.S. radio networks consolidated (fueled by the 1996 Telecommunications Act) and programmers more narrowly targeted specific demographics, radio stations shied away from maximalist teen-pop that appealed primarily to under-18 audiences. By the end of that decade, even as boy bands were enjoying a new wave of TRL-fueled popularity, radio became a chart handicap for them. The Backstreet Boys and ’N Sync had the top-selling albums of 1999 and 2000, respectively—the diamond-selling Millennium and No Strings Attached—but only scored a solitary Hot 100 topper between them, ’N Sync’s “It’s Gonna Be Me.” (Backstreet never hit No. 1: The deathless “I Want It That Way” peaked at No. 6.)

This radio bias against boy bands has persisted into the 21st century. And ever since the Hot 100 went digital about a decade and a half ago, teen-pop’s chart placements have been the result of a battle between rabid downloaders and radio gatekeepers—massive digital sales compensating for modest radio play. For example, radio was what kept the Jonas Brothers from scoring any chart-topping hits during their original wave of teen idoldom; their biggest hit of the ’00s, the No. 5 hit “Burnin’ Up,” sold 2 million downloads but only ranked 55th at U.S. radio. By the ’10s, the same fate befell one-man boy band Justin Bieber. In this long-running Slate series, I have chronicled the blow-by-blow between Justin Bieber and radio programmers that swung from Justin as hit-starved teen idol in the early ’10s to dominant young-adult chart-dominator in the late ’10s. In the early ’10s period, Bieber was a YouTube and iTunes demigod with not a single radio smash to his name. He could sell a half-million downloads of “Boyfriend” in a week and still fall short of the No. 1 spot, thanks (no thanks) to radio.

For One Direction, the chart patterns were the same. A Frankenstein’s monster that Simon Cowell famously threw together in 2010 on his televised competition The X Factor from five solo competitors—Niall Horan, Zayn Malik, Liam Payne, Harry Styles, and Louis Tomlinson—1D continually found its singles dragged down on the Hot 100 by radio, even as the band sold truckloads of albums. The pattern was set in fall 2012 when “Live While We’re Young” debuted with a staggering 341,000 downloads but could only get to No. 3 on the Hot 100, thanks to its 50th-ranked radio airplay. In the summer of 2013, the slyly Who-interpolating “Best Song Ever” became 1D’s highest-charting hit ever, debuting at No. 2 with record video views and near-record downloads, but at radio it never got past No. 53. “Story of My Life” (No. 6, 2014), “Drag Me Down” (No. 3, 2015)—no matter how many downloads sold or videos viewed, 1D could never top the Hot 100 so long as its radio spins remained limited.

The reason I’m running down all of this granular chart data is it reveals the hurdles both 1D and its post-breakup soloists had to overcome to top the Hot 100. Like Justin Bieber, they had to become credible radio fodder with adults as well as kids. With his early break from the group, Zayn was the first to pull this off. Though “Pillowtalk” debuted at No. 1 largely due to massive sales and streams, the carnal song did eventually become a No. 4–ranked airplay hit. Cleverly, Zayn had chosen a then-current EDM-inflected R&B mode and dropped his debut while the Weeknd was between albums. Other former 1D-ers have had their share of solid radio hits, including Liam Payne’s hip-hop–inflected “Strip That Down” featuring Quavo of Migos (No. 10 on the Hot 100, No. 4 on Radio Songs) and Niall Horan’s softly bopping pop jam “Slow Hands” (No. 11 Hot 100, No. 2 Radio Songs).

And Harry Styles? He decided to make things harder on himself. His 2017 debut album was chockablock with old-school classic rock. This would be like launching a career in 1964 with big-band jazz. While Styles’ fame ensured a big launch for his Bowie-esque single “Sign of the Times”—it opened, and peaked, at No. 4 on the Hot 100, fueled by strong downloads—radio showed only moderate interest. It eventually reached a modest No. 21 on the airplay chart. Later Harry singles like the twangy “Two Ghosts” and the thrashy “Kiwi” missed the Hot 100 and had little radio profile beyond a handful of pure-pop stations that were loyal to Styles from his 1D days. One admired Harry for following his artistic muse—more Joni Mitchell than Justin Bieber—but as a pop star, he arguably squandered his momentum coming out of One Direction.

What has made Fine Line, Styles’ sophomore album, such a clever left turn is he retained the rock flavor he naturally gravitates toward but converted it into mellow California-style surf-pop, and he let his production team—Tyler Johnson and Thomas “Kid Harpoon” Hull—fashion the songs into percolating radio jams. Each single has opened the door a bit wider: “Lights Up,” a No. 17 last October, is lightly strummed beach music with ethereal backing vocals. And “Adore You,” a No. 6 hit in April (for my money, still Styles’ best single), is thumping electropop. “Adore” in particular served as Styles’ entrée onto radio’s A-list—it reached No. 1 on mainstream Top 40 stations and No. 2 on Radio Songs by early summer.

With this beachhead established, Harry was finally free to let his freak flag fly with “Watermelon Sugar,” which is simultaneously his oddest single and his most infectious. The chorus consists of nothing more than the line “Watermelon sugar high” repeated a half-dozen or more times, with emphasis on the “HIGH.” (TikTok users have keyed into this idiosyncrasy, sharing videos in which the “high” gets its own video edit of the user playacting her best stoner face.) Last November, when Styles did double-duty hosting and singing on Saturday Night Live, “Sugar” was one of the songs he performed, and in that indoor setting, it came off as willfully quirky and seasonally incongruous; the song’s first verse line is “Tastes like strawberries on a summer evenin’.” Now, timed for 2020’s beach season—complete with a video filled with beautiful people on the shore, shot just before the pandemic and, according to a title card, “dedicated to touching”—it’s sitting atop the hit parade.

In short, Harry Styles finally has a profile on the radio and on the Hot 100 that matches his profile on magazine covers, and he achieved it on his own schedule and something like his own terms. Like John Lennon in the ’70s—the founder and nominal leader of the Beatles but the last former Fab to reach the toppermost of the poppermost as a solo artist—Styles just had to find his own way. As that onetime teen heartthrob sang, “Whatever gets you to the light, it’s all right.”

source: Slate

#kingstylesdaily #harry styles #hs: watermelon sugar #august 2020

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ambientstars · 4 years ago

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You once said you are a sl*t for praise so I was hoping you could write a 13 and fem reader about that? Please 😇

Gif credit: unknown

Note: I realised you asked for 13 after I wrote this, so I apologies for changing it. This isn’t half as detailed as I could’ve been, but I was already getting carried away, I didn’t want to make it worse. So anyway, I called myself out in this fic and yes, my praise kink still lives on to this day.

Warnings: mentions of alcohol, thigh riding, praise kink and excessive kisses.

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Bright lights flashed across her eyes, blinding her in shades of blue, red and green, but nothing could distract her from what, or rather who she was looking at.

The club was jam-packed, sweaty bodies grinding with each other and bumping into one another as drunken people pushed past the crowds to make their way to the dance floor or the bar.

The whole place was full of aliens of all kinds, some more human-like than others, all of them enjoying themselves at the never ending party the club hosted.

The music invaded The Master’s ears, the lyrics becoming blurred as she zoned out and sipped on her drink. She was completely transfixed, her eyes never moving for even a second, barely blinking. She watched as you danced in her line of vision, swaying your hips in smooth circles, your body moving in such a compelling way, it was hypnotising.

She finished her drink and blindly put the glass on the table to the side of her, just missing the edge of it. She stood, her long legs already taking her in the direction of where you were.

You held your messy hair out of the way, strands of it sticking to your sweaty face. Your eyes were closed and a big smile adorned your face, pure happiness radiating from you as you moved under the lights, dancing alone and seemingly without a care in the world.

You opened your eyes just as The Master reached you and your smile became even brighter, taking her hand and pulling her in close. Your midsections pressed together, her hips swaying and grinding against yours.

“Darling.” The timelord greeted with a sly smile, her hands falling to your hips and holding you as close as possible.

You rested your head against The Master’s shoulder, your arms coming up to snake around her neck. A light floral smell of perfume invaded The Master’s nose and it made it hard to concentrate on anything else, now that all of her senses were bombarded by you.

“Master,” The music was loud around you, but she heard perfectly, every part of her focused on nothing but you. “What are you doing here?”

“Aren’t I allowed to have fun, too?”

The Master and yourself had history, a long history. You’d dated for a while, your relationship blazing and hurried, your days spent tangled in the sheets with her, the whole thing burning brightly so quickly, but burning out just as quick.

Your once romantic relationship turned to arguing almost daily, the bond turning sour and toxic. No one could ever say what you had wasn’t passionate. Even in your last few days together lust burned in your eyes, your voices raised, every emotion on high frequency. Passionate was the perfect word for your relationship.

Your eyes slipped closed at the feeling of the fingernails digging into your sides, the pain barely noticeable over the spine tingling feeling that came with it. “You came here to dance?”

“Actually, I came here to drink,” The Master shrugged. “But now that I have you here…”

The sharp point of a small dagger was pressed to your side, The Master’s free hand snaking around to the small of your back to keep you still. She applied only the pressure needed to make you aware that she wasn’t playing games, her eyes holding yours as you lifted your head to look at her.

“I need you to do something for me.”

“You don’t need to use that on me. You know that.” You shook your head, your smile returning. “Tell me what you need, I’ll do it.”

Neither of you spoke for a minute, your bodies still swaying together, holding onto each other even tighter than before. You carefully placed your hand on top of hers that was holding the knife and moved it away from you, forcing it back down to her side, indicating to put it away.

The Master rested her forehead against yours, a smirk pulling at her red painted lips. “Such a good girl.”

Your stomach fluttered at the praise, your heart skipping a beat. The Master knew your weakness for praise, your eagerness to please too good not to exploit.

She leaned down and pressed her lips against yours in a barely there kiss, fleeting and ending all too soon. With eyes closed, you blindly chased her kiss, reaching on tiptoes as she stood upright again in her heels, slipping the weapon back into her pocket.

She stroked the side of your face with her thumb, her palm holding your jaw with a grip that kept you from pursuing her any further. She laughed lightly, watching as you frowned. “Always so needy.”

The whine that escaped you didn’t go unnoticed, The Master’s brow quirking in response. “Don’t tease me, Master. Please.”

“Would I ever?” You knew not to answer, despite the answer being yes, yes she would indeed.

She led you over to the dimly lit seating area in the corner of the club, growling move at the couple sitting there. The Master was well known throughout the universe and therefore when she demanded something of someone, they complied or faced the consequences.

The less human-like alien couple scrambled from their seats and moved elsewhere to continue their conversation. She gently pushed you towards the couch in the back, watching as the backs of your knees hit the edge and you fell into a sitting position.

She leant over you and crawled between your legs as you settled against the back of the couch corner, her knee just below the hem of the short dress you were sporting.

“What are you doing?” You swallowed, your eyes following her face that was closing in on yours.

“Do you want me to stop?” She spoke against your cheek, her lips softly brushing your skin.

You shook your head no, your hands pulling her closer by her shoulders. She moved her head, tracing her lips along your jaw painfully slow, placing a lingering kiss just below your ear.

“Good girl.” With her ear near your mouth, she heard the moan that rumbled through you as your head fell back in submission. “Oh love, that’s my favourite sound.”

She kissed downwards, across your jaw to your throat. She allowed her tongue to dance across your skin with each open mouthed kiss, warm and wet where your pulse throbbed.

She moved lower, bringing her slow kisses to your collarbones, focusing in the sensitive hollow and the dip at the bottom of your throat, chuckling when you swallowed harshly.

She was in no rush, brushing the tip of her nose up the length of your neck, inhaling your familiar scent, and nudging your chin back when she reached the top. Her long fingers encircled your neck, squeezing ever so slightly to bring you back to your senses and gasp in a deep breath.

“Say it,” she mumbled, her forehead leaning on yours, eyes never leaving yours. “Tell me what I want to hear.”

You knew exactly what she wanted to hear, she’d made you say it plenty of times before. At this point, it was second nature. “Master, I need you.”

Her grip tightened on your throat as she groaned, her eyes falling closed and her lips connecting with yours finally after so long of waiting, she grabbed your face in a strong hold that kept you in place.

She placed one hand by your head to keep herself steady and the other snaked around your waist, pulling you up to press your body against hers, your hips rolling on their own accord.

The beat of the song playing around you thrummed in your ears, the vibration of the base felt through the couch, adding to your trembling. You could hardly concentrate on anything else, The Master’s soft and enticing kiss pulling you deeper and deeper into her, your mind going blank.

She broke away from you to allow air to refill your lungs, moving back to your jaw and neck in the meantime, eliciting a whimper when she sucked lightly on the sensitive skin.

“Good girl.”

You could’ve melted into the couch beneath you, your muscles giving out and your bones failing to hold you up properly, something that made The Master laugh smugly, the hand that held your throat now moving up to hold your jaw and forcing you to look at her.

“You like that, don’t you?” Her hand from beside your head found its way to your thigh, sliding up so slow you could’ve screamed. The hand slipped under your dress, reaching higher in search of the thin fabric that covered your modesty.

You nodded, your breath coming in pants, your face flushed and your eyes darting between her hazel ones, now darker in appearance under the dim light of the smoky room.

“I want you to show me how much of a good girl you are.” She smirked, placing one more simple kiss to your swollen lips before she retreated completely, sitting up.

You followed without thought, desperate to remain close to her and the heat that radiated from her body. She sat back in her seat and allowed you to straddle her thighs, holding your waist to sit you down in her lap.

She pulled you forward by the hips and then pushed you back again, the friction between her thigh and your damp fabric covered heat sent a shock of electricity through you, your body falling forward slightly in response.

You gasped as she repeated her movements, your hands gripping the back of the couch either side of her head, your knuckles turning a lighter shade.

“Move, darling.” She brought you forward with her fingers holding your chin, bringing your lips back to hers. Her kiss was searing, hot and wet, and fast. “Ride it.”

You did as you were told, continuing the movements of your hips on your own, the sparks of electricity shooting through you at a rate you could hardly keep up with, your thighs aching with the unfamiliar movement. You gave little to no thought to the people who could be watching you, too caught up in the moment The Master had created.

The Master carried on with her praises, knowing they made you weaker each time she uttered them in your ear.

“Keep going, love. You’re doing great.”

“Does that feel good? Such a good girl, doing as your Master says.”

“My sweet girl. Go slower, I want to watch this for as long as possible.”

“That’s it. Just like that.”

You bit your lip as hard as your skin would allow without splitting, your head thrown back as you rode The Master’s thigh, going slow like she had ordered, feeling the heavy heat in your stomach burn hotter and hotter.

In your blissfully heightened state, your eyes squeezed closed, you missed the timelord take a glance behind you at someone, a satisfied smirk on her lips, her brow raised playfully.

“Master.” Your voice, your warning, came as a whisper, but she heard you as clearly as if you’d shouted in a quiet and empty room.

She held the back of your neck as she brought your head to rest on her shoulder, your movements becoming sloppy and desperate. She kissed along your jaw, mumbling encouragement into your ear and you moaned uncontrollably into hers.

“Good girl.”

That was the final straw, shockwaves crashing through you like lightning had directly hit you, your body slumped into The Master’s as you convulsed. She held you close, stroking your hair and remained quiet, giving you the time you needed to compose yourself.

She pulled you into another scorching kiss, her tongue sliding across your bottom lip, demanding to enter. Her hand was back on your face, cradling it gently, her kiss moving into a passion you’d never seen from the timelord and momentarily you wondered if this meant you’d have to go again.

“You look so pretty like this,” The Master pulled herself away, keeping her face a breaths distance from yours. “Pink cheeks, lips swollen, eyes watery, your body shaking. I could admire you like this forever.”

You groaned in embarrassment, hiding your face in the crook of her neck, your warm breath against her throat sending shivers down her spine.”So what was it you needed me to do? Earlier, I mean.”

“You just did it.” She laughed loudly, stroking up and down your back. “Come on, we’re going to my TARDIS.”

You lifted your head suddenly, your mind swimming at the speed. “We are?”

She grinned, her eyes sparkling mischievously. “You didn’t think I was done with you, did you?”

You bit your lip, a wave of excitement and anticipation washing over you. “No, Master.”

She smiled and pulled you up from the seat, pushing past crowds towards the time ship that she had disguised as a supply cupboard, your hand tightly held in hers.

“I’ve missed you.” She pushed your back against the door, her leg falling between yours and brushing against you, another wave of sparks flooding through you. “You came here alone, right?”

You nodded immediately, grabbing her by the collar of her shirt and pulling her into yet another heated kiss, frenzied and determined to continue feeling like a human firework under The Master’s talented hands.

“Good girl.”

From the other side of the club, The Doctor stood, the drink you had sent him to get previously in his hand. Between dancing aliens, he stood frozen and dumbfounded, having watched the whole ordeal with The Master, mixed emotions filling him to the brim.

He watched as you entered the TARDIS that wasn’t his without so much as one thought for leaving him behind. The supply cupboard disappeared without anyone noticing and with that, The Doctor’s stomach plummeted, his chest tightening.

