#he’s confident enough to just sing a classic even though it doesn’t suit his voice

[crusheswhimsandfancies]

Smiley + glasses

[dying-suffering-french-stalkers]

For the ship game: prime numbers for Lupin x Jigen!

HERE YOU GO GHOST, THIS WAS FIVE PAGES IN A GOOGLE DOC AND TOOK ME SEVERAL HOURS

Under a cut, allegedly, though mobile has been known to just IGNORE THAT. Sorry in advance if this gets goofed for anyone.

2) Who is always horny and will have sex at any time, in any place?

Lupin, obviously (and canonically). Just the horniest man you ever did see. Jigen knows what he wants and when he wants it, but he has difficulty keeping up with Don Juan Triumphant over there. Lupin is also far less picky about locations and times than Jigen is. Jigen still has a FEW standards, thank you, and also a stronger sense of self-preservation. Lupin sometimes tries to start shit in public or during a heist and Jigen is like “I REALLY, REALLY APPRECIATE THE SENTIMENT BUT CAN WE NOT.” The closest to public anything Jigen will put up with is bar bathroom/back-alley hookups, and he doesn’t really tend to do that with Lupin or Goemon since they have secondary locations far more suited to such activity (or at least the damn Fiat, if nothing else). That said, Jigen is a spiteful bastard and gets a huge kick out of riling Lupin up over the walkie-talkie during jobs. He is more than happy to get jumped by his boss after they make it out and secure the loot.

3) Who is more into taking showers/baths together? Who tries to make it relaxing and who tries to make it sexy time?

Honestly, while I can totally see Lupin and Jigen doing this with their other partners, I have a harder time imagining the two of them doing this together and I’m not sure why. I feel like these two on their own both like the privacy bathing gives them, whether it’s to clean wounds or decompress from a job.

On the occasions when they do bathe together, I feel like it’s an unspoken kind of thing, where the other person quietly slips in the tub/shower with them and they just don’t bother protesting. I think Lupin is more likely to join Jigen in his bathing, but if Jigen is sleepy enough or lonely enough he might do the same. There is a lot of mutual appreciation of scars. They’ve definitely smoked in the tub before (Intricate Rituals™). Lupin is probably more likely to get handsy, because Lupin, but two can play that game if Jigen is feeling it, and also Jigen gives Lupin a run for his money in the staring department. No hat to hide behind now.

Lupin has also 100% done the whole “Hey Jigen, do you know if—stop screaming, it’s me—do you know if we have any more instant dashi? Goemon’s gonna slice up the sofa if I ruin soba night again.”

5) Who sleeps on the couch when they get into a fight?

Jigen, but to be fair, he canonically sleeps on the couch most nights (possibly to keep an eye on the door, possibly because he knows that place, at least, is always “acceptable” for him to occupy). It’s an odd night if you don’t see Jigen out there with a glass and a bottle of scotch and an old movie on TV. The main difference is that if he and Lupin have been fighting, he won’t bother with the formality of a glass and the TV will be playing far louder or not at all.

7) [A] Who said “I love you” first? And [B] who ends their arguments in a fight with “Because I love you”?

I hate to take the coward’s way out here, but I think the answers are A) either one - depends on the headcanon/fic/version of the characters I’m feeling that day, and B) both.

For A, they’re both the sort of people to show their love—true love/affection, not just flirtation/infatuation, LUPIN—in action, not words. Lupin is a man of many words to a fault, generous with his verbal and physical affection, so Lupin has to find a way to make sure Jigen knows he means it and how he means it. He may rightly fear that Jigen won’t believe him (or else believe him but take it platonically) if he says “I love you” to his face, so first he’ll show him through every little action he can. Jigen is a man of few words to a fault, so saying personal stuff like that out loud is both a last resort and the point of no return. Getting him to say it at all, unambiguously, and while sober is like pulling teeth. Once one of them finally spits it out, though, I think the other is quick to reciprocate (again, if they manage to say it clearly and under good circumstances and not ambiguously/while drunk or wounded/etc. They’re both idiots and selective cowards so this is a big if). The mutual relief is palpable and immediately followed by sex, because they’re both (horny) idiots and selective cowards who do not want to talk about Emotions and Personal Things any more than strictly necessary.