Taglist: @another-doctor-who-blog @queerconfusionthings

#I decided to just post it now 🤷🏻‍♀️#whittaker!master #jodie whittaker #doctor who imagine #whittaker!master x reader #the master x reader #master x reader #the master imagine #dw imagine

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anothersievefistedfind · 3 years ago

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Photos © by James Vitatoe

Fugazi, Electric Ballroom, Knoxville, Tennessee USA 12/19/1999 (FLS #0960)

(Words below submitted by Antti Väärälä)

“Fugazi in Knoxville, Tennessee, playing the penultimate gig of 1999. This the band's fifth and final visit to the city. This show takes place at the Electric Ballroom, where they played the two previous times. The venue was a large warehouse that housed a massive dance club in the 1990's, keeping the scene hot with a wide variety of live acts. The place has since been renamed and changed owners multiple times, but the room is still used as a club.

The recording fades in with the band already well into Ex-Spectator instrumental. There's only a little mix settling needed before this turns into a complete delight to listen to. Considering the audio, this is another example of the generally at least very good sounding recordings of the era. The stereo field is fully utilized, every element is audible and the mix is in balance. I also really like the added effects, as they are not exaggerated, but instead build the overall atmosphere.

So, we miss any possible opening remarks, but the music rolls on. Guy leads a strong Latin Roots into an equally powerful Facet Squared. To finish the initial flow, we get a rare performance of Foreman's Dog. A very nice start indeed.

Fugazi's last visit to Knoxville back in 1996 is infamous to say the least. That same rowdiness reminds of itself during interlude 1, but this time the situation dissolves into half-friendly taunts flying both ways. Maybe even the roughnecks grew tired of the antics as years went by.

The absolute highlight this evening is the mid-show flow all the way from a kicking Birthday Pony to an atmospheric Recap Modotti. Closed Captioned has an amusing slip that the band recover from, and push on to a delightful outro jam. Definitely a classic live Fugazi moment amidst blazing performances.

Burning Too finds Ian stop his playing completely due to horseplay in the audience. The rest of the band keep the song going, and we get a rare anthem when Ian is soon able to pick up. The song was played only five times during the whole year of 1999.

Oh is very entertaining here, as the drum duo throws in some hot jams. Jerry Busher once again adds a lot of power and nice flourishes to the overall sound. Later we get a heavy Shut The Door, which was another rare treat those days. The song clocks in over 9 minutes and the mid-section is a terrifying treat, very dynamic and enhanced by the soundboard effects.

This is a typical show from 1999 regarding how the band draws songs from all eras, although the setlist isn't as massive as some others from the same tour. The encore is a great example of this variety. Included is a snappy and uptempo Smallpox Champion and yet another rare tracklist addition as Repeater closes the evening in an explosive manner. A staple of early years, Repeater became increasingly rare as time went by, and so it must have felt very special to witness live.

This is another recommendable entry for its excellent sound, more than a few rare tracks and the band's energetic performances. The tedious ‘Knoxville ruffianism’ keeps at bay this evening and the band is allowed to go into great flows.”

The set list:

1. Ex-Spectator Instrumental 2. Merchandise 3. Latin Roots 4. Facet Squared 5. Foreman's Dog 6. Interlude 1 7. Birthday Pony 8. Public Witness Program 9. Closed Captioned 10. Number 5 11. Exit Only 12. Reclamation 13. Recap Modotti 14. Margin Walker 15. Burning Too 16. Interlude 2 17. FD 18. Break 19. Oh 20. Interlude 3 21. Shut the Door 22. Encore 23. Arpeggiator 24. Smallpox Champion 25. Five Corporations 26. Last Chance for a Slow Dance 27. Repeater 28. Outro

#FLS1999 #fugazi #fugazi live series #dischord #electric ballroom #knoxville #tennessee #antti väärälä #james vitatoe

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datingintampafails · 4 years ago

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Chapter 32: Timmy*

Timmy* gave off a frat-boy kind of vibe with the pictures in his profile, a trope that has become my type. His profile did seem to be half-heartedly filled out; his hometown was just the abbreviation of the state, his employment simply said "cardiac surgery," and a couple typos.

Mostly my reason for wanting to message him, in particular, was that one of his prompts about a travel story was very obviously cut off and he ran out of characters. I messaged him saying the cliffhanger was dramatic and wanted to hear the whole story. It was a very long story, involving being in Ireland and a random person coming into his and his family member’s room. I mentioned I didn’t have anything quite that interesting regarding my travels before. We chatted more and although I wouldn’t say we had a lot of similar hobbies and interests, the conversation did flow well. He was definitely more active than I, going to the gym often and eating pretty healthy and en mass. Very much a gym bro type. I also had assumed he was a surgeon, given his position being cardiac surgery, but then learned later he was more involved in some sort of programming instead for cardiac devices, so not really cardiac surgery per se.

When we moved away from Hinge and onto text messaging, we were both mutually behaving as if we had known each other a while, and better than we did. At one point, he had asked, “are you a guy version of me?” To which, I was very aware of how little we knew about each other, which led me to respond that it was too soon to tell.

I did however confirm my place as forever the more aggressive one; I text him one day "Timmy*, when they fuck are we going out?" Not that it had been too much of a long time talking, but just that he had not yet made a move, and that we were obviously getting along and it would make sense for us to take that next step. We plan for a few days from then, a Tuesday, after work, and that it would have to be more or less played by ear because of our jobs' schedules being semi-unpredictable. My easy place, Armature Works, was chosen as where we would meet up.

Our date got pushed back slightly, as I got off on time, but he was going to be held up at work later than expected. He did however give me ample heads up, so I just relaxed at home a little longer than I would have otherwise, and perfected my outfit and minimal make-up. The day of the date, and leading up to it, I made jokes about being a catfish and that I was actually a middle-aged, fat, Russian man. I continued this while I waited for him when I was describing what outfit I was wearing so he could recognize me better with my mask on, then later added that I was still a middle-aged Russian man, but that I was still wearing a skirt and crop top. I waited for him on a bench for almost 30 minutes. I arrived on time to when he had delayed the date, but still too early apparently. Luckily, I had brought my headphones, so I just listened to some music to pass the time by.

Finally, I received a text message saying that he had parked and then that he could see me. Nothing is more uncomfortable than being seen and not seeing who is looking at you. I looked around and didn't see anyone that looked like him, so I went back to staring at my phone. Eventually, a man looking more like him appeared trotting down the small set of stairs next to me. Although he definitely wasn't short, he seemed shorter than what I was expecting, and his hairline seemed to be just starting to recede.

He was not familiar with the location as much as I am, so I took it upon myself to give him a tour of the location. Despite being indoors, and still pretty amidst a pandemic in late February, Timmy* kept taking his mask off. As a healthcare worker, I was confused and appalled; he should know better. I yelled at him every time to put it back on. Once he said, "you're one of those huh?" I almost rolled my eyes back into my head. Then he also asked me, "well when can I take it off?" to which I responded, "when we are outside and/or we sit down to eat/drink." He got a beer at one of the bars, and it was a beer that had some marijuana in it, which was an interesting choice. After having toured the whole place, it was time to split off to order our respective meals. I got my food, and a drink, and wandered over to the area I had last seen him, as he had said he was going to get a pizza. He was nowhere to be found, so I text him asking where he was. He indicated that he was over by where he had gotten his beer.

I found him and then he told me that he had ordered food from two different restaurants because he couldn't decide and also eats so much due to his athleticism. We found a spot to sit nearby outside, and it is a lovely night, we were comfortable in the fresh air. We both finally did take off our masks and started to eat.

I half-heartedly apologized for being so hard on him regarding the mask-wearing, but emphasized that I am passionate about proper mask-wearing because of my experience with having the virus and wanting to make sure to reduce the spread. He then said, "Oh you had COVID! I'm in a way glad to hear it." He then pauses before saying, "I have COVID too. My doctor said I'm asymptomatic? So I'm totally good." My eyes must have gotten the size of saucers; I leaned away from him and was looking around seeing if anyone had heard him. "Wait what?" Is all I could say. "Uh, no. Please tell me you're joking?" Timmy* stares at me confused, "I'm asymptomatic! So that means like I don't have it."

I am prepared to leave immediately. "So you had a positive test? What? Why are you here right now?" I say. Finally, he drops the rouse and admits he was kidding, but that he got me. "That was not funny. I was legitimately terrified!" So far, this date is bizarre. He mentions that because I joked around so much that I would appreciate it. I did not.

We eat our food and chat. Unfortunately, he also is a person who seems to eat with their mouth open. Another strike. Timmy* has become very comfortable around me, as he also decides to tell me another long story about the time he was "sexually assaulted by a doctor." Which was that he went to a doctor for a physical and that she had grabbed his testicles and had him cough, though the way he told it was extremely drawn out and had many mini-stories leading up to the point that was supposed to be the assault. I then told him, "I'm sorry to say that your doctor was not trying to hit on you on anything, that is a normal thing that happens with mens' checkups." This was news to him. It was obvious that he is not a well-versed healthcare worker.

Once we finished our food, I suggested we walk along the river. First, though, I wanted to drop off my leftovers in my car. We walk to it and I make him guess what kind of car I drive. He is impressed by my car and we don't linger long before I say we should leave the parking lot. He tells me that he has a muscle car, which is so random and I would never put him in a car like that. Whereas a sixteen-year-old girl might be googoo-gaga over this, as a full-grown adult, it isn't quite as alluring to have a car like that.

While on the riverwalk, I become irritated at the fact that he walks very slow. Slower than I am able to walk. It makes no sense as I am significantly shorter than he is, so my strides shouldn't be longer than his. I mention to him that he walks slow and I ask that he walk a little faster. He picked up the pace, but then slowly reverted to his tortoise-like speed over time. I tire of our uneven velocities and we take a seat on some rock benches. We chat about brief things and I suggest we walk back. Again, I battle with the paces, mention it a couple more times that I am unable to walk as slow as he walks.

We get back to the main area of Armature and take a seat in some oversized chairs. He tells me about his family and some stories about his relationships in middle school and high school, which are also drawn out and bizarre. It nears 10pm, and we are told by staff that they close at 10. A couple minutes til, I remind him we need to leave and I ask where he parked. He parked in a different lot, I offered to walk him to his car. He offers to drive me to my car. We do so and his muscle car is indeed very overly-masculine. He goes on to go through a bunch of random songs on Spotify, only playing each song for less than 30 seconds, very ADHD-like. He drives me to my car, but wants to keep me there, again showing me more songs. I'm politely just listening as he flexes on all the types of music he listens to. He tries to show off that he knows "alternative music," my preferred genre, but I point out that a lot of the songs he's playing are more "pop-punk" or just old alternative jams.

He compliments my music taste and mentions that he has noticed I am adept at knowing song names, musicians, movies, and so forth. I begin to joke that likely I am a little autistic, adding "I'm working on my eye contact," as I make direct eye contact with him. What he says next, is something that I was not prepared for, and something that still baffles me, and possibly always will. "Yeah, you do look a little retarded." Immediately, I burst out into laughter; not because I think what he said was funny, but because I am so bewildered and shocked by what was just said. Eventually, through the laughter tears I am able to get out, "Dude you shouldn't say that to a woman." He insists it was a joke and makes excuses, but I keep laughing, with my hand on the door handle just waiting for a good moment to step out. I repeat that what he said isn't cool, and eventually stop laughing long enough to say, "alright, on that note, I think I should head out." Being friendly, I still ask that he tell me when he gets home since I know he has a longer commute home than I do. I wave goodbye through our car windows.

The formalities are complete; he texts me ever so briefly the next day, respectfully I respond, knowing well I never plan on going out with him again. Then it seems we have a mutual ghosting situation, as I don't try to text him, nor he to me. This day I have another date, and after that one, I have no one that I want to communicate with as that is also a dud. All is good until a few days later when I am out with my friends in Ybor, drunk. I get a text from Timmy* saying "yo." I lament and groan and my friends ask about my reaction. I explain the situation and one of my guy friends asks for my phone. I hand it to him as he starts to text him on my behalf.

My phone is with my friend, but with my Apple Watch, I can see the text conversation and when he is responding. I start yelling "oh god please don't bring him here. I don't want to see this guy." Respecting my wishes, my friend decides to still fuck with him, but prevent this poor soul from spending money on an Uber and coming down.

My friends then send a selfie of themselves, with me not in it, saying "she's with me." I yell at them more saying, let this guy be, just ignore him. However, instead, my friend takes it a step further.

I tell my friend that he was too harsh and that I of course would have told him I wasn't interested, but a lot more mature and kindly. When later I check, understandably Timmy* has unmatched me on Hinge*, likely blocked my number. No loss there though.

#dating #relationships #stpete #hinge #bumble #tinder #tampa #tampabay #clearwater #florida #floridadating

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songfell-ut · 5 years ago

Text

Chapter 7: more talking

But it’s important talking! Clues are not gotten! A proposition is proposed! And damn, does SpellCheck not like Sans’ dialogue. D:

Chapter link here, hi @lostmypotatoes

When they strolled up to the chapel entrance, the captain on duty was the very one who had been in charge of Sans' cell the day they met. He was discussing the fireworks with one of his subordinates, who looked over the captain's shoulder and got very, very quiet. The skeleton took a great deal of pleasure in waiting for him to turn around, then saying, "Well, hey there. Don't I know ya from somewhere?"

The captain was ready to have a conniption until he spotted Frisk: Sans was leaning far sideways, and she was standing almost on tiptoe, holding the crook of his elbow so that he was escorting her like a proper gentleman. "Your Eminence!" the captain gasped. He looked back and forth between them, hand on his sword hilt. "My lady, where have you been? Has this creature done something to you?"

"He saved me from being ill in front of half the kingdom," Frisk said coolly. "I am fine now, Captain, thanks to his timely intervention. Has the benediction been performed yet?"

"Uh...no, my lady, but—"

"Then I will do so." With her head held high, the High Priestess led the skeleton past the guards and straight into the chapel.

Unsurprisingly, their entrance caused quite a stir. The last verse of the last hymn was starting, and as the pair approached the altar, Frisk signaled for the choir to keep going. The congregation watched, stunned, as Frisk took Sans with her through the ring of guardsmen and stood to one side at the front of the chapel, waiting for the music to end.

She hadn't planned on this, but she wouldn't have done it any differently; it was impossible not to smirk a little. The boss monster must have felt the same way, because he bent down to say, under the cover of song, "Didn't think I'd get t'walk ya down the aisle today."

"You do know that a girl's father does that for her, not the groom?" she murmured back, and Sans looked so chagrined that she snrrked again.

The hymn came to a close, and Frisk moved up to read the benediction. She tried to put her facade back on, but she couldn't help smiling; when she formally ended the service, there was more applause than she'd ever heard.

Though the guards prevented anyone from coming up to the altar, she reclaimed Sans and, ignoring all attempts to stop her, went to stand in the back of the chapel to speak with people as they left. Sure enough, despite the presence of her massive escort, there was such a traffic jam around her that Frisk ended up having to move outside the entrance.

Of course, amidst the compliments and well-wishes came several questions about her absence from the middle of the ceremony; enough people knew about Sans' abilities to ask if they'd really seen a woman and/or men vanish from the congregation, and why the people sitting near them had been taken away quietly by armed guards.

Frisk made a quick guess as to what had happened, and that the woman and/or men's families were the ones talking loudly to the guards in the next room. She told the questioner that extraordinary measures had been necessary for everyone's safety, and certain persons had had to be taken into immediate custody—no one had been spirited away to never be seen again, and no one would be, which her listeners seemed willing to believe.

It was also a matter of great speculation why someone would trouble themselves to put on a fireworks display in full daylight, and a time when everyone was in church and wouldn't see them. Luckily, the consensus was that it had been a mistake, and Frisk could feign ignorance along with her parishioners.

More cute, but problematic, was the custom of children offering her little tokens like flowers and ribbons on their way out. There were no pockets in her wretched dress, so her hands filled up quickly, and she could only tuck so many golden flowers behind her ears. On impulse, Frisk started winding the ribbons around Sans' arms instead and tying the flowers on; seeing that Sans was not killing or eating her, the children soon began ignoring the priestess and going straight to the skeleton, decorating his legs and poking flower stems through his wristbones.

Throughout this ordeal, Sans had no idea what to do, so he opted to stand there, expressionless, and do nothing. This happened to be the least threatening and therefore correct option; Frisk checked frequently on the crowd's reactions, but after the first few minutes, no one was frightened at all. Parents were even bowing to Sans and mouthing "Thank you" up at him as they reclaimed their delighted offspring.

The priestess had been sure to speak loud enough for the nearby guardsmen and any curious bystanders to hear, and when it was time to step away from the crowd and confer with His Holiness privately, she didn't have to repeat herself much. That was when she learned that magically infused items had been brought into the chapel in lieu of daggers or crossbows, and how Sans – still bedecked in flowers as he gravely related these particulars – had used his teleportation to thwart their efforts; the three suspects' friends and families had already been escorted upstairs for further questioning.

This last fact turned out to be a slight problem. Frisk had thought the "fireworks" would be easy to trace to anyone who had left the chapel in a hurry a few minutes after her hymn, but it seemed several people had been escorted out for questioning at the same time. Many of them had been loud or troublesome enough for someone to have followed the group out and slipped away without notice.

"Pity. Overall, a job well done, sir," the Cardinal told Sans, and gave the guard captain a look that forced the poor man to say through gritted teeth, "Indeed, sir. Thank you for your service."

"Thank you, Your Holiness. We'll take our leave, then," Frisk said smoothly, giving Sans the slightest tap with her foot. "A Happy All Souls Day to each of you."

Sans mumbled something similar, and with a couple of bows, they were free to go. The priestess was starving, but the second they got back to the workroom, she shuffled at top speed to her dressing room, slammed the door, and peeled the gown off as fast as she could. Her sigh of freedom was so exaggerated and yet genuine that she heard Sans mutter, "Guess it was good fer you, too," which made her laugh till she had to sit down amidst her shoes and catch her breath.

It was strange; by unspoken agreement, neither mentioned their embrace in the hallway, but as she came out in her loosest, oldest dress and they sat down to breakfast, the silence was completely comfortable. They each ate a small pile of soul cakes, some eggs, and then more soul cakes, not stopping until they ran out of milk and Sans finally allowed her to take the basket away.

They sat around for a few minutes afterward, half asleep, with the boss monster lost in thought as he picked flowers off his arms; she knew it was serious when he began shifting around and tapping his heels on the floor. "Hey, Frisk?" He twisted a couple of flower stems together. "How do ya go about gettin' a list of what human's got what monster? It's a Church thing, right?"

Frisk had been sitting cross-legged on the floor to unwind the ribbons around his legs, and stood up slowly to place a handful on the table. She'd known this conversation would have to happen sooner or later, but why did it have to spoil such a nice, quiet moment? "Is there a specific reason you want to know?" she asked cautiously.

"Yeah. One of the people after you was gonna use an ice spell she got from a monster named Snowdrake. The magic felt pretty fresh, not like they drained 'im already and jus' used it now. I figured he must still be alive."

The priestess sat down beside him and picked up another golden flower. "I'm going to be honest with you, Sans, and in return, I ask that you not get too angry with me." He nodded without looking at her, and she continued, "I already asked the Cardinal for those exact records, back when we met him and the King. I am deeply sorry for my phrasing, but I said 'a specific class of goods' because I wanted to be circumspect in front of you. I didn't know what you would say if I asked for a list of all the monsters registered as slaves. It is indeed 'a Church thing,' I am disgusted to say. Again, I apologize for—"

"Nah, you were right, I'd'a gone nuts. Ya don't hafta be so stiff about it. I know ya don't actually think of us as stuff ta buy and sell."

The words were mature enough, but Frisk didn't like the look on his face. "I suppose it's time we had a real talk about this," she said. "I've been thinking it over for years, and I have an idea of what we can do to put an end to the monsters' slavery. Will you hear me out?" He wouldn't answer, and Frisk tugged at his sleeve. "Please, Sans."

The giant skeleton flicked at the pile of flowers, sending them flying across the tabletop and onto the floor. "Fine," he growled. "Talk."

"All right. First, I don't know if you know the exact legalities, so: it is technically against the law to go to the border with the Underground, find a monster, and bring said monster back here to be sold, but it's rarely enforced, and it is legal to sell, buy, or own them. It's definitely a crime to buy or own a monster without registering him or her and paying the proper taxes, and the Church enforces it very strictly. ...Sans, I'm not saying any of this to upset you. I have to be sure you know exactly what we're fighting, and that if you charge out and start liberating monsters, you're going to make everything a thousand times worse. May I explain why?"

His teeth were gnashing so hard that it sounded like metal on metal, not bone. "I am tryin' very hard ta be good right now, kid. Ya better get to the friggin' point soon."

"Very well. The point is that if you decide to free any or all of the monsters and you kill a human in the process, not only will you go from an emissary to a wanted criminal, you'll reinforce everyone's fears about monsters being dangerous, even the people who left church today thinking that skeletons may not be evil after all. That much fear could very well push the King to declare war."

No reaction. Frisk stopped to pour herself some water, but she was thinking so hard that she just stared at it while she said, "I wouldn't be able to stop them from sealing the Underground and forcing every single monster in it to choose between slavery and starvation. And if you think you could use your magic to free monsters without killing anyone, don't. They'd figure out it was you, and you'd be banished at the very least. Meanwhile, I'd be stripped of my title, forced to pay double the full value of each monster, and imprisoned."

That made him sit back a little, but Frisk was not done by a long shot. "Now, if I thought that money would make the problem go away, I would've done it a long time ago—but no. If I were to buy every monster in the kingdom, it wouldn't stop anyone from going out to get new ones. In fact, it would drive prices so high that humans would be racing to set up camp in the no-man's-land and raid the Underground itself for more slaves. They wouldn't care what the law says. They'd be making more than enough to just pay the fines, or be so numerous that the King couldn't arrest them all. If you tried to fight them off, they'd kill any monsters who attacked them, claim self-defense, and get away with it. No one would stop them because we've gotten so dependent on magic, and right now, humans still think monsters are—"

"Shit on a brick! Fine! I get it. You're right. Yer totally goddamn right." Sans' head sank between his elbows, cheek grating on the table. "So, we play nice 'n let everyone see how cuddly I am, an' a few hundred years from now, humans might like monsters enough ta feed us every single day?"

"I'm getting to that, Sans. By law, monsters must be provided adequate food, water, and shelter, and any accommodations their unique biology may require. They're also not supposed to be used to commit crimes. If someone used Snowdrake's magic to fashion illegal weapons, I can have him confiscated and placed in my custody, and I'll register his new location as a house I own on the outskirts of the city. How long would it take you to make one round trip from here to the house and the Underground, and back? Could you do it, say, overnight?"

"Hmm. Yeah, it'd just take a lot outta me." Frisk couldn't help noting that he now considered it a given he'd be coming right back, and allowed herself to be very happy for a moment before he went on, "With Snowdrake, G—the doctor already told 'em to find whoever took his magic for that spell. So that's already happenin', which just leaves...how many monsters are there here?"

"I don't know the exact total offhand. I promise to show you the records as soon as the Cardinal gives them to me, if you promise you won't use them to do anything rash, which I define as 'anything you know Frisk does not want you to do.' For the immediate future, the best plan of action would be to check the conditions each one is being kept in and see if we can legally take any more of them. We'd need to do it before word gets out and everyone suddenly starts behaving perfectly—that's what usually happens when I try to order surprise inspections."

"Great, but when can we get started on makin' this shit illegal t'begin with?"

"When we have enough political support. We need people to feel that it's wrong to keep monsters like animals, even if they're well-treated, and we also have to be prepared when they ask, 'But where will we get our magic?' Part of the answer will be the natural power sources you and the doctor are working on now, which he should be able to formally present to the King before you leave. But also..." She trailed off, her throat closing up with sudden nervousness.

Sans lifted a hand. "What? Spit it out."

Frisk's heart was pounding. She knew Sans wouldn't like this part, but if she couldn't convince him, the entire plan was sunk. How to begin?

Something occurred to her, and without thinking hard enough, she said, "I'm sorry for the comparison, but it reminds me of Luke and his birds." He stiffened, and she hastened to add, "Don't get me wrong—monsters are not pets, and I'm not suggesting you stay confined in any way, but it's a valid example of working within the constraints of supply and demand. If we can't eliminate the demand for magic, we need to supply it without exploiting monsters, and we have to make it as painless a transition as we can. In this case, not only do we work on wind and solar generation, we..." A deep breath, almost a gulp. "...have monsters give magic voluntarily. You could sell it to us, or perhaps trade it as part of a peace agreement, or for food, until we learn to make enough for ourselves. Partners, not slaves."

Sans didn't move. "...Partners?"

One word, nothing more. Frisk's heart sped up until she felt sick. The boss monster was sitting stock-still, but the air around him started to turn faintly red, smelling like heat lightning. Frisk made herself say, "You hate humans. I know that. I won't claim to know exactly what you're feeling, but I—"

"Ya couldn'a picked a worse monster fer this. Ya know that?" The skeleton turned his head, and Frisk flinched: his right socket was blank, and the left was solid crimson, the same color as his blaster the day he'd been prepared to kill her and all the guards in his prison cell. "Lemme tell ya somethin', kid. I'll admit that you've been treatin' me right, and I don't mind bein' cutesy 'n nice once in a while if it'll make other monsters safer." His fist slammed into the solid oak tabletop, leaving a dent. "But I'll be fucked in the eye 'fore I go back ta Asgore and say, 'Hey, maybe they'll quit squeezin' us out like jelly rolls and leavin' us to scream ourselves inta dust, we just hafta promise we'll be good helpers!' Are ya kidding me, Frisk? This whole time, you've been plannin' to end slavery by gettin' us ta whore ourselves out instead?!"

The priestess' ears were ringing. She hadn't seen or felt him this angry since the day they met. Should she back off, try to placate him, and wait to bring it up again later—maybe shelve it entirely till she could talk with another monster?

No. She knew Sans. If she left things like this – especially if she apologized for proposing it – she'd be all but telling him that he was right to be angry with her, and he wouldn't have to face the possibility that he was unfairly pointing a lifetime of hatred in her direction. Not only would that gall her on a personal level, it'd unbalance him even further, maybe to the point where she couldn't reach him anymore. Nice, quiet moments were all well and good, but she had to be able to talk to him about difficult things, not just chess and stupid jokes!

Frisk pressed her lips together, burning with determination. She turned to face the boss monster, though they were so close that she had to tip her head back. "I don't know what else you expected, Sans," she said firmly. "As things are now, monsters have no future. Short of killing literally every human alive, the only way for you to live in peace is to live with us and make the best of it. You don't have to like it, but you do have to acknowledge reality. May I ask if you have any better ideas?"

His eye was starting to leak a fine red mist. "Mmm, I dunno about every human. We could start small, maybe a few hundred, work our way up."

That reminded her—partly out of curiosity and partly to distract him, she asked, "After you were imprisoned, did you stay put for all that time because you were waiting to kill whoever came to get you out?"

"Ding ding ding! Smart lady. Mostly." Sans suddenly reached down for her face. Frisk held steady as those huge, slightly pointed phalanges brushed her temple. "I did wanna get more information before I busted out, maybe identify who all had magic so I could kill 'em later." Something rustled her hair as Sans removed one of the golden flowers still tucked behind her ear, lifting it all the way back up to his eye level. "But I mostly wanted ta see exactly what kinda person thought they could box me up like yer little dumbshit boyfriend 'n his stupid-ass birds." A giant, horrible grin. The flower evaporated in a cloud of fine ash. "Then I was gonna snap their arms 'n legs an' wring their head off, nice 'n slow."

Frisk dug her nails into the ball of her thumb, controlling her own anger and, yes, fear. She had to stay calm and think very, very carefully about what she did next. She'd been trained in mediation—what was it Sister Maribelle had said? "Pay attention to little asides or silly demands that they refuse to concede. There you'll often find the real heart of the matter."

All right. She had anticipated some resistance to her proposition, but nothing this violent. Yes, he hated humans, and she hadn't touched that nerve so much as sucker-punched it. But why had he mentioned Luke like that, and why did he sound so bitter? Was he that offended at her comparing monsters to captive birds? Or...

...Good Lord. He couldn't be...jealous, could he? There was no way—but even if he was, why bring it up now? This argument had nothing to do with—

Unbidden, her mind flashed back to that moment in the hallway. She'd needed comfort so badly, and with someone she trusted right at hand, she'd been selfish enough to take it. Her body tingled at the memory of his hand resting on her back as she clung to him, and...

She still didn't understand what had happened to her heart. It didn't seem the kind of poetic, butterflies-in-the-stomach attraction she'd read about; this was literal attraction, keeping her against him for as long as possible. It'd felt absolutely wonderful, but a little frightening, like her – what did the monsters call it? – like her SOUL was literally stuck to him, and would tear loose from her chest if she tried to pull away. Was that normal? Maybe it was why so many romantic songs and poems mentioned a moment lasting forever...

Frisk shook herself. He'd been very patient with her hugging him, and pushed her away as lightly as usual, but she couldn't ask that of him again. There was no point speculating exactly how else he'd felt about it, or imagining anything more.

But there was a point in speculating about how Sans felt now. He'd had to get up early to sit around with someone who was clearly interested in her and who she hadn't done much to discourage—probably a bit annoying, but not problematic until she went and threw herself into his arms just a few hours later. It had probably come off as mixed signals at best, and leading him on or using him at worst. She could only suppose that it was still bothering him on some level, and then she'd brought it up amidst the stress of talking about monsters and slavery...

Well, Frisk wasn't going to give him a free pass to say or do whatever he wanted, but she wasn't nearly as angry anymore. "I won't apologize for having a workable plan towards peace, but I am sorry for likening you to birds," she said, keeping her voice quiet enough that he had to focus to hear it. "Lord Owen was a poor example, too. I don't even know if I'd like to see him again," she added.

Sans' aura receded ever so slightly, his brow creasing. "Why's that?" he rumbled, adding too late, "Not like I care. We're gettin' off topic."

Frisk was a little surprised herself. She let Sans see her hesitation as she thought out loud. "It's...tiny things. He's so perfect on paper, but..."

"But what?" snapped the skeleton.

"He didn't say 'Please' to the maid. No one in his family ever does," Frisk remarked. "They're not at all cruel to their servants, or even rude, necessarily. They just—and another thing. When he was moving my hand for Ruby to perch on, he was too rough. He scratched me a little when he took my bracelet off, which reminds me that I left it there. Wonderful." Despite herself, Frisk closed her eyes. Through the adrenaline of fighting with a volatile boss monster, she could feel exhaustion hovering on the periphery, clouding her judgment and keeping the words flowing: "You're almost twice his size, and you never manhandle me like that. He'd be more considerate if I asked him to, but I don't like his presumption. Did you notice how he smacks his lips when he eats? And unless he's changed completely in less than a year, his sense of humor is boring." She cracked one eye open, suppressing a yawn. "I know I'm being spoiled and ridiculous, but I can't help it. He's rich, he's very kind, and his whole family would welcome me with open arms. I've dreamed of having a family my whole life! But, still, he just seems...adequate. Am I wrong for wanting more than that?"

Sans tilted his head at her. His eye was still pulsing red, but he was clearly thinking something over; she didn't know whether to be hopeful or put up a preemptive barrier.

A long moment later, with an even more visible effort, he pulled the scarlet haze almost all the way back into his bones. "I got an idea, too," he said roughly. "You an' me ain't gonna talk about this 'partner' crap any more, 'cause there's no point. But you tell yer King what ya just told me, if ya haven't already. Get the plans squared away for convertin' all yer shit to run on good ol' Mother Nature, not from breakin' anyone's ribs an' tearin' their SOUL out." His eye dimmed. "I'll take ya back to the Underground with me an' get you in ta see Asgore. Then you can ask him what he thinks about it."

Frisk felt the blood drain from her face. "You...you want me to go to the Underground and speak with your King?"

He nodded shortly. "I won't lie t'ya, Frisk. I fuckin' hate yer plan. I'd never go along with it. But maybe he would, and he's the one in charge." The skeleton snorted. "And nah, I don't have any better ideas. Just...come back with me."

The thought of going to the Underground, and the way he said it—something in her chest unclenched, and just as swiftly squeezed itself back into a knot. Suddenly, all the exhaustion, tension, and frustration she'd been holding back threatened to boil over, and to her embarrassment, her eyes filled with tears.

The red vanished, all of it. "Frisk?" Sans leaned over her, orange pinpricks reappearing in his sockets. "C'mon, kid, don't do this again!"

"What if—" She had to stop and swallow a few times. "What if I'm tired, and you've just made my life a lot more complicated, and I need to 'do this again'?"

"Oh, I'm the complicated one?" Sans looked ready to launch into another tirade, but Frisk sniffled and rubbed her eyes, and the skeleton covered with his face with his hand instead. "O-kay. Ya know what I think? I think we both need a traditional All Souls nap. Sleepin's a good way ta honor dead people, right? It's all they do."

That startled a laugh out of her. "I'd argue if I could." She scrubbed her eyes again. "I need to think about this. It'd be quite an undertaking, but...who knows? I've already made you an emissary against your will. Maybe I can return the favor."

Sans perked up so much that she wondered if he was being sarcastic. But no, he just answered, "Sure, take all the time ya need. I'm still stayin' another, what, twenty days? That's forever." More somberly, he picked a golden flower from behind her other ear. "You'd be way better at it 'n me. King Asgore's not the same nice guy he used ta be, but I think he'd listen to ya. Either way, me 'n Tori would keep you safe," he said quietly.

Dirt. Frisk scratched her cheek where the petals had brushed it, wondering for the hundredth time how someone so big could move with that kind of gentle dexterity. She couldn't handle this right now. "I don't know," she tried to say, but her voice cracked.