For B, ohhhh man, if it isn’t that same emotional avoidance coming to bite them in the asses! Looks like talking about deep emotions is strictly necessary after all! You know it’s a Big Important Argument for them if this is what it comes to. This is going to tie in somewhat to the answers for 11, 17, and 23, so stay tuned. “Because I love you” coming from either of them should give the other pause, but if they are angry enough, they’re both quite likely to storm off after that declaration anyway. They’ll come back and have a real discussion later, but the shock or frustration of that arresting declaration dropped in the middle of an argument is something neither of them are great at dealing with. Hearing that from Jigen might be enough to stop Lupin in his tracks, but Lupin might also be so dead-set on something that he’ll steamroll right over it even if he knows he’ll regret it later. Hearing that from Lupin probably only makes Jigen angrier because of his awful self-esteem (see answers 11 and 23), and even if he’s been working on that, his instinct will be to snarl “Yeah, right” and storm out the door. I like to think that one day they are able to get to the heart of the argument sooner (because this is almost always it) and work on the behaviors that worry the other so much, but alas, they are a mess.

11) Who makes fun of the other for having a crush on them, and who has to remind them that they are in a relationship?

Once again, either of them depending on the day.

As you mentioned in your JiGoe post, Jigen says it partly because he thinks it’s funny (“You have a crush on me, Boss? Fuckin’ embarrassing”) but also because he’s fishing for validation. His self-esteem/confidence in anything outside his shooting skills is shit and he still can’t quite believe that Lupin isn’t lying/he hasn’t conned Lupin into something. This is rather overestimating his conning skills and underestimating his many good qualities, but, well, genuine, lasting affection is kinda new for him. Much to Jigen’s annoyance, Lupin figures out exactly what Jigen’s up to after the first few times and answers him seriously (and positively) instead of continuing the “joke”. Lupin loses patience for this particular tactic over time but I like to think that Jigen finally begins believing in the affection, too, so it comes up less and less and one day Jigen might actually play the quip straight without the self-deprecation. Ideally he would just take the damn compliment, but it’s LupJig and banter is one of their love languages.

When Lupin says it, he typically is playing the quip straight and fondly giving Jigen shit for showing an Emotion and motherFUCKER I just realized Jigen could probably be considered a tsundere. I hate this. ANYWAY. Jigen then immediately snarks back that yes, Lupin, considering we’ve been travelling the world together and actively fucking for X years, it’d be damn awkward if I didn’t by now.

13) Who initiates duets? and who is the better singer?

Lupin absolutely initiates duets, or rather, he tries to; whether or not Jigen actually chimes in is another matter entirely. Lupin is also the better singer by far (when he’s sober). He loves singing along to pop and rock in the car (“This is the reason God invented America!”).

Much as it would please me personally to give Jigen a smooth operatic baritone, there’s no way in hell he sounds good after smoking a pack a day for twenty-something years. I think Jigen can carry a tune and he’s a decent hummer and whistler, but his singing voice isn’t spectacular.

Lupin occasionally succeeds in getting Jigen to join him in car karaoke, though as in all things, Lupin is much louder and more impassioned. Jigen frequently hums along under his breath, though, and Lupin loves hearing Jigen’s a cappella renditions of classical music (complete with hand motions).

When Queen starts becoming popular, car singalongs become much more involved because it’s MY silly headcanon and You Are Not Immune To Queen. Jigen cried the first time he heard “Bohemian Rhapsody” and he will kill Lupin if he ever tells Goemon or, God forbid, Fujiko. When the four of them are in the car it’s a full-on Wayne’s World headbanging party. (Pops is the drunk guy they pick up along the way. Also, seeing Payless Shoe Source in this clip dealt me psychic damage.)

Lupin and Jigen (and Goemon) are the living embodiment of the drunk friends singing “Sweet Caroline” post, and Jigen is specifically this version of “Sweet Caroline”.

17) Who is more protective?