The skeleton looked a little panicked. He glanced at the tabletop, guiltily moving a plate to cover the dent he'd made. "Nap time," he muttered.

Frisk nodded. Without another word, she rose and went into the office, and shut the door. She slid down against it to the floor, and tried not to burst into tears, or look at the couch, or think of the rosewood box hidden beneath the floorboards. But how could she not when he had flat-out asked her to go back with him?

That damned box. "For you to reclaim, or not," the Mother Superior had said the day Frisk left the convent.

Why had the old woman given it back to her? Why hadn't they thrown it away?

Why hadn't Frisk thrown it away?

What would happen if she just had Sans smash it? Would the orb evaporate, or would everything hit her at once? The thought was terrifying. She knew all too well that the women who ran the convent were neither sentimental nor faint-hearted; she couldn't imagine the state she must've been in for them to take that much. It had to have been literal life or death.

Frisk shook her head, giving one last sniff. Sans was right. She did need a nap. But when she thought of staying in here alone on the couch again, more tears started leaking out until she wanted to howl like a small child—again, the way she probably had when they first brought her to St. Brigid's.

This wouldn't do. The priestess wiped her eyes on her threadbare skirt and got to her feet. She didn't care if she woke Sans, he could always—

When she opened the door, she was met with a gigantic ribcage and a huge hand curled up in her face, ready to knock. Frisk leapt back with a little squeak. "Don't do that!" she cried.

Sans had also jumped back. "What the crap?! Ya scared me half t'death!"

They glared at each other for a moment. Then Frisk's mouth twitched, and Sans tried to scowl, but snickered, and soon they were both laughing helplessly, leaning against the doorframe and the worktable, respectively. "Okay, okay," the boss monster managed. "If ya really hafta have another slumber party, c'mon."

Frisk giggled again, wiping her now-raw eyes. "Is that what you were doing? Inviting me back over?"

"Well..." The skeleton headed towards the bedroom, scratching the back of his skull. "I can't do my job when yer in another room, am I?" He opened the door wider for her. "'Sides, Pap's not here, an' I can't fall asleep unless I've been buggin' someone."

The priestess gave him a watery smile. "I missed you, too."

Sans turned an interesting shade, and muttered a general denial of missing anybody, which she ignored. "Hey, hold on a sec," he said as Frisk retrieved a large quilt and climbed into bed. "Where's yer fort?"

She stole the single pillow and plunked it down on the far side of the mattress. "It's a pretend fort." The young woman lay down facing him and shook out the quilt, draping it over herself and scrunching the corners into a sort of burrow. "There. I can't see you, and you can't see me," she said through the top, and yawned. "Come on. Don't make me put you to sleep."

Sans' mouth opened and closed a few times. "What, ya mean—"

"I mean that I'm tired, and so are you, so get into bed and be quiet. That's how naps work."

"But—"

"Sans."

The skeleton didn't bother arguing further. He stood for a moment, and turned to leave. He stopped. He shook his head, and reached for the doorknob.

A movement from deep within the quilt was his only warning before the now-familiar vibrations swept through him and his hand drooped, hanging limp at his side. She was cheating: her humming was too muffled to hear if he went any further out of the room. Telling himself this was against his will, Sans shut and locked the bedroom door, went back to the bed, and stretched out in his usual spot, letting his eyes close and his SOUL soften as the sound lapped at him.

It was so nice to be safe with someone besides Papyrus, especially in a room big enough for him. He knew better than to be this happy with a human, and yet the thought of her really, actually coming home with him made him want to...he didn't know what, because he was out of practice at happiness. Smile, maybe? No, it was a deeper-down feeling than that. Grabbing her was out of the question. Sans tried to think of something else happy people were supposed to do, only to find that he couldn't move past the grabby option.

What did come to him was that quiet image of Kris holding his hand and beaming up at him. Yep, it still hurt. Hadn't he learned his lesson? He and Papyrus – all the monsters – had loved their little human buddy, and then he was gone, taking a tiny chunk of their SOULs with him.

It's not gonna happen this time, the boss monster argued with himself. We couldn't have stopped those assholes from taking Kris away 'cause he was a kid. She's the High damn Priestess, and if she wants to be Underground, we just have to tell the Kings to go to hell, and no one else can tell her what to do. She won't have to leave, and she doesn't have to marry that scratchy little prick!

The humming paused as Frisk pulled back the quilt to check if he was asleep. Sans grunted to let her know to keep going.

A patient sigh; the quilt came back up. "Sans?" she murmured.

"Hm?" The skeleton opened a citrine eye. "Wha?"

"Will you take me to the festival this evening? We can sleep until then, I promise."

"Hmm. D'I hafta put skin back on?"

"Yes, if you can. I don't want to make a scene. I just want to walk around, get some cider, and have my fortune told."

That made him open his other eye. "Fortune?"

"It's an All Souls tradition, a real one." Yawn. "There's a man, he charges too much, but everything he says..." Another yawn. "I have an important question. Don't want advice. Want to know what'll happen if I do or don't...something."

"Don't we all." Sans yawned, too. "Sure, we c'n go. Skin."

"Thank you."

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever ya want."

The humming resumed. As the world went fuzzy around the edges, Sans wondered idly what would happen if she did meet someone she liked. Couldn't he just kill the guy? If it happened a couple times in a row, word would get around, and she'd never have to marry anybody.

Yes. That was the perfect solution. Everything was perfect. Ignoring a little shiver of apprehension, Sans gave up thinking, and was asleep in moments.

#songfell i want to shake these characters

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kjissexy1994 · 4 years ago

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WORDS OF SHAKESPEARE: ALBUMS OF SUCKAGE: Limp Bizkit-Results May Vary

The year was 2001, Nu Metal was riding high with bands such as Alien Ant Farm with their cover of Michael Jackson’s “Smooth Criminal,” Linkin Park had a dynamic debut with Hybrid Theory and of course Jacksonville’s Red capped dynamos Limp Bizkit were still breathing in the success of their third album suggestively titled “Chocolate Starfish and the Hot Dog Flavoured Water” with tracks such as “My Generation,” “Boiler” and of course “Rollin (Air Raid Vehicle)” famously used as the entrance theme of legendary professional wrestler The Undertaker in the WWE (then known as WWF) during 2001 when he had the guise of the “American Badass” biker gimmick, but however with Limp Bizkit still embroiled with the controversy over the crushing and death of 15 year old Jessica Michalik during their infamous set at the 2001 Big Day Out Festival in Sydney and the Announcement of guitarist and heart and soul of the group, Wes Borland parting ways with the band to focus on side projects and his other band “Big Dumb Face,” left Fred Durst to pick up the pieces to record their fourth album.

As the band went through six guitarists during recording of the album (including Fred Durst and Bassist Sam Rivers) They went on a nationwide search for a new guitarist with the “Put Your Guitar Where Your Mouth Is” competition, Limp Bizkit then settled with former Snot guitarist Mike Smith and recorded a number of songs for the album which went through name changes with “Bipolar,” “Panty Sniffer,” “Less is More,” “The Search for Teddy Swoes,” before ultimately going with the generic and subtle “Results May Vary.”

Most of the songs recorded with Smith were cut due to executive meddling by Durst and it showed resulting in a depressing puerile mishmash of heavy and bleak tracks.

This album received a massive tonne of negative reception when it was released in September of 2003 after numerous delays, being ranked in at number 3 as the lowest scored album behind “Playing with Fire” by Kevin Federline. It was even being touted by some people as the album that “killed Nu Metal” which is a genre I loathe entirely as it was in a deep decline during that year.

Let’s go in the deep hole of RMV to hear why this album goes into the mantle of an “Album of SUCKAGE.”

RE-ENTRY

The intro track consists of a circus barker yelling to a kid (voiced by Fred Durst) for sixty seconds explaining about Limp Bizkit as “the most ferociously soothing ways of sonic communication to ever be created”

Okay, so I guess they were trying to copy the “Insane Clown Posse” here?

Then it bursts in a generic rock riff with Fred Durst telling people that all around the world knows him, slowing down and fading out with a drum beat... that’s it.

I mean, I was expecting the guitar riff to build up to something exciting instead of this. I know it’s only an intro, but I do know that it’ll go down hill from here on followed by the first single of this album known as...

EAT YOU ALIVE

This song running for four minutes is outright disturbing, the lyrics, the main chorus even the music video featuring Fred Durst kidnapping Thora Birch in a forest, spraying her with gasoline and screaming into a megaphone to her whilst the band plays! The lyrics consists of Durst singing about wanting a girl to look at him and having a strong desire to “sniff her panties?” *VOMITS!* If you ever said those lyrics to a girl that you love in real life, she would immediately break up with you and be warranted a restraining order. The drums and bass sound generic and the guitar work tries to build this up as some sort of a fight song which immediately fails to do so...this was also the first single of this album. THIS WAS THE FIRST SINGLE OF THIS ALBUM...I am not making this up, why on earth would Limp Bizkit release this as the first single of this album, not to mention getting a disturbing music video?

Ugh...

GIMME the Mic

This track is just another generic Nu Metal sounding track, the guitars sound very pungent in aggression but the rest of the instruments deliver nothing. The main hook is heavily sampled from Eric B and Rakin’s Microphone Fiend, later covered by Rage Against The Machine (which I kind of dislike due to their political beliefs) On their posthumous “Renegades” covers album as Limp Bizkit are downright infamous for sampling hooks such as the main chorus of Nine Inch Nails’

“Closer” for their expletive laden song titled “Hot Dog” on “Chocolate Starfish”. Add in Durst’s trademark whiny anger, pathetic song writing and rapping and you have a stinky sounding Nu Metal song that can be made on a “Nu Metal Band Maker” software. Aggressive generic riffs, whiny angry lyrics, fake b-grade angst: profit!

No wonder why that this album and the cover song that I’ll get to later on is one of the factors that killed mainstream Nu Metal in 2003! Next!

UNDERNEATH THE GUN

This song is the first in the number of songs that Fred shows his singing ability and it just sounds absolutely bland and Monotonous. The instruments such as Sam Rivers on the drums and the chords on the guitar have very good delivery and build up in the bridge, but it just sounds absolutely hindered with Fred trying to stay awake singing a song about “suicide and the struggle you have when ending your life becomes an option” with such a dull melody and it goes on for almost six minutes...I mean why did many red Yankees cap wearing Limp Bizkit fans fall for buying this album? The sad sad fact that it sold more copies than any Motörhead albums baffles me extremely. Our god Lemmy must be turning in his grave...

DOWN ANOTHER DAY

Jesus tap dancing Christ, we go from Fred’s whiny anger fuelled tirades to another mellow monotone delivery about our hero singing about missing his summer love (presumably Britney Spears during his somewhat extremely messy affair during the recording of “In the Zone”) and having to deal with the next winter. The lyrics in the main chorus and bridge are repetitive as hell and the instruments are just nearly nonexistent with little or no effort, not to mention that this song is also plagued with very pathetic songwriting...just garbage time indeed...

ALMOST OVER

Yet another extremely repetitive track, explaining Durst’s life from growing up learning how to rap, taking a lot of crap, and being treated as a clown as a little boy to learning how to lose and getting treated as a clown as an older man. Fred rhymes the end of the verses with the words “Little Boy,” and “Older Man” 16 times and the word “Baby” 19 times, totalling up to 51 times!

Another song wrecked by abysmal songwriting from the red capped turd himself, The instruments are getting worse with every track sounding more and more generic with little or no build up, which is sad because Sam Rivers, John Otto and Mike Smith are such good musicians but are being hindered heavily due to Durst’s whiny vocals...the next track should be good, can it?

BUILD A BRIDGE

Ehhh...okay, this song has a bog standard melody and instruments with such a strong build up in the bridge but it’s passable at least, this song features Brian “Head” Welch from KoRn who is a very talented guitarist and perhaps one of the only Nu Metal bands I can tolerate listening to, but his ability is kind of wasted here due to Durst’s sub par ability to sing, not to mention these are one of the songs rumoured to be impulsively directed to Britney Spears. Imagine being one of the guitarists of one of the bands that invented the “Nu Metal” genre only to record a song about being involved with one the most popular pop singers of the time of release?

“LEAVE BRITNEY ALONE!” - Chris Croker, 2007

RED LIGHT GREEN LIGHT (Featuring Snoop Dogg)

Another Rap/Hip Hop duet with one of the biggest rap/ hip hop legends, and still it’s repetitive as hell despite the funky beat from DJ Lethal as well as Snoop Dogg calling Fred Durst his “nephew” with the lyric “Snoop dogg is in the place to see, do it with my nephew Freddy d.”

You have no relation with this pile of gutter trash whatsoever!!!

This song is attempting to repeat the success with “N 2 Gether Now” featuring Method Man four years earlier in “Significant Other” but it fails massively with Fred’s lyrics in the first and third verses ending with “Baby” 25 times with the same word repeated 10 times in the main chorus totalling up to 35 times. I would be ashamed to have been Snoop to record a duet with who used to be one of the biggest people in music during Limp Bizkit’s popularity from 1999-2001 not to mention rapping a duet to call him his “nephew!”

The bonus track “Take It Home” which heavily samples the song “Milk and Honey” by Bonnie Dobson is another sub par effort having Fred repeat the lyric “Crying Myself To Sleep” whilst DJ Lethal jams....NEXT!

THE ONLY ONE

Mike Smith is trying to do an acceptable riff or two which I praise for but the effort is just completely wasted, this song is just another whinge-fest with lyrics about using terms of having sex and making out such as “first base” (again presumably directed to Britney) but it just sounds absolutely whiny and generic with Fred singing with heavily instrumentation behind him as he repeatedly screaming the word “NOTHING!” Towards the end and it just ends after that.

Such a putrid mess...

Oh and the lyric “It’s No Big Deal?”

It is a big deal when you’re trying to record a follow up to your previous multi platinum when your most talented member leaves and you have to pick up the pieces with six guitarists, two being yourself and Sam Rivers.

LET ME DOWN

“Let Me Down” has a lot of effort but has simple and dull instrumentation and Durst sounds a lot better than the previous tracks, but however the lyrics are very iffy such as “Heartbreak is a Headache, like a toothquake or an earthquake” “Spontaneous Combustion leaves a taste that’s so disgustin’” and “Rumours are Tumours?” Whilst this song is somewhat passable it’s still coming from a 33 year old at the time whining about life and struggles.

LONELY WORLD

Another song about Fred Durst, whining about his past life such as hating high school with bullies trying to put him down as well as making out with his gothic girlfriend out in the creek whilst his mother was asleep along with gross lyrics such as “Just a little skater boy they could pick on

I learned to forgive 'em

Now I got the balls they can lick on”

Jesus Christ Fred! You were 33 years old at the time of release! Just do us a favour and grow up at least. The main chorus and bridge is still very tedious repeating the main title of the song in a total of 37 times. Un-fucken-believable!

PHENOMENON

After what would’ve been an extremely energetic guitar intro from Mike Smith, The band just slams on the breaks with our hero Fred introducing himself as “the incredible, subliminal, the INFREDIBLE D.”

Here we go again with copy, pasting and editing lyrics of other music groups songs and claiming them your own (the song being Bring the Noize with Anthrax featuring Public Enemy).

The main chorus has a lot of effort but the verses, consisting of Fred Durst’s cruisy rapping,

Not to mention the section after the bridge references “Pollution” from their debut album from 1997 “Three Dollar Bill Y’all” which contains the lyric “Gonna Bring that beat back” which is perhaps the only good album from the band themselves (apart from that Faith cover).

“Phenomenon” is just a ratty mishmash of heavy instrumentation in the main chorus and laidback rapping from Fred in the verses.

CREAMER (RADIO IS DEAD)

Another song with Fred Durst taking an aim against the haters proclaiming “Take a look at me now I’m Mr Worldwide and you’re nothing!” But it contains such sucky lyrics and rhymes such as “Mr Halitosis-of the Breath” and verses and the main chorus such as “Hateraid”, and “rolling dice and getting laid” respectively. Fred also believes that “Radio is Dead. Why’s that? Because many radio stations worldwide won’t play your shoddy music anymore? (Unlike Triple M that continues the play that song in two tracks time) plus what’s with the title “Creamer?” A Frank reference to ejaculation? A quick fact, A massive portion of the song was recycled from Limp Bizkit’s unfinished cover of Frankie Goes to Hollywood’s “Relax” which was intended to be in the Ben Stiller movie “Zoolander” hence the title being in the second verse” and Fred Durst’s “blink and you’ll miss it” cameo in the aforementioned movie. Ben Stiller is his “favourite motherfucker” after all.

HEAD FOR THE BARRICADE

An energetic, aggressive fight song against bullying which blatantly references the 1999 Columbine High School shooting in the intro, not paying respect to the victims? How fucking low is that? This song also heavily borrows the refrain “Stick Em, Ha Ha Ha Stick Em!” From The Fat Boys song titled “Human Beatbox” for the main chorus which most of the album and previous albums before it samples lyrics from other songs. Another lyric that catches my ear is “The World can make you sick to your stomach so I put on my headphones and listen to the “Deftones.”

Yeah, I’d rather listen to a huge dose of Deftones after listening to this pile of puke.

I praise the guitar work and build up from Mike Smith which shows his full potential in this song as his talent was heavily wasted in this album, but I still criticise this song for deliberately referencing the shooting tragedy at Columbine High School with no respect to the victims families. You’ve just damaged your reputation with this song in this album Fred, oh wait...it’ll be damaged even further with the next track....

Now we’re getting to the “shitty gritty” of this album...one of the...most disrespectful covers...that still gets played on Triple M seventeen years after it’s original release...and what cemented its place as the cover song that signalled the death of mainstream Nu Metal...

*WARNING: EXPLICIT LANGUAGE USED HEAVILY*

BEHIND BLUE EYES (THE WHO COVER)

*VIOLENTLY VOMITS INTENSELY*

WHERE DO I FUCKING BEGIN WITH THIS PILE OF MONKEY SHIT?

This cover of a classic rock ballad from The Who, one of my favourite rock bands of all time from my favourite albums “Who’s Next” is just indescribably DISRESPECTFUL, PUTRID AND WEAK AS PISS!!! Complete from the non existent sampled guitar work, Fred Durst’s inability to sing with his monotonous delivery of vocals and the dreary sound effects in the main chorus sounding like when you turn on a Sony PlayStation 2.

There is absolutely NO EMOTION in this cover at all! In the original version from The Who, Roger Daltrey sings this song with heavy emotion plus he sounds very angry in the bridge section. And where is the bridge section in this cover exactly? Oh...it’s replaced with a Speak N Spell, A FUCKING SPEAK N SPELL saying “Discover” and spelling “L.I.M.P” part of their terrible band name that’s named after a disgusting sex game in Britain, not to mention, Fred’s statement that he’s not telling lies is another stealthy direction to Britney Spears FOR FUCKS SAKE! I thought that I was hearing a demo version of song containing the section with the Speak N Spell during the instrumental break and Fred whining about “being sorry and not telling lies” would be a placeholder recorded before Mike Smith joined hoping that they would record a much more aggressive, rap heavy version of the bridge from the original but nope! They apparently released this absolute joke of a cover as it is! Was it really such an absolutely bright idea to bastardise such a classic “The Who” song from one of my favourite albums of all time? At least Faith No More knew what they were doing when they recorded their cover of Lionel Richie and The Commodores’ “Easy” on the rerelease of “Angel Dust.” Surely a verse was absent in that cover, but at least it was slightly faithful to the original version. (Still makes me sick that Limp Bizkit opened up for FNM during their American leg of the “Album of the Year” tour in September and October of 1997.) Did you know that song also got an awful music video to promote the 2003 movie Gothika (which this song appeared in) where Fred Durst tongue wrestles Halle Berry in a Psychiatric Ward?

The fact that this was the second single from this neanderthalic mess of an album, charting in at number 4 on the Aria Charts in 2003/04 not to mention being overplayed on mainstream radio stations such as Triple M to prove that Limp Bizkit had a soft side makes me undesirably sad to this very day...

Truely such a horrible cover song in rock, and don’t get me started on that cover of George Michael’s “Faith” that is the same level of absurdity of this song.

The song features another bonus track titled “All That Easy” featuring another monotonous delivery of lyrics with a simple beat from DJ Lethal...it just sounds like a song from a dollar shop Massive Attack...

DROWN

The final track on this album is yet another sad, mellow, monotonous melody from Fred complete with the repetitive chords from his guitar (one of the few songs to feature Fred playing guitar prior to Mike Smith joining the band). There’s nothing to describe about the half asleep sounding lyrics but it’s just absolutely sluggish at best and just another garbage time track to end this massive garbage fire of an album.

FINAL VERDICT ON WHY THIS TAKES THE TITLE OF THE ALBUM OF SUCKAGE

“Results May Vary” is nothing but an album filled with monotonous, lyrically repetitive songs, mostly directed to Britney Spears for being left out of writing for “In the Zone” as well as stated by on and off again guitarist Wes Borland as “Fred Durst’s solo project.” A massive chunk of songs were cut from this album such as “Crack Addict” which was performed live at WWE Wrestlemania 19 in Seattle earlier that year in 2003, “Just Drop Dead,” another bloody song directed to Britney Spears which appeared as a B-Side of “Behind Blue Eyes, “Why”, Lean on Me,” and their double cover of “Home Sweet Home and Bittersweet Symphony” originally performed by Motley Crüe and The Verve respectively, the latter three songs being put on the “Greatest Hitz” compilation two years later. Other songs that were cut from RMV, were titled “Press Your Luck,” “Poison Ivy,” “Cowgirls from Hell,” “Shot,” “Armpit,” “When it Rains,” “Let it Go,” the subtlety titled “Masterbation,” “Lean On Me” and others. However these songs wouldn’t have saved this album from being such a colossal disaster and a huge reliance of being a schadenfreude to various haters of the Nu Metal genre like me!

“Results May Vary” is Limp Bizkit’s equivalent to Metallica’s St Anger which was released the same year three months earlier. St Anger got a massive tonne of negativity when it was originally released but later got a huge amount of love and respect over the years. RMV will never have that type of respect as it simply nuked the careers of Limp Bizkit following its release. Limp Bizkit later released its EP titled “The Unquestionable Truth” with Wes Borland returning two years later and it’s comeback album “Gold Cobra,” with “The Stampede of the Disco Elephants” forever burning in Development Hell but the unsalvageable damage had already been done by then, and that’s why I give it the mantle as

THE ALBUM OF SUCKAGE!

Happy Trails...

#limp bizkit #words of shakespeare #results may vary #eat you alive #behind blue eyes #2003 #undertaker #nookie #fred Durst #Mike Smith #Wes Borland #build a bridge #albums of suckage #what were they thinking

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sea-side-scribbles · 4 years ago

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Fanfiction: Sympathy For A Downer

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22737214/chapters/60534745

Chapter 21:

The next morning Norbert couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened between him and Mortimer and he knew he was going to spend the day trying to make sense out of it. At the same time he wanted to hide what he felt at any cost. It was when he met Matthew again that he noticed how painfully obvious he had been.

„What was up with you yesterday?“, his friend asked right away and Norbert tried to deny it.

„I don’t know what you mean.“

„Well…you didn’t look very happy about Mortimer.“

„But I voted for him, didn’t I?“

„Sure,“ Matthew backed down. „Listen, just give this a chance, okay?“

„I do“, Norbert sounded all innocent.

Then he had an idea.

„Anyway…did you notice something about him yesterday?“

„Now, what do you mean?“. Matthew lifted an eyebrow.

„Uhm…something odd?“ Norbert tried, but he immediately saw that his friend had no clue what he was getting at.

„No“. He shook his head. „You?“

„Uh…it was probably nothing,“ Norbert waved him off, wishing that he had never brought it up.

Matthew eyed him, but Norbert ignored him, so he had to give it up.

„Just talk to him, okay? You’ll see he’s alright,“ he urged him instead

„Okay…“ was the simple answer he got.

Norbert was planning to approach Mortimer anyway, because he needed to test if he still had that unnerving effect on him. The mere thought of meeting him again gave him goosebumps already. But he had to get it over with, now also to convince Matthew that he wasn’t down on Mortimer.

Since he had no clue where to find him, he simply searched the music rooms and actually heard someone play in one of them. When he touched the doorknob he could see his fingers shiver, but now he couldn’t just stand there in the corridor like a coward, so he carefully opened the door and peeked through it to see who was playing. It was indeed Mortimer, who looked up and eyed him, almost exactly like the way he did the day before.

„Hello,“ Norbert said bluntly. „I heard the music and I thought it might be you…“ He paused, then he pulled himself together to ask: „Can I come in?“

Mortimer nodded slightly. „Sure“.

Norbert closed the door behind him and walked over to the piano. It felt like a painfully long way while the other boy was watching him. He stopped at the window and leaned on the board at a safe distance and hoped that Mortimer didn’t notice how nervous he was.

„Sounds great by the way,“ Norbert tried to sound casually. „What are you playing?“

Mortimer crossed his arms and furrowed his brows when he said: „You don’t have to play-act. I know what’s going on with you.“

Now Norbert felt hot and cold at the same time.

„W-what?“, he stuttered, „What do you now?“

„You don’t want me in the band,“ Mortimer said and kept staring daggers at him.

„What?“, Norbert repeated himself. „What gave you that idea?“

He was upset. How could they all misread him so drastically?

„I saw your reaction,“ Mortimer stated and then held up one hand. „No, you don’t have to be sorry. I can bail out of this before I cause a fight.“

„No, no, no! You got it all wrong!,“ Norbert shouted, gesturing wildly.

He completely forgot about the safe distance when he stepped closer to Mortimer.

„You’re exactly what we need!“, he went on and almost grabbed the other boy’s shoulders to shake him. When he realized what he was doing he backed away a bit and crossed his arms.

„I was…busy with something else yesterday“, he explained. Inwardly he begged Mortimer to stay.

Mortimer looked at him in silence before he answered: „If you say so…“

„Absolutely!“, Norbert insisted. „It’s gonna work out just fine with us! I mean…the band,“ he stammered and broke out in sweat, realizing he was still standing way too close to the other boy and was talking nonsense. Instantly he backed away to the window again.

One thing was for certain: the unnerving effect was definitely still there. Norbert felt his strength fading away.

„You know, I think I’ll leave you alone for now,“ he muttered.

„Okay,“ Mortimer simply said and Norbert felt a pang in his chest. As if he had hoped for him to say ‚No, stay with me.‘ But now he had to go, and so he sadly trotted towards the door.

„Oh, Norbert“, he heard Mortimer suddenly call for him and turned around again, eyes wide with hope.

„Yes?“

„You could bring your guitar next time, so we can play together.“

„That’s a great idea!“, Norbert blurted out. „Until next time then, right?“

„Right,“ Mortimer said and Norbert closed the door.

Outside he kept slapping his forehead for acting so damn stupid. He had looked like an absolute beginner! What the hell was Mortimer supposed to think about him now?

In the following lessons Norbert barely listened. After school all he wanted was to hide in the park and play the saddest song he could come up with, since he felt completely worn out and depressed.

Now that he had figured out what his stupid heart wanted from Mortimer, he was left to wonder why it had happened to him, of all people. And how he could make it clear to Mortimer. And even if he did, would it do any good?

Mortimer would possibly think even worse of him if he knew.

Suddenly life wasn’t so beautiful anymore.

After sitting in the park for a few minutes someone disturbed him once more. It was Matthew again, who looked for him.

„Hey, Matt,“ he greeted him much less amused than yesterday. „What’s it this time?“

Matthew sat down in the grass next to him and answered quietly: „It’s about what you said this morning. I asked around about Mortimer if there’s something odd about him…“

Norbert broke out in sweat again. This was getting about way too far.

„Well there’s only a few rumors and I’m sure that’s all bullshit…“, Matthew hummed and hawed and Norbert wondered what an embarrassment his friend had digged out because he couldn’t keep his bloody mouth shut.

„Actually, it’s nothing we must know, but just in case you hear about it…Some say he tried to flirt with a guy…“

Norbert suddenly felt a tickle in his stomach.

„What?“, he said bluntly after he had processed the news.

„Yeah, I know, it’s bullshit,“ Matthew waved him off.

Norbert blinked.

„But why would he do that?“, he insisted.

Matthew rolled his eyes.

„Forget it, okay?“

Because Norbert was only sitting there and staring in silence he added: „You won’t tease him about it, won’t you?“

„No! Of course not,“ Norbert said with a blank stare.

Matthew eyed him suspiciously.

„Just be normal again, please?“

„Okay,“ Norbert sighed and all that was left for Matthew to do was to shake his head and walk away, hoping it would all come together. Norbert instead let himself fall backwards into the grass. The park was beautiful again, all the colors had come back, the birds sang again and the leaves were rustling in the trees above him. He himself remained quiet, watching the clouds go by and smiling.

The next day started way more cheerful.

Actually Norbert had never been so cheerful at an early morning than today.

He planned to meet Mortimer again to make a much better impression on him. This time he was full of resolution when he made his way to the music room, where he could hear him play already and hummed along with him. His knock at the door was much louder and more confident than yesterday and he opened the door almost solemnly.

„There he is,“ he said beaming at Mortimer. „My favorite pianist! Are you ready for a jam session? Because I am!“ He ran his fingers over the strings of his guitar and let the sound echo through the room.

Mortimer looked very surprised about the sudden change of mood.

„S-sure. Come in,“ he stuttered a bit and Norbert grinned confidently.

He grabbed a chair and sat down right next to Mortimer, this time he didn’t need a safe distance and he wasn’t shivering. Again he vibed the strings.

„So let’s rock!“, he prompted Morrie who still couldn’t turn his gaze away from him. Then he looked at his sheets of music.

„How about we start right here, in the second stave“, he suggested, pointed at the sheet with a nod and shortly played a melody to demonstrate. Norbert looked at the sheet, his gaze got lost somewhere in the stave before he looked back at the other boy and said with an insecure tone: „Okay.“

Mortimer eyed him again.

„You can read music, right?“

Norbert shrunk a bit.

„No,“ he admitted, „but we don’t need that now, don’t we?“

He straightened himself again and didn’t blink when Mortimer gave him a look.

„And what if you need them some day?“ He wasn’t convinced.

„Didn’t happen yet.“ Norbert shrugged.

Somehow this didn’t work out as planned.

Mortimer wiped his forehead.

„But Norbert, it’s so simple. Listen…“

And then he suddenly started to talk a mile a minute. Norbert listened to his voice in awe and didn’t really pay attention to his words. He was only surprised to hear so many words from Mortimer who was rather taciturn all the time. Then this rebellious hair strand caught his attention again. It was loosening once more, while Mortimer spoke, and Norbert had to fight the urge to reach out and smooth it back. He simply couldn’t stop watching it.

Suddenly Mortimer fell quiet and Norbert jumped at that.

„Are you even paying attention?“ Mortimer didn’t sound very happy.

Norbert stuttered: „..Y-yes..of course.“

„So, what did I say?“, the other boy asked, arms akimbo.

„Uh…“ Now the shivering came back. Nervously, he ran his fingers through his hair while he tried to remember what he heard.

„Something with…many letters,“ he said desperately and the other boy’s face told him that he didn’t make it any better.

He held up his hands in defense.

„I swear, I’m listening, I just didn’t get it yet! Please, explain it a little more slowly, and perhaps not all at once…“ he pleaded and Mortimer’s expression softened.

„Alright, I guess we have to start with the rudiments.“

When Mortimer began to explain again Norbert noticed that he had to take action or else this would turn into a dry-witted music lesson. So he dared an attack, right when the other boy showed him a chord. He leaned forward and laid his fingers on the keys, quite close besides Mortimer’s hands and his face got so close to the other boy’s that he could almost feel the warmth of his cheek.

„Like this?“, he asked and slowly turned around to Mortimer.

He jumped a little himself, noticing how small the distance between them had become and he was sure that his heart missed a beat the very moment their eyes met. His left arm almost touched Mortimer’s shoulder and he was glad that he didn’t blush easily.

However he was disappointed that Mortimer didn’t flinch at all, even though he locked gazes with him for a while. His look was rather wary.

„Exactly,“ Mortimer simply answered and put away his hand.

„Seems like you’re learning something after all.“

Norbert remained undecided, frozen in his half embrace, until he realized he had to accept his defeat.

„Nah, all beginner’s luck,“ he muttered in frustration and slumped back on the chair.

Then they both were surprised by the school bell.

„Great! Now I’m late because of you,“ Mortimer shouted and bobbed up.

Norbert pouted.

„Wouldn’t hurt to be a bit more charming,“ he muttered when Mortimer ran out.

#we happy few #Wehappyfew #whf #nick lightbearer #whf nick #fanfiction

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apparitionism · 5 years ago

Text

Hark 4

I certainly didn’t expect to finish a Christmas/New Year’s story on Valentine’s Day, but, as Myka says at one point in this concluding part, “here we are.” Writing takes as long as it takes. Fortunately no one is paying for this, so I haven’t had to jam the “as long as it takes” into a contractually obligated timeline. I’m grateful to those who read the prior parts (part 1, part 2, and part 3), and I offer much respect and thanks again to @kla1991 for running the @bering-and-wells-exchange .

Hark 4

Throughout the game, Myka and Helena held hands below the table: a warm clasp of accord. Myka harbored a fitful little hope that someone would actually try something cheesy with mistletoe, because while they were reconciled, they weren’t fully at ease, and mistletoe would be a helpful excuse... but she realized, with a certain amount of guilt, that maybe she and Helena had spooked the rest of them such that they were unlikely to poke the bear. Or the bears. Or say “Messiah” to the press, or to the presses, or whatever metaphor she was looking for. She couldn’t blame them.

Pete played Sorry like he was being paid not just to win, but to humiliate everyone else: every chance he had, he bumped one of someone else’s pawns, and he exulted in saying “sorry not sorry!” each time. The universe clearly didn’t see fit to punish him for any of this preadolescent gloating, for he continued to draw ideal cards and make ideal moves.