THAT IS THE QUESTION, HUH, GHOST? Jigen’s job and, to a certain degree, raison d’être is protecting Lupin, but (to cheat slightly and quote your own DM to me), if you think Lupin won’t raze everything to the ground to keep Jigen (and the others) safe, you don’t know him at all. They are this meme to the deepest of faults. They are both so desperately afraid of losing what they have (and in Lupin’s case, this is tinged with a bonus, even more concerning “what is his”) that they will go full self-sacrificing, scorched-earth policy. This is, in fact, my favorite reason for Lupin to do the worst thing he does: fake his own death to protect his partners. Lupin never stops to think that maybe, JUST MAYBE, he should trust his partners to fake grief and keep the secret long enough for whoever’s on their tail to give up or let their guard slip. Lupin is willing to hurt them in an effort to protect them, so in that way, I suppose Lupin is the “most” “protective”. Jigen’s self-abasement to the point of unhesitating and perhaps even hasty sacrifice is painful, too, but Jigen would never dare go to the same level of deception (except in Goodbye, Partner, apparently? But 1) I haven’t watched it yet and 2) while awful, I still feel like fake betrayal pales in comparison to very convincingly (AND MAYBE REPEATEDLY) faked death).

19) Who drives and who has the window seat?

They split driving duties, but Lupin genuinely loves driving and Jigen is more than happy to prop his feet on the Fiat’s dashboard and smoke or sleep the hours away.

23) Who thinks they are not good enough for the other’s love? and who’s more afraid of losing the other? Who thinks they keep messing up, only for the other to tell them they don’t need to worry?

HERE WE GO AGAIN!!! I think the answer to all of these is ultimately Jigen, but that’s not to say Lupin doesn’t share the exact same worries.

Jigen has a very difficult time believing that his partners’ love is genuine, and since Lupin is the one he knew first, that’s where it first manifests. Jigen has had very, very few good romantic connections in his life (if any). He doesn’t know what Lupin could possibly see in an older, prickly hired killer with a drinking problem and a head full of demons. He’s willing to believe that Lupin keeps him around for his skills, for protection, and for sex, sure, but anything past that? Doubtful. This ties into the other two parts of the question: Jigen is afraid that if he fails in his sharpshooting or his protection, he will be cut out of the gang, or worse, Lupin will end up dead because Jigen slipped up. As mentioned in question 17, Jigen cannot bear to lose Lupin and he would never forgive himself if he believed it was somehow his fault. Accordingly, Jigen takes “failure” that exceeds his usual margin of error very seriously in the early days. Later, he is better about this, but the worst-case scenario still stands.

Lupin, on the other hand, has had plenty of romantic connections, some good, some bad, though it is perhaps telling that Fujiko is his longest romantic relationship other than Jigen. He is afraid that if he doesn’t put on the world’s greatest show at all times, no one will give a rat’s ass about some scrawny grandson of an old French thief (or the perhaps unwanted/disliked son of a ruthless crime lord, because I love that fanon for Lupin the Second). He must live up to and indeed surpass the previous Lupins, he must shower his partners in money and adventure, he must always, always come out on top no matter how south the plan goes, or else what is the point of him? It takes time for him to turn his persona off for more than a few seconds, to let the quieter, sometimes contemplative side that slips through the cracks come to rest out in the open. Years down the road, Jigen finally gets up the courage and the words to tell Lupin that he would love him no matter what he did or where he went, even if that was nothing and nowhere. And again, see question 17 re: losing Jigen.

29) Who does some crazy stunt to try and impress the other and who ends up driving them to the emergency room after it backfires?

Lupin is by far the most guilty of this. He’s constantly pulling dumb shit, whether that be for World-Renowned Gentleman Thief reasons or just He May Be Stupid reasons. Case in point: the tunnel scene in The First, after which Jigen was duly impressed. Fortunately for Lupin, Lady Luck must be head over heels for him because the bastard keeps surviving, but sometimes even she can’t save him from medical consequences. Jigen bulk-ordered “Stupid Hurts” band-aids specifically for Lupin. Jigen’s bad choices are more likely to literally backfire on him, but Goemon more than makes up for Jigen’s slack in the Crazy Stunt department.

[whitherliliesbloom]

heartbeat concerto

[ ffxivwrite2021 ] ★ [ masterlist ] ★ [ prompt #03 - scale ]

[ alphinaud/wol ]  ★ [ 2,605 words ]  ★ [ nodame cantabile au ]

scale: an arrangement of the notes in any system of music in ascending or descending order of pitch

Illya prays to the heavens that the man beside her does not hear the fortissimo that was her pounding heart. 

“Rachmaninoff?” Her voice was equal parts confused as it was alarmed, hiking in pitch that sounded like an ear piercing squeak, almost grimace worthy. Trepidation rings loud in her chest, like shrieking white noise that deafens her. “I’ve never played a concerto in front of somebody before.” 

She had hoped that admittance would allow him to grant her some fraction of mercy. After all... for as gracious and supportive a tutor as he was a diligently observant audience for her playing, he surely wouldn’t throw her into the deep end after she’d just barely able to make some progress, right?

The boy merely smiles, navy blue eyes softening in its gaze as he waves the music sheets in his hands before placing them delicately upon the piano stand. He exudes an aura of gentle reassurance, but knows that his resolve to push her past her comfortable limits is implacable. 

“Now would be a good time for a first then, wouldn’t you agree?”

Illya heart sinks, lips pressed into a thin, paling line as she glances at the score that awaited her - notes upon lines that were rapidly blurring into nothing but squiggles and incomprehensible doodles in her vision... as if taunting her, daring her to butcher one of the most iconic piano concertos to have ever been composed - by one of the greatest virtuoso pianists to have ever lived no less? 

Sonatas were one thing - it took Illya a good amount of time to be able to even bring herself to play the first movement of Sonata Facile to completion in front of him without breaking down into a mess of cold sweat and trembling fingers. 

But concertos... by the twelve, even saying the word brings her chills down her spine. 

She was nowhere near good enough for pieces that demanded such high amounts of skill, precision and talent... nowhere even close to being able to perform alone on stage for a crowd to behold... let alone in front of an entire orchestra. 

When she had met the violin prodigy that had been her new neighbor and he’d offered to help her overcome the performance anxiety that had crippled her ability to play the piano in front of others for years, she hadn’t expected for him to have such sky high expectations for her - expectations that she was certain she’d never in a million years be able to meet.

Alphinaud is a confident, assured young man. Performing was only natural to him, came as naturally as music does flow through his very veins - he had even stated so on the very day that they’d met. Music is for ears to hear, for the world to enjoy. What point was there to keeping music hidden behind four walls? To hide away the sound of their instruments is an affront to the very reason those instruments were made in the first place. 

He moved into this apartment complex for a very different reason than she did - and she understood that he too, in his own ways that she could not yet fully understand, had his own troubles which kept him from reaching the heights in which he, and his family had aspired him to be. 

But the notoriety behind the difficulty of the pieces he plays has never once made his bow once falter, nor has it ever put him off the idea of even trying. Certainly, there were aspects of his playing to critique... but his determination and confidence alone makes him more of a capable musician than she is - something she both deeply envied and admired. 

Would that she could even possess half the amount of talent as he- she’d constantly tell herself, and it was a thought that possessed her even as she hung her head in defeat, trudging to the piano that sat in the middle of the living room before sitting herself down on the cushioned bench, the dent in the corner of the wood still visible from their first meeting when she’d knocked it over onto its side from panic. 

Violet eyes glance down at the black and white keys with a gulp - her greatest friend in her darkest times of sorrow... yet also the cause of many of her biggest regrets and worries in life. 

She stalls for a moment to pick her train of hair up from the floor and let it unravel gently behind her on the bench, her cotton slippers kicked aside to place her feet upon the pedals that were propped up by a well used extender - a necessity due to her short stature. 

With stiff, slightly shaky fingers that now laid delicately upon the surface of the piano keys, Illya sharply inhales, and forces herself to quiet the raging thoughts of potential failure and humiliation as she presses down to play the first notes. 

Alphinaud stands behind her by the window, quiet so as to not disturb the girl... but even with his considerate silence, Illya could not help but be acutely aware of his eyes staring holes into the back of her head. She could only begin to imagine what he was thinking - and while she’s befriended him long enough to know he was a man who was above ridicule, she still hated to disappoint - especially the first person who has heard her play the piano for the first time in years. 