If Myka had been focusing on anything other than Helena’s hand in hers, and how near each other they sat, she might have cared. As it was, she listened with half an ear as Pete trumpeted, in ultimate triumph, “Now for Star Wars trivia! At which I will also rule.”

“You won’t,” Claudia said. “I will. But you’ll always be King Dub to me.”

“Hey, that makes me a saint too,” he said, “because of the song.”

Myka said, “If you’re a saint, I’m good King Wenceslas.”

“Can’t be two,” Pete decreed, “and I already called it.”

“Steve’s the saint anyway,” said Claudia.

“Stephen,” said Steve.

Pete pointed at him and accused, “You said that isn’t your name!”

“Right,” Steve said. His patience very nearly equaled Leena’s. “I’m not the saint. In the song. Well, one of them. Wenceslas, but Stephen has a feast day and everything.”

“I want a feast day,” Pete grumbled.

“I’m certain Saint Peter has one,” Helena told him. “You could appropriate it.”

Myka said, “Please. You’ve seen him eat. All feast all the time, no sainted day required.”

Claudia said to Steve, “My point is you are one though. Not in the song.”

“I think you’re still under some saxophone influence. Besides, my exes would disagree,” Steve said with a sigh.

“They just didn’t know you like we do,” Claudia assured him.

“To bring it back to what matters,” Pete said, “however they knew him, it wasn’t like how I know Star Wars.”

Leena said, very dry, “I think Star Wars is the grateful party here.”

Everyone except Pete looked at her with matching raised eyebrows.

“I can make a joke, you know,” she said.

Helena found her voice first. “Indeed you can,” she said. “Ahem. Is this trivia contest multiple-choice?”

Claudia said, “To repeat myself, or I mean ourselves: Sorry. It’s fill-in-the-blank.”

Helena nodded. “No possibility of my winning by mathematical chance, then. I joyfully decline to participate.”

“You can sit beside me while I play,” Myka told her.

“You’re playing?” Pete yelped. “You didn’t play last year!”

“I’m in a winning mood. I’d like to keep it going.” Under the table, she felt Helena tighten her grasp, and in response, her heart offered her an extremely cheesy throb of pleasure—no mistletoe required.

Pete waved incredulous hands at her. “Keep what going? I called Wenceslas before you, I just whupped you at Sorry, and what do you even know about Star Wars?”

“I’ve seen the movies. You forced me to.”

“Yeah, but that—”

“So I’m pretty sure I know everything about Star Wars. To repeat myself, because apparently I need to: I like how everyone always forgets I will never forget anything. Do you people even remember your names?”

Steve said, “I did recently go into detail about mine.” It hadn’t been residual saxophone influence, Myka was pretty sure, that had made her agree strongly with Claudia’s sainthood idea. And it was definitely not residual saxophone that made her chuckle at his reminder.

Pete snorted. “Strategic forgetting is how most of us get through life. Particularly, how we handle our relationships. Obviously Myka wouldn’t know anything about that.”

Myka tightened her own grasp on Helena to blunt the impact of her words as she said, “Believe me when I tell you that if I could forget strategically, my strategy would be extensive. But I can’t. So here we are.”

Now Pete frowned. “I think you oughta tap out then. This should be a fair fight about supreme Star Wars knowledge.”

“How is it not fair that Myka can remember more than you can?” Leena asked him.

“Also,” Steve said, in full saintly-peacemaker mode, “she probably doesn’t know behind-the-scenes stuff, so the rest of us have an outside chance.”

“Not me!” Helena chirped, and Myka was reminded—not that she needed to be—of how impossibly charming Helena was when she was cheery. “And yet I can maintain my own winning mood, for I will be able to sit beside Myka and not watch a movie.”

Claudia squinted at Myka, then at Helena. “I don’t get it,” she said.

“Me either,” Pete agreed.

Leena looked at Myka. She looked, specifically, in the direction of Myka’s ears, as if she could see them through the hair that Myka hoped kept them hidden. So much for that: Leena said, “I think Myka does.”

The Star-Wars-movie this one of these had, in fact, shown that the argumentative tailspin wasn’t compulsory. Myka and Helena had had the B&B to themselves on a rare free afternoon, and Helena had for some reason announced a determination to watch the first one, which Pete and Claudia had been insisting she put next on her list. Myka had said, “I’d rather read a book than watch a movie.” Particularly Star Wars, she added internally.

“That is because you are accustomed to movies.”

“No, it’s because I’d rather read a book than watch a movie.”

“First, you of all people should understand that one’s preferences are shaped by one’s historical circumstances. But second: any book? Over any movie?”

“Of course not.”

“Then why maintain that that is your overarching position?”

“Why do you always think I’m talking about some inviolable rule I live by?”

“Because as a rule, you do talk about inviolable rules you live by. Which are in turn inviolable rules you believe others should live by.”

“I am not dictatorial like that!”

“You are,” Helena said, very quietly.

That had hit Myka as an open hand to the face. A judgment—and she remembered feeling the obstinance of argument begin to take hold. “I am not,” she said.

“You are,” Helena said again, and Myka had tried to clear a preemptive mental break around whatever territory this new conflagration was poised to burn through: movies, books, history... but then Helena had, uncharacteristically, declined to ignite it. “However. It’s right that you should be.” A twitch of face, and Myka understood, as another open hand, exactly what that twitch meant.

“But it wasn’t right,” she said, knowing it for a terrible, hated fact. “Not for you, it wasn’t. Not for you or about you. Judgment based on stupid inviolable rules. No nuance.”

“I left you no room—well, left no one any room, but in particular you—for nuance. I did what I did, and you had no choice.”

“You did what you did,” Myka agreed. “But there are always choices.”

“They can be impossible to discern.”

“I didn’t make good ones.”

“That is not for me to judge,” said Helena, “speaking of judgment. But I made none that were good. Obviously.”

“Are we making better ones now?” Myka wasn’t really asking, because the answer was obviously yes, but it was also—sometimes, and just as obviously—no. But differently. “Could we?” she tried, hoping for possibility.

Helena took her up on the offer. “Well, let’s see,” she said. She batted her eyelashes at Myka. “Choose to watch the movie with me.”

“I’d rather read my book,” Myka said, which was how the whole thing had started, but now she was smiling.

Helena was too. “All right. Choose to read your book but also sit beside me while I watch the movie, which has been deemed indispensable to my ability to engage appropriately with contemporary society.”

“That’ll make it very unlikely I can concentrate on my book.”

“Because of the movie’s indispensability?”

“Because of sitting beside you.”

In response to that, Myka received a much more sincere blink. “That is in fact indispensable. Choose to sit beside me and not read a book.”

“Only if you choose not to watch a movie.”

“Done,” Helena declared.

No book was read. No movie was watched. Extremely good choices were made. As they drowsed together later, entangled, Myka had said, surprising herself just a little, “I’d rather do this than read a book.”

“That is an inviolable rule I am happy to live by.”

Late on Christmas Eve—moments before the clock chimed Christmas—everyone had retired but Myka, Helena, and Leena. Helena, who had begun to yawn, started up the stairs, but Myka said, “I’ll be there in a minute. I want to help Leena with the last of the cleanup.”

After a small hesitation, Helena said, “All right.”

Not until Helena had stepped on the creaky second-to-last stair, thus putting her demonstrably out of earshot, did Leena say, “You don’t have to stay up on my account. I was going to leave the rest for tomorrow anyway. It’s mostly Pete’s mess; he can deal with his own consolation-prize cookie crumbs.” She said it with a smile, but it was an accurate description of the evening’s results: Myka had continued to let herself be distracted—though Steve had also been right about the behind-the-scenes problem—and Claudia had taken the Star Wars crown. After feting her, they’d pulled Pete out of a mope only by means of everyone participating in a ceremonious awarding of consolation cookies and Helena reminding him that Christmas was certainly a feast day.

Myka had been waiting for that stair-creak too. “Actually I wanted your help. With... I guess a different kind of cleanup.” Because Myka harbored some suspicions, and Leena was the one most likely to know whether they were justified. And to be willing to tell her if they were. “Let me ask you: Why’d the Messiah tap Pete on the shoulder?”

Leena shrugged. “You heard the theory. Claudia needed Caretaker practice.”

“I did hear that. So, really, why’d the Messiah tap Pete on the shoulder?”

Now Leena smiled. “Caretaker practice aside—though she did get some—I do think it had a different plan.”

“Okay. I’m probably going to regret not leaving it at Caretaker practice, or even at a get-to-know-Saint-Steve session, but seriously, what was the plan?”

“Well. Let me ask you: what’s an argument? Not mathematically. In the vernacular.”

“Fine, I’ll play. It’s a... vocal exchange of opposing views?”

“Right. Opposing. An insistence on separation—a placing of space. Between those views, between the voices articulating them, and also between the individuals holding them. Sound familiar?”

“I changed my mind about playing,” Myka said.

“Maybe, recently, that sort of placing of space had something to do with singing? Prior to your little tiff that we all witnessed, I mean. Of course I’m just guessing.”

“I doubt that.”

“And on the other hand, what’s Christmas caroling? Particularly with regard to voices articulating things.”

“Okay. I get it. It’s kind of what I suspected.”

Leena’s smile deepened. “One more step. What were the artifacts concerned about?”

Myka wanted to bang her head against a wall. “Their insta-relationship with Christmas.” She sighed. “Being defined by it.”

“Close enough.”

“You said the reason the Messiah does this is different every time.”

“The Messiah and the arguments it makes—they’re useful tools.”

“Tools,” Myka said. “Useful to the building, I take it.”

Leena nodded. “Tools. In your case, I think, useful for trying to show you that you don’t have to insist so hard on separation. You don’t need to worry about being put in any sort of Christmas aisle.”

“Why, seriously, does the building feel like it has to intervene?”

“It’s obviously invested in the two of you.” Leena said, but her expression turned quizzical. “The two of you together? It seems to think...” She searched, searched. “It seems to think your investment in each other changed something. Changed some circumstance for the better? I don’t know why, and I could be wrong.”

“That seems very unlike you.”

“I don’t read minds. I don’t read buildings, either, but I’ve been here a while. I do know that when it’s grateful, it likes to give gifts.”

“That is seasonal and lovely. And when I say ‘lovely,’ I mean disturbing.” Myka paused, because she didn’t know what should come next. “Will you tell Helena all this?” she asked.

“Will she need to hear it?” Leena countered.

Would she? Helena was obviously more tuned in to artifacts, to the Warehouse, than Myka would or could ever be. She’d stood in the building, among all its powerful objects, for nearly a century, with nothing to do but listen. “Probably not,” Myka finally said. “I think she heard more tonight than I did. Than I could have.” Throughout the entire caroling nonsense, Helena had indeed seemed more collected than Myka had felt, except when they’d both lost their singing-related composure so completely. “I doubt she could do what you just did, though.”

“And what’s that?”

“Translate it into words I can understand.”

“I’m not sure that’s true, but if it helped, then consider it my gift to you. Nothing to do with Christmas.” Leena glanced at the clock on the living-room mantel. “But also, merry Christmas.”

“You know, my feeling about that—maybe my whole life—has mostly been ‘We’ll see.’ And I’ve been okay with that. But tonight? It’s ‘I hope so.’”

“You’ll get it right,” Leena said.

“Again I’ll go with ‘I hope so.’ You too, by the way. Merry Christmas, I mean; you don’t need me to tell you anything about getting things right.”

“We all try.”

Myka found her vision and her voice unacceptably watery as she said, “I’m constantly surprised by how beautiful that is.”

Leena flung her arms around Myka in a fervent hug, and Myka returned it—wholeheartedly, though her arms were rusty when it came to putting them around anyone but Helena. They’d been rusty, period, until three short months ago.

Three short months. On her way upstairs, Myka took each individual step with attention, partly because it had been an astonishingly long day and the movement required effort, but partly because she could not, most nights and especially not this night, keep from playing a magical-thinking game in which displaying eagerness by hurrying up the stairs would mean that Helena would not be in their bedroom, that their bedroom would not in fact be theirs. That Helena’s presence—the entire improbable unfolding of their lives since the thing—would turn out to have been a mirage.

The second-to-last stair creaked under her deliberate pressure, and she resisted the urge to skip the last one.

Opening the bedroom door, she was rewarded for following the nonexistent rules. Helena sat on the edge of the bed, still fully dressed. Waiting.

Myka’s body responded to that sight; her blood told her, murmuring as it moved, that love was a mystery: her blood moved, and she knew why but didn’t know why... a mystery, a tangle of clues that she would continue to try to unravel, but also a deeper, near-religious mystery. Myka’s own religious education was strictly comparative, but she knew that love was, indeed, a truth known only through revelation.

Helena herself was a mystery too, her revealed truth at once glorious and painful and incomprehensibly sitting on a bed in front of Myka...

“Happy Christmas,” Helena said.

...and saying, “Happy Christmas.” Glorious. Incomprehensible. “Here’s what’s funny,” Myka told Helena. “‘Silent Night’ was always my favorite Christmas carol.”

“My understanding of contemporary humor is on par with my tragically inadequate grasp of contemporary culture.”

“Well, I don’t mean funny.”

“Oh. Then yes. Entirely funny.”

“Do you have a favorite?” Myka asked.

“No.”

But she’d answered way too fast, so Myka tilted her head in a manner she knew Helena found difficult to dismiss. Before Helena, she hadn’t known she could say “please” quite so clearly, in quite so many contexts, without actually uttering the word.

Helena sighed. “I shouldn’t say. You’ll take it as an indication that tonight was my fault.”

“If it’s the Hallelujah chorus, I will tesla you.”

“It’s no longer my favorite, if that helps at all. So my ‘no’ was truthful. Technically.”

“Well,” Myka said. “Technically, tonight was our fault. And Leena’s pretty sure you already know that.”

“Know...” Helena said, as if she would need to work out this unfamiliar word’s derivation and usage in order to make any sort of definitive statement about whether she could possibly “know” anything.

It didn’t seem to leave Myka much space, not at all. “What are we even doing?” she asked.

“Uneven,” Helena said immediately.

“What?”

“Whatever it is we are doing, we are certainly uneven doing it.”

“Okay, that is funny,” Myka said, “or at least accurate. I did tell you I’d tell you later.”

“That makes no sense. What are you telling me?”

“It doesn’t matter. You’re right.” She sat down next to Helena, taking care to preserve a distance between them: a significant few inches of bed. A placing of space. As in an argument. “There’s something I’d like you to tell me. If you would.”

“I can’t imagine I wouldn’t,” Helena said. She looked down at that inch, then back up at Myka. “Or perhaps I can imagine.” Myka wasn’t sure how to read that, but then Helena shifted her hips a few millimeters closer to Myka and asked, “What is it?”

The purposeful nature of that movement caused Myka’s ears to heat again, but she pressed on. “What it’s like to hear them. The artifacts. Can you always?”

Helena took a moment before answering. That prize of thought... no, tonight it was a gift. Happy Christmas. “It is like an awareness of presence that is slightly more intrusive than a head cold.” Myka didn’t feel herself make a face of incredulity, but Helena said, “I’m not being dismissive of your question; that is what it is like. For me. As for whether I can always? In the past, more so. Tonight was anomalous in that I was... included. Deliberately, if I’m not mistaken. Obviously the Warehouse and I have had—continue to have—a rather fraught relationship.”

“Leena says it’s grateful. The building. To us.”

“Why?”

Myka was glad to be able to infer, from that startled syllable, that such an idea was new to Helena too. “I don’t know. She says she doesn’t either. Something about changing some circumstance for the better?”

“For the better? I can certainly imagine it being grateful to you. I know that gratitude well.”

“Aren’t we past that?” Myka asked. Please let us be past that. But then again: three short months.

Helena waited, waited, waited. Thinking again, but this time not a gift. She at last said, “And if you change your mind?”

Myka, nonplussed, said an inadequate, “About what?”

“About my being here. It’s because you want me here. What if you change your mind?”

She wouldn’t even sit in a chair without your say-so, Pete had said. Myka hadn’t wanted that power then, and she didn’t want it now; yet she also yearned to be able to tell Helena something like “I couldn’t change my mind.” But that wasn’t true... or she couldn’t guarantee its truth, for if the Warehouse had taught her anything—other than “don’t let Pete out of your sight during inventory”—it was that the future was another of those undiscovered countries. Instead of making an inevitably faulty promise, she said, “That the building has feelings about us suggests that I shouldn’t. That neither of us should. That it wouldn’t take kindly to me, to you, to us, if we did.”

“That is a terrible reason,” Helena said. But she said it with a turn of her head toward Myka that was legible as comically rueful.

Myka turned her head too, more fully toward Helena. “How about we just don’t? How about the reason is, I don’t want to change my mind, and neither do you?”

“I don’t. Want to.”

“Okay. Me neither.” Myka made a millimeters-shift of her own, such that they now seemed separated by only an atmospheric wisp of molecular width. “Leena also says neither of us is being moved to the Christmas aisle.”

They were close enough to feel breath, to know air for the current it was, one on which they were poised to flow toward each other. “Good news,” Helena’s voice propagated through that current.

Myka let herself luxuriate in waiting, reveling in the difference between this waiting and other kinds. “I bet you knew that too.”

“My knowledge is not so vast as you seem to believe,” Helena said. But she put that weird I-don’t-know-this-word emphasis on “knowledge.”

She put it on “believe,” too, as if she had plucked the idea of belief from Myka’s thoughts. As Myka would have expected “her” to do, if “she” were not in fact here. Myka said, “Sometimes you sound like the voice in my head,” though she had intended never to bring up that bit of self-indulgence—her words had been completely involuntary, jumping of their own accord into whatever it was that flowed between them, and Myka was reminded that she had never volunteered for any of this.

Helena moved her head backward, a cartoon-ostrich retraction. “You can’t possibly mean your conscience.”

The movement, and the words, made Myka laugh. “You sound nothing like my conscience. No, I mean your voice. In my head. When you were... gone. You were still here”—and she would have pointed to her head, but it was her heart too, so she ended up just waving feebly in her own general direction—“even when you weren’t here.”

“I should apologize for my continued presence. You didn’t need that or deserve it.”

“Let’s really really not talk about needing or deserving.” Maybe that was where intimacy came from—knowing someone else’s needs and deserts—but talking about it? That would lead to the opposite of intimacy, Myka was sure. Or at the very least, to more separation, not less.

Helena said, “It isn’t as if you weren’t present for me. When I was allowed to be...” A troubled throat-clear. “Conscious? Rare that you weren’t there, of course. Physically. When I was. Wasn’t? But. You were. When you weren’t.”

That stammery rollout left Myka stranded, so she turned to self-deprecation: “I’m sure I’m just as judgy or rule-bound or whatever, even if I’m not physically around.” That got her nothing. She tried, “What did you imagine me saying?”

Helena didn’t really answer. “I admit I never envisioned—enheard?—your solving intractable riddles about hymns and cantatas.” She said that with a lightness, but she switched back to broody with, “How limited my imagination. Particularly with regard to... well, anything. But particularly anything sung.”

Playing to Helena’s vanity was the best way to improve her mood, so Myka said, “Limited? Your imagination?” She waited until Helena smiled, then said, “Maybe about singing. But singing aside, I love your voice, by the way.”

That got her an inhalation, one that she chose to read as positive. Helena said, on the exhale, “Yours is the sound I want to listen to, by the way. Am privileged to listen to.”

“Don’t think about privilege,” Myka told her, to try to forestall any martyr-ish self-abnegation. “You should have what you want.” Speaking of deserving, she didn’t add but could have.

“So should you.” So quiet.

“Okay then,” Myka said. “Notwithstanding the building’s thoughts on the matter, what I don’t actually want is to never fight with you.”

Helena’s shoulders, which had been slumping, snapped to—and not with the irritation that usually accompanied such a movement. “Thanks be,” she said, those shoulders now relaxing rather than dejectedly sagging. “I don’t want to be insipid, and I don’t believe you do either.”

“The insipid aisle isn’t our spiritual home,” Myka agreed. Hoping to move the current again, she said, as a slight provocation, “You still eat apples wrong.”

Helena caught the ball perfectly: “You still stole ‘God Save the Queen.’”

“It’s not like you were using it, though. Given that you can’t sing it.”

“You stole it to no purpose, however. Given that you can’t sing it either.”

I love your voice, by the way. “Maybe I was trying to get you to chase me. To try and get it back.”

The play continued, with Helena saying, “I wish I had. Why didn’t I think of that?”

“You were a little preoccupied with staking out your position. Which was separate from mine. And also very far away from the insipid aisle.” Myka smiled. “Plus I was driving. There would’ve been an accident.”

Helena smiled too, but the molecular width between them remained.

Closing it effectively would take something more, so Myka said the most true thing she could find. “Things I didn’t think of: spending Christmas with you.”

“You are as of some moments ago in actual fact doing that.”

“But the idea of it.”

Judging from Helena’s response, that was not quite the right thing to have said. No closing up of space. “You see, however, for me,” Helena said, “the idea of Christmas. At all.”

“I see, but I don’t see. And maybe I need to ask. Are you being religious about it?”

Helena took yet another moment. “I was certainly inappropriately glib about what I was flaunting,” she at last said. “But the Warehouse will beat certain beliefs out of one. Or try to.”

Belief, belief, belief. “And beat new ones in,” Myka agreed, with some gloom.

“True,” Helena said. Her repentant grimace softened. “But sometimes not beliefs so much as realizations. Full ones. Not that I needed the fullness brought home, but even so.”

“Such as?”

“Among other things, that Steve is right.”

“About what? I mean, probably most things. But specifically?”

“About who is most likely to know all the unsaintly details. And in your case will never forget them. Not even strategically.”

“I’m not your ex. I’m never going to be your ex.” That was another involuntary utterance, so she added a painful-yet-voluntary, “Unless that isn’t what you want.”

“I have tried assiduously to stop wanting,” Helena said, “in circumstance after circumstance, for it’s always seemed the better part of valor. To spare everyone involved.” Myka hated that she agreed with that, but it was true that if Helena had stopped wanting much of what she had wanted, many people would have been spared many things, up to and including their lives. Then Helena said, with a small shrug, “And yet my appetites persist. Particularly the animal.”

The casual mention of animal appetites, the calm acceptance of them... Myka had never liked acknowledging those appetites, much less accepting them; she had tried mightily to resist being distracted by them, but her response to Helena made them undeniable.

Part of what had enraged Myka about Helena’s crazed apple-eating was that it made Myka want to knock the apple from her hand and lick her needlessly sticky fingers. She had resented Helena for her ability to reduce Myka so effortlessly to her body, but she was coming to understand—was trying to really, fundamentally grasp—that the right verb was not reduce but rather elevate.

Elevate. “My appetite is for you,” Myka said. So bald, that statement. It was true, but bald and thus risky. These things she didn’t say out loud. Shouldn’t say out loud?

“Don’t doubt that mine is for you as well,” Helena said, very much out loud.

“I don’t doubt that. I really don’t.” A nostalgic phrase leapt to her mind... if such a thing as nostalgia applied after only three short months... “I believed in you and I was right.”

“You do enjoy being right. But what if, even so, I prove you wrong?”

She didn’t need to add, And thus make you change your mind. Obviously they would not stop running up against this—but what mattered was that they were willing to not stop running up against it. They would probably keep running up against the fear of the insipid aisle, too—but what mattered was that they knew it. Could see it... well, and on the evidence of today and tonight, hear it. That had to help. “You really need to listen to me,” Myka said. “You need to hear it: I believe in you, and I am right.”

Hearing herself, she understood that, as it turned out, she was not quite as tired of belief as she had thought. The realization made belief itself no less exhausting... but it did make it a bit more easy to reconcile. “Peace isn’t only for normal people,” she said.

“Have I suggested it is?”

“We’ve both been acting like it is. Assuming it is?”

“We are certainly not normal people.”

“But some peace? I don’t think it’s a synonym for insipidity.”

“‘Insipidity’ is a terrible-sounding word, isn’t it? Whereas ‘peace’... no, you’re right. Some. Solely of the season? We did manage a temporary truce,” Helena said, as if she were having Myka’s exact thought about seeing it—hearing it—and what that might be able to help.

“You knew we needed one.”

“Apparently the Warehouse knew it before I did.” No questioning, now, of that previously baffling concept of knowledge. Myka felt the give-in—felt it in a melt of body beside her.

“The building might not be entirely wrong all the time,” Myka said.

“It will no doubt appreciate your concession.”

“What matters is, will you appreciate it?”

Helena moved her mouth: a teasing Will I? moue. She then said, dropping the tease, “I appreciate everything about you.”

“You do not appreciate my singing voice.”

But that was met with surprisingly sweet, open sincerity on Helena’s face. “I do. Today has taught me that. For it is recognizable as yours.”

Myka’s vision watered again. She said, with difficulty, “Even if I could sing, I couldn’t sing anyway.”

“Why?” Helena asked. Like she really didn’t know.

So Myka told her: “Because when you say things like that, you take my breath away.”

It was her own version of cheesy mistletoe, and the resistant-to-the-insipid-aisle core of her wished a very real wish that Helena would wave it off. Instead, Helena closed the molecular gap that remained between them, closed it with a decisive swing of body to straddle Myka’s legs, closed it further with a lean into Myka’s body that began at the torso and progressed to become a kiss, one into which Myka pushed up, up, and Helena pushed down, down. At last, no distance at all.

“Are you trying to prove something?” Myka asked when Helena lifted her mouth away.

“What?”

“About how many times you can stop my breath. In quick succession.”

“That kiss was not quick. But perhaps I will try to set a record, to mark the holiday.”

“You weren’t kidding about happy Christmas, were you.”

“I was not. Don’t doubt that.”

Don’t doubt. It did seem a more restful thing to do than engage in the affirmative act of belief.

Don’t doubt.

And that, Myka hoped, was what the building had been trying to convey... and it was something for which she did feel gratitude. She had not really expected that, so she said it out loud to Helena, and added, “Speaking of religion, is it sacrilegious to be surprised that the building got something right?”

Helena sat up straighter—just a bit, but “don’t go,” Myka was tempted to say, as molecules of air intruded between their upper bodies. “Well, gratitude,” Helena said, with a wave of her left hand, and “the Warehouse,” with a wave of her right. “It’s difficult to reconcile. And yet without the building, I wouldn’t be here, in this unevenness, with you.” She put her hands on Myka’s shoulders, both at once, with equal force: the gratitude hand, the Warehouse hand.

Myka’s own gratitude hand and Warehouse hand had been resting on Helena’s hips. She flexed her fingers, pressing into flesh, and Helena gave the tiniest arch to her back. Even that little spine-stretch was enough to remind Myka that they had lately spoken of appetites. “So what you’re saying is, it gets almost everything wrong, but I have it to thank for this unprecedented happiness? Sure, I can hold both of those in my head.”

“That sounds very like your feelings for me.”

“Ditto, and don’t bother denying it.”

Helena held very still. “What would you like me to bother to do?” she asked. She was still, but her body was warm against and near Myka’s, even across the torso-distance.

“Wasn’t there something about chasing me?”

“I seem to have caught you already.” Now she moved her hips in a hot push against Myka’s and said, “So unsaintly, these details.” Another hot push. “Perhaps Steve would prefer to be a saint, but I wouldn’t.” She moved yet again, stronger, and Myka was reminded of the animal nature of those unsaintly details. How such details brought them closer together, leaving no distance between their positions. Needs and deserts—saints didn’t have either of those. Or if they did, their sainthood most likely required them to deny the former and endure the latter. Myka wanted to satisfy the former and ignore the latter.

Wanted, wanted, wanted. “I’m not anybody’s version of a saint,” she told Helena. “So I don’t want you to be one either. I’d rather you be a thief.”

“I’d rather you be a thief.”

“What can I really steal from you.” Myka wrapped her arms around the body atop and against her: stealing nothing, holding everything.

“Beyond an anthem?” Helena dipped swift to kiss Myka, in the relaxed, open way she did at the best of times. The way that said I don’t doubt this at all. “My breath; my heart. But you have those already. Have had, you thief.”

“The only reason I have those is that you gave them to me.”

They were gifts. If the Warehouse had needed, and had seized on, Christmas as a way to remind them that argumentative separation had a downside—one that they knew about but needed to know about—Myka had, maybe, needed it to remind her that all of Helena was a gift. From potential world-ending to provocative apple-eating to domestic hand-holding: all of her.

“Which aisle do we belong in?” Myka asked. “Not Christmas, not insipid...”

“Apples?” Helena proposed, sly, and Myka took it as an invitation to put her mouth to Helena’s hand.

“Animal,” she said as she did so.

Helena laughed, even as she arched her back again. “A bit crowded there, I suspect. What about literary manuscripts, genre of your choosing?” she offered in response. “We’d at least have reading material to keep us occupied.”

“Too drafty,” Myka objected. “Besides, isn’t there an inviolable rule about doing this instead?”

“Literary manuscripts about this,” Helena counterproposed.

“Pornography? Seriously? Most of it’s so poorly written.”

“I meant our version of this, which would of course be excellently written, for did you not listen when I mentioned writing a novel with you as its focus? Certainly it would include this... though as I think on it, I may need to engage in more research...”

The night dissolved into beautiful, comical essays of possibility.

“Uneven,” Helena said, much later, after many aisles had been proposed... and many appetites satisfied.

“I doubt that’s an aisle.”

“What did I tell you about doubt? We can annex some other space, then, like Pete with his feast day. We might in fact fly an uneven flag over it.”

Myka sighed. “Unfortunately that means we’ll need an anthem.”

Helena’s smile at that was the most conspiratorial, the most intimate, that she had ever shown Myka. Ever. Prior to and during their three short months, Myka had never seen this smile. “I know just where we can steal one,” Helena said.

Myka awoke in the middle of the night—a simple move to consciousness, not from a nightmare, not in response to any troubling sound, not a voice in her head or a noise outside it. In the Christmas silence, she slid a hand across the bed, in the dark, and it met Helena’s breathing body.

In careful concert with that body, she inhaled, exhaled.

END

What I would say in a tag essay, if tumblr seemed at all amenable to those anymore, is something about this: the breath in concert is the anthem of any lovers’ country. I should also mention that Myka’s “Well, I don’t mean funny” line is borrowed from the 1940 movie Too Many Husbands (screenplay by Claude Binyon), and it’s spoken by Jean Arthur, on whose work I’ve spent a lot of time... her voice, in particular, matters a great deal to me, and I found that line, and her reading of it, important for reasons I won’t go into here. Given that this piece is about voices, though, I thought I’d deploy the words as a bit of affectionate homage.

#bering and wells #Warehouse 13 #fanfic #Hark #B&W Holiday Gift Exchange #part 4 #kla1991 #bering and wells holiday gift exchange

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constantconfusion111 · 4 years ago

Text

Etched into your skin - Chapter 3

Here’s the 3rd chapter! Thanks everyone for the comments/likes/Kudos, you’re the best!!!

Link to AO3

Link to Ch1 ; Link to Ch2

---------------

Type was an expert at denial. He wore it like a second skin.

As he moved his boxes in the condo he’ll share with Techno, no one could have imagined his brain was torturing him. He almost met Tharn.

The first thing he’ll do as soon as class started was to find out in which university his soulmate was exactly as to stay the fuck away from it forever. Maybe he should consider changing university. His parents would definitely not be on board with that. It took him almost 3 weeks to convince his father to let him ditch the dorms.

Frankly, his dad didn’t want him in a condo for his first year, but Type had little choice in the matter. He simply couldn’t be in the same room with Tharn. The man would find out. Maybe not the first week, maybe not even the first month if he lied about his name. But he would eventually. And Type refused to deal with the potential fallout. So he had to use an argument he wasn’t proud of.

‘Dad, I’m not feeling safe in a room with another random guy.’

He had felt guilty and uncomfortable using that against his dad. But the result was instant, and the following week he was already signing the lease of his new condo.

“Type! Here’s your last one,” called Techno, sliding a cardboard box on the floor.

All was fine, he could handle this.

----------

Maybe Tharn had been overeager.

When he had red the letter, he’d stared at it unblinkingly for what felt like an eternity. His mother, worried, had read over his shoulder. Before he knew it, his face got crushed in a suffocating hug as she was part laughing part crying for him.

His dad had soon barged into the kitchen, concerned about the noise.

The rest of the evening had been very loud as his parents swinged between congratulations and hugs. And then he had to explain everything for a third time when Thorn came back home later in the evening.

Saying he was excited was the understatement of his life. So as soon as the first day of moving into the dorm rolled around, Tharn brought all his boxes and started to put his things away.

He wanted to be there to welcome Type in what would be their first home together. Tharn wanted to smile at him, see in his eyes a reflexion of his thoughts. Would he be nervous? Giddy? Composed?

Type would already know who he was.

Were they supposed to hug? Was that too forward? But at the same time, he couldn’t just… not. That would be too strange. Maybe they could go out and eat together to chat, starting to get to know each other. Maybe they wouldn’t be able to bring themselves to leave the room.

Tharn had so many questions for him. But probably the first one would be why hadn’t Type registered himself? If his soulmate was in Uni, he had to at least be his own age. Was Type one of these people that wanted the meeting to be organic? Was Type a romantic?

His heart was beating too fast, he was feeling light headed.

Tharn was going to be fine, he just had to handle himself until Type arrived. That’s what he had to keep repeating at least.

Tharn looked up at the dorm’s door with each item he was putting away.

After emptying his first box, he only raised his head whenever he heard movement in the hall.

After the third box, he stopped altogether, massaging his neck slowly.

As the night rolled around, he had to accept today wasn’t the day. Maybe he really had been too eager. They still had quite some time until the start of the semester.

However, on the first day of class, as he woke up yet again facing an empty bed, Tharn’s enthusiasm vanished like smoke in the wind.

Type must have known, he must have received the same letter as him, clearly stating who his roommate would be. Suddenly, Type not being registered sounded less like romance and more like avoidance.