A symphony fills the apartment, bright as the rays of sunlight that shone through the window, making Illya’s starspun hair appear to glow like a halo. Like little bells, the piano sings out a melody that is as light as the air. It sounds easy on the ears, gentle and kind as the timid pianist who was weaving this piece into being with her fingers. 

And that was the problem.

Rachmaninoff composed Piano Concerto No 2 during some of the darkest moments of his life - the piece that would go on to save his career as a floundering, helpless musician had been written from the very pits of his own despair - a song of tragedy and sorrow that tells of a struggling pianist and composer who feared to lose the very thing that gave his life meaning; something many other aspiring musicians would surely understand... something Illya herself knew all too well.

And yet when Alphinaud listened to the piece being played, it conveyed none of that sadness, none of the essence of what made Concerto No 2 become such an iconic classical piece in history. 

Illya played without fault - that much he is certain. She’s taking great care to play the right notes, attentive to her own pace that would be fitting were a choir of violins and cellos playing after her tune. But he can tell, even without looking upon the tense, rigid scowl upon her face that she was focusing too much on the technicalities that she’s lost all of what made him so captivated with her playing before - a mistake that he himself has been criticized for countless times. 

Father has chided him for that before - praised him for being a genius and young violin paragon both while at the same time admonishing his lack of improvement even after three years of performing professionally - three years of the same critique that would come back to haunt him over and over again.

Music was more than playing perfectly - it was about the inflections, the subtleties in the way one moves their finger across the piano keys, or the way one draws a violin bow... The emotions that would stir one’s heart in a way only music would be able to convey and can never be properly emulated with computerized digital sound. 

When Alphinaud closed his eyes, he did not hear the disquiet of a child’s heart as he heard the echoes of church bells ringing on a Sunday morning... but, just as it is - a nervous pianist who was pressing keys because she was told to, because she is doubting herself. 

“Illya.” he calls her name, softly so as to not startle... but more importantly, to convey that he wasn’t mad, disappointed or upset with her - as she is wont to often assume. 

The piano stops abruptly, and the girl turns to look at him, her piercing stardust hued eyes shimmering with a glossy layer of worry - it suits her less than the rare blossoms of joy that sprouted in her eyes whenever she seemed to genuinely be enjoying his company.

“Y-Yes?” 

The young man pauses for a moment to casually stroll up beside her, before gesturing for the lady to move. Though confused, she scoots over to her right to allow him space on the bench, questioning expression apparent on her face about his intent.

When he sits, the close proximity between them brings him warmth, and he feels the corners of his lips instinctively pull into a gentle smile.

“I’m sorry, you must have been caught off guard with such an unreasonable request from me.” He apologizes before quickly holding up his hand when he sees the young lady’s lips part in an impulsive need to protest.. but it is quickly lowered when she draws back into herself and swallows her retort. “Maybe... a little warm up would be better before we move on to such a challenging piece.”

His slender fingers stretch, the pad of his index finger resting gently upon a D key, but not pressing down. 

Alphinaud has only the basic understanding of how a piano is played... and he has in the past tried to expand his musical repertoire to cover the undisputedly most popular classical instrument of all time, but he regrettably never quite got the time or chance to. But he is aware of a routine piano players would use to practice, not too dissimilar to the way violinists would warm up as well.

“May we perhaps practice scales? Just for a little while?”

The humility in his tone with his request compared to before doesn’t escape Illya’s notice, but she refrains from commenting on it as her eyes widen up at him.

“Um... s-sure.”

The hesitation in her response is only natural - after all he’d just challenged her to play a difficult piece of piano concerto only to reduce their practice down to repetitive scales - something even the most amateur of players could easily do. 

Perhaps he’d felt a tad sorry for his earlier forwardness and the not so subtle way he’d intimidated her into playing something she was clearly not completely comfortable performing for him.. and the only way he knew how to make amends was to correct the damage of his own transgression’s doing. 

Getting Illya to relax was important - not just for her music but for the sake of herself as well. If her Rapunzel length hair, lack of fresh foods in her pantry and well worn and weathered pink camise was any indication, the girl wasn’t the best at taking care of her own wellbeing in her pursuit for musical perfection. 

Illya’s shoulder is still relatively stiff as she begins to play, though not nearly as much as they were before while she was playing the concerto. Her fingers effortlessly glide across the keyboard to play an ascension of notes before moving back down. 

By the third repeat, she’s begun relaxing considerably and picking up speed, and her hands were moving with a practiced, ethereal fluidity that was akin to waves of the ocean... as were the sound of the notes being played - reminding Alphinaud of the push and pull of the tides upon a sandy shoreline. 

She transitions from C major to C minor, weaving in the scales of D-flat major and minor before the scales moves further and further up in pitch, so seamlessly that anyone who isn’t familiar with notes in the slightest would have trouble even realizing the switch in scales until she’s reached F major. 

In the face of something that comes naturally to Illya, she is at ease... and the piano is once more harmonizing in tune with her love for the instrument. 

It’s a not so subtle way of giving her a confidence boost, but Alphinaud claps as she finishes the B minor scale with a flick of her arms - and though her confusion is still apparent, he can tell just from the adorable tilt of her head that she’s relaxed now.

“Wonderful, Illya... It’s clear as crystal with the way you played how seasoned you are. I’d dare say you’re quite a prodigy yourself.”

Having a lofty title thrust onto her so suddenly without warning burns her cheeks a bright shade of red, and the girl is quick to shake her head.

“I-I... I appreciate it, Alphinaud... But I know you’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

“Be that as it may...” He retorts before leaning forward to close the distance between them, his blue eyes swirling with a sincerity that begins to mirror in Illya’s bejeweled ones. “My praises are always truthful and well deserved. You’re a wonderful pianist, Illya.”

Something compels Alphinaud to continue speaking. Perhaps it was the twinkling of Illya’s eyes that held the radiantly clear reflection of himself within... or the dust of pink speckled upon her cheeks and across the width of her little button nose and pointed ears... or maybe it was the soft sound of air being inhaled through her barely parted lips - glossy, pink and befittingly cute for a woman of such beauty. But he deigns to open up his heart and speak his mind freely- he finds himself being able to do so more easily towards her than any other person for some reason.

“Besides... It was because of my own selfish desire to be able to hear you play that I offered to be your tutor. Being able to be by your side here like this and watch you play alone is an honor I would always treasure. So you needn’t be so afraid of playing how you wish to with me.”

When Alphinaud leans back, he finds the delightful cherry pink shade upon Illya’s face to have darkened, and her flustered quivering of her lips as him self-reflecting upon his own statement which causes him to dart his head to the side in an attempt to hide his own blooming blush.

Not that it’d be noticed by Illya in the first place, as she tilts her head down to hide her thoroughly embarrassed expression beneath the shadows of her white bangs. 

“I-I’m sorry. Maybe I said too much.” 

Illya doesn’t respond, and the young man is almost thankful she doesn’t... because he’s determined to force himself to recover and continue on with their practice.

Clearing his throat unabashedly, his head turns slowly back to look at the girl beside him.

“Well. Shall we continue? I could pick out an easier piece for you to try, this time.”

She nods, as halfheartedly as she did earlier when he’d asked her to perform  Rachmaninoff’s piece for him. And though her playing of Mozart was even more shaky, off-pace and lacking in original intent as it did with Piano Concerto No 2 before... Alphinaud could only acknowledge her efforts with an apologetic and bashful smile on his part... for the deep red flush upon Illya’s face never once dissipates during her performance. 

Nor does the trembling of her fingers - which, if nothing else, conveys the pounding of her racing heart more than clearly and loudly for him to hear. 

[ikindamissbeingphysical]

Your Costume Would Look Better on my Bedroom Floor - RIVUSA fic

Read on ao3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29331153

Riven hooks up with a masked girl at a Halloween party and is determined to find her again.

But his feelings are torn, when Musa, his newest-specialism partner, starts acting weird.

The music's so loud that she can't hear herself think.

And what a blessing that is. The strobe lights flash neon; reflected off of shiny, sweating bodies and the shadows cast are hues of amber and red and Musa could get lost in the blur of those lights and the pounding