But why? Why would Type not want to meet? Even if he didn’t want a romantic relationship, which did happen sometimes, why not meet with him and tell him?

What if something bad had happened?

As soon as his first day of classes ended, Tharn excused himself from the group of freshmen that wanted to go out for celebratory drinks, claiming he had some administrative issues. Lhong had thrown him a look, but didn’t stop him.

Technically, Tharn wasn’t lying. It just wasn’t his own administrative problem. He approached a woman reading behind her desk.

“Hello, I’m sorry to bother, but I think there’s a problem with my roommate.”

She looked at him with the sort of weariness born out of dealing with stupid requests from days on end.

“Unless the issue is actually very serious, there’s nothing I can do to help. All the rooms are jam packed, so we can’t transfer the freshmen left and right.”

“Ah, no that’s not why I’m here. I’m worried for my roommate, he never moved him. Since classes started already, I was wondering if everything was alright. His name is Type Thiwat Phawattakun.”

She hummed, turning toward her computer and checking some files. It took a couple of minutes of silent scrolling before she turned toward him again.

“He cancelled his spot in the dorms. Very last minute actually. Freshmen are more and more irresponsible each year…”

Tharn felt a pang in his heart at the news. Type has cancelled. He’d backed out of their meeting.

“Where is he now? Did he drop out of University?”

“I don’t think so, it does happen that freshmen give up the dorm for their own private accommodations. It’s more expensive, but also more comfortable.”

So Type was definitely avoiding him.

“Could you tell me which University he’s enrolled in please?”

At that, the woman looked at him with narrowed eyes.

“These are private information that I cannot share with just anyone, sorry Nong. You should just enjoy your big room for yourself, you’re the only one lucky enough for that.”

Tharn felt anything but lucky.

-------------

Turns out, finding one guy within an entire University complex could be quite the challenge. The first thing people said when he asked if they knew Tharn was:

“Tharn? From which Uni?”

So far, he’d only managed to confirm Tharn wasn’t enrolled into the faculty of sports. Only a million more people to ask.

Despite the stress of having to look over his shoulder all the time and making a point of asking people their names before they could even think of asking his first -which had already put him in hot waters with some seniors- University life wasn’t half bad.

Living with Techno was fun. In the evenings they played games together and chilled. Sometimes Techno invited some of their classmates to hang out and drink. They had met some very cool people, particularly a guy called Champ who seemed to know all the best restaurants around. Friday or Saturday nights, they even managed to motivate each other enough to actually go to a proper bar.

Classes are as easy as they ever were and as long as Type listened to the lecture, he barely had any efforts to put into his homeworks. Still drove Techno up the wall in frustration. The coach liked him, even though he always said that Type had to keep his temper in check or he’ll be benched. Type knows he’s good enough to not have to worry too much about the threat. Again, that drove Techno completely crazy since he’d already started his recruitment campaign to convince everyone to elect him as team captain. For his senior year. What was wrong with that boy, Type wasn’t too sure sometimes. In any case, sucking up to the coaches was part of his strategy. Techno did try to deny that last point, but there was an overwhelming amount of evidence against him. For instance, the way he almost tripped on his own feet to play delivery boy.

“Bring this to the music faculty office, it’s the selection of songs we want them to play during the matches.”

“No problem coach! I’ll go right away.”

His bunch of papers under the arm, Techno came back to his group of friends.

“Guys! Come with me, we need to deliver some papers.”

“This is in no way a ‘we’ situation No,” said Champ, stretching out his legs.

“Sorry, we’re kind of in the middle of our stretches,” tried Team, offering a small smile to the other boy.

“Type is on his phone! He’s not even pretending to stretch!”

They all turned to the accused who was indeed lounging on his side, scrolling lazily.

“Type does whatever he wants…”

That was true and it made him very happy to know they already realised it after only a couple of short weeks.

“Tyyyyyype.”

“I would rather die than come with you No,” came the deadpan answer.

“You could at least look up from your phone!”

His plea went unanswered. Knowing better than to annoy the young man to the point of aggression, Techno cursed them all and started his solo adventure.

Techno had to actually ask his way a couple of times as the music and sports department weren’t close at all. He even had to take a Uni shuttle, receiving plenty of curious looks since he hadn’t taken the time to change out of his sports outfit.

Despite being quite a trek away from their faculty, the music building looked pretty similar to their own. Maybe there were more windows. Was light important for musicians? Did they share with the art department?

His adventure wasn’t over quite yet though, the entrance office wouldn’t take the papers, complaining about messing the systems up and Techno got redirected once again.

“So… third floor, and then at the back of the building…”

Every single room, every corridor looked the same and nothing appeared as being the back of anything.

“Shit!”

“Hey, are you alright?”

Techno turned around, coming face to face with-

“Handsome boy!”

The man raised both eyebrows in surprise, readjusting the straps of his bag on his shoulders.

“What?”

“You’re so pretty, are you an angel sent from the sky to help me?”

The man was adorable with a very cute face and pouty lips, a single long earring catching the light on the side of his face and despite his clear confusion, he still offered Techno a large smile.

“I can definitely try.”

“I need to find the faculty office of the music department. It’s about music for our matches,” he explained, flapping around the brown envelope he’d brought all the way there.

“Ah I see, I’ll walk you there. You’re very close, but it can be tricky to find the room.”

“Lhong, is everything fine?”

Techno turned toward the man that seemed to have called his saviour.

“Damn! Is it a requirement to be handsome to get into the faculty of music?”

If Lhong was cute, the newcomer was definitely handsome, and that despite the dark circles under his eyes.

“All good, I’ll just show this guy the way to the office. Save me a spot in the canteen?”

The man nodded and left without further ado.

“Let’s go!”

“Thanks man, I’m Techno by the way. I’m in the faculty of sports.”

Lhong laughed, checking him out from head to toe.

“Yeah I could have guessed that. I’m Lhong. Isn’t the faculty of sports super far away from here?”

Techno groaned loudly.

“So far away! I had to take the Uni shuttle to come!”

“Sounds like a pain, you should stay to eat with us so you wouldn’t have travelled all the way for nothing.”

After one last corridor turn, they finally arrived in front of the teachers’ office. Techno would never have found it, even the door tag was scratched out and faded.

“I wish, I lost too much time already, I’ll have to hurry back and pray my friends didn’t ditch me. But give me your Line ID! I’ll send you a message and we can go grab a drink, I’ll treat you as a thank you.”

“Ah, that’s not necessary, it was nothing.”

Techno shushed him, already fishing out his phone and pushing it in Lhong’s hands.

“Nonsense! It’s gonna be fun. I’ll bring my friends, bring the hot one you were with before. I’m sure music students know the best bars.”

Lhong shared his number and after a last goodbye, they parted in front of the office.

Maybe his adventure hadn’t all been in vain.

#tharntype #tharntype the series #tharn x type #soulmate

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drabbles-and-babbles · 5 years ago

Text

Sweet Creature (Loki x Fem. Reader)

*Disclaimer* I do not own anything about the Marvel Universe, including Loki. I also do not own any of Harry Style’s music/lyrics/anything of his. I was simply inspired by his song “Sweet Creature” and decided to turn it into a one-shot. To hear this awesome song, click this link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8uD6s-X3590. This was heavily inspired by @grufflepuff-writes-stuff, whose awesome writing that has gotten me through this quarantine. Thanks a bunch!

Rating: PG for mentions of swearing. A bit of suggestive content there at the end, but no mentions or sexual actions. Otherwise, tooth-decaying fluff about a god who enjoys some jams with his human companion. Sorry, smut lovers. Maybe next time.

Without further ado, I give you.. Sweet Creature

Loki woke to the sound of soft notes wafting into the bedroom, waking him gently from sleep. Blearily he stretched, reaching for the space where her body had been the night before. Finding her spot empty and cold, he frowned. Strange, he thought to himself, she hardly ever wakes before me. He heard another round of notes interrupted by a twang and curse, and his green eyes popped open. All the drowsiness left him as he sat up, listening to the sound of soft guitar drift through the door. Filled with a quickly growing curiosity, he tossed the sheets off of him and rolled out of bed. Careful not to make any noise, he padded quietly to the living room, where he saw her sitting on the edge of the couch. Her normally messy curls were especially chaotic this morning, and she was huddled over her guitar, muttering to herself. She seemed to be staring quite intently at some scribbles on her phone, and occasionally took a break from tinkering with the guitar to scroll down the screen. Hmm... he thought to himself, This is interesting indeed. It was rare to catch her playing her guitar unwarranted, as it was a skill she was hesitant to show off. The sound of soft strums would occasionally grace the halls of their home, but only when she thought she was alone. She took great care to never be caught, and the precious few times she had been, she had performed shakily and red-faced, cursing his name for her embarrassment. So to catch her playing her guitar, in their living room of all places, unprompted and vulnerable and so breathtakingly beautiful, greatly peaked his interest.

He watched from the doorway, unable to look away. She stumbled on another note and cursed again as the string gave another unsavory twang. He fought a chuckle as a smirk slowly spread across his face. She was practicing...but for what? Grin fading, he suddenly felt a twinge deep in his chest. She had been acting strange lately, sending him out for errands at odd times of the day and acting rather flighty around him….she had definitely been hiding something. But she was always open and honest when she interacted with the opposite sex, and he could tell by her eyes that she was genuine with her words. No, he had no reason to doubt her fidelity to him, so it couldn’t be that. He dismissed the thought with a quiet sigh of relief. And yet, the rarity of the situation struck him as odd. Loki was thoroughly and frustratingly puzzled by this series of events, and an unsettling feeling bloomed larger in his chest. What is the meaning of this? What are you planning, silly mortal? He tried unsuccessfully to shake the feeling, but the longer he tried to shake it, the tighter it clung to his heart. Another curse broke his train of thought, and for the first time of the morning, he wondered what she was attempting to play. He caught a piece of the melody as she began to hum, mumbling through some parts and singing sweetly to herself in others.

“Sweeeeeet creature, had another hmmm da dum da dadada daaa..aghhh!” She swore again as her fingers slipped and yet another twang filled the room. This time, he couldn’t hold back an amused huff as she fought to control her fingers across the strings. She paused, shoulders rising and falling as she took a deep breath in and released it. She began again, and this time the sounds that she produced were heavenly. Struck by the beauty of the sound, Loki found himself smiling again, all anxious thoughts replaced by the realization that he really, really had been missing out. How could she hide such talent from him? It was cruel, honestly. He did love a good ballad, and Midguard had so precious few that could be called such. He knew that she would likely curl up and die of embarrassment if she knew he was watching her, and a small part of him felt guilty for sneaking around on her like this. But simply listening in on such a sweet moment wasn’t wrong, surely..?

Her voice caught his attention, and he focused his eyes in time to see her glancing over her shoulder at him. “Enjoying the view, Loki?” She had turned to look at him, guitar perched precariously on her lap. She looked at him quizzically, one eyebrow arching as red creeped up her neck and into her cheeks.

“Oh, yes. Enjoying a great deal this morning, in fact. Please, don’t stop on my behalf. I would hate to interrupt.” He smirked as he leaned back against the doorframe, arms crossing. He half-expected her to run away screeching about privacy and how embarrassing it was to be watched like always, but to his great surprise, she turned around and resumed plucking at the guitar strings. Curiouser and curiouser, he thought to himself. Not wanting to press his luck, he stayed where he was for a few minutes more, listening to the magical sounds she produced and trying desperately to place the melody. I’ve heard this before, but where?

He was shocked into another dimension when she shyly invited him to come sit on the couch with her. “I ah, I- I have something I want to show you,” she stuttered, face flushing prettily for the second time that morning. He willed his legs to carry him to the couch, carefully searching her face for any signs of illness, any signs of deceit. This was very unlike her indeed. He carefully arranged himself on the couch beside her, afraid that if he made any sudden moves, she might take flight like she had so many times before. And he desperately wanted to hear what she had been playing again. Once he was seated, she smiled shyly at him and started the melody over. After some skillful picking, she began to sing.

“Sweet creature, had another talk about where it’s going wrong

We’re still young, we don’t know where we’re going

But we know where we belong

Oh, we started two hearts in one home

It’s hard when we argue, we’re both stubborn I know…

But oh, sweet creature

Sweet creature, wherever I go

You will bring me home

Sweet creature, Sweet creature

When I run out of road, you will bring me home.”

He couldn’t help his look of astonishment as he openly stared at her, amazement written in his features. He was both stunned and utterly captivated by her. Her voice carried a rich and soulful tone, invoking a deep response in his chest. The notes she played were clear and bright, and she only stumbled occasionally through an especially difficult part of the melody. Loki began to piece it all together, and simply couldn’t believe what he was witnessing. This was what she had been hiding from him. She had practiced, for him. She was playing, for him. His heart glowed with pride and affection at her display of trust. He was touched that she had thought to surprise him, to be so vulnerable in front of him. His heart swelled as he thought of how much courage she must have mustered in order to do this for him. Poor thing, he could practically feel her nervousness rolling off her as she played. She caught his eyes as she looked over at his relaxed form, trying to read his response. She smiled broadly as he closed his eyes and relaxed his head against the couch cushion. He felt her relax a bit, and with a deep breath, she sang a beautiful riff, letting her voice rise and then crash with the melody as her guitar rang out a quiet last note. Loki opened his eyes, crestfallen that it was over. Just as he drew in a breath to say something, she winked at him and plucked the melody again in preparation for the next verse. Ah, she was melting him, and she knew it. Loki silently cursed her for how his heart fluttered as she plucked her way into the next verse, but couldn’t help the slow smile that crept upon his lips. He closed his eyes again and fell headlong into her siren song.

As she sang her way through the second chorus, Loki’s brows furrowed slightly as the realization dawned on him. He knew exactly why the song was familiar to him. It was from a CD that he had found in her room. He had asked her to play it for him long ago out of curiosity, as he had never encountered such a thing before. She lit up when he presented the CD to her, and upon explaining the concept to him, they had listened to it on repeat for several days. She had told him that this song in particular was her favorite off the album, so they listened to it more than the others. His lips turned upward as he recalled each memory fondly. He would never admit it to her, but he loved the way that she had relaxed into his arms as she listened to it, had danced to it when she thought she was alone, had once been caught lip-synching the song into her hairbrush in the bathroom. He had even sung this song to her after a particularly nasty fight of theirs in an effort to ease the tension, winning him a punch on the arm and a dreamy sigh from his lover. To hear it now from her lips was not only ironic but touching, intimate. He was overwhelmed with emotion now as she sang it to him, and was thankful that he had chosen to close his eyes earlier. Gods forbid he do something as foolish as cry in front of his mortal while she sang for him. He vowed to make her sing him to sleep like this every night as punishment for hiding this talent from him. Wicked thing. I love you, he thought to himself.

She finished the song with a glorious high-pitched run and a flourish on the guitar, and Loki sighed heavily before opening suspiciously watery eyes. “Are..are you crying?” she asked incredulously. His hands were reaching for her as he subtly cleared his throat.

“I’m speechless. Absolutely speechless,” was all he was able to mutter before his hand reached out and cupped her face. His lips were on hers before she could reply. She broke the kiss long enough to set her guitar off to the side, and then tangled her fingers in his raven hair as her lips crashed back into his. She smirked when he groaned and deepened the kiss, pulling her closer to him. Their tongues swirled in an intricate dance, pulling small moans from her as he took her breath away. When they came up for air, he immediately dove to kiss her neck, then her ear. Her cheek. Her nose, her eyebrows, her forehead, her eyes, whispering a husky, “thank you” between each kiss. He lingered at last at her lips, ghosting his over her bottom lip in a feather-light touch. Pressing his forehead against hers, he swallowed thickly and whispered, “How did I get to be so fortunate as to meet, love, and know someone like you? Surely you must know that you take my breath away. I- I am at a loss, darling. You are so beautiful. What you just did for me was so beautiful. Thank you.” His voice wavered slightly as he leaned in to brush a soft, gentle kiss to her lips. “No one has ever given me a piece of themselves like this before. I am honored to have received it.” Shocked that she had managed to elicit such a reaction from her Asguardian prince, she simply held her palm to his face, cradling his cheek as she caught his gaze.

“I love you. I love you so much, and I am so glad that you enjoyed this.” She smiled then, and chuckled under her breath. “If I had known you would love it this much, I’d have done this much sooner.” Her eyes took on a devilish gleam as she leaned in to capture his lips in hers. “I mean, it’s not every day that one can render Silvertongue himself speechless.” With a smirk, she pulled back and stretched her arms above her head. “Come to think of it, I am rather proud of myself for this one. I may have finally found myself a superpower after all. Just think of all the ways I can use thi-” She was cut off by Loki’s lips crashing down on hers, crushing and wanting and...smiling?

“Oh, believe me dear, you will certainly be using that talent of yours more often. But for now, I intend to put some of your other talents to good use. Now shut up and kiss me.”

#loki x reader #loki of asgard #loki x you #fluff #marvel universe #loki layfeyson x reader #surprise #loki being sweet #harry styles #loving his albums right now #OC x Loki

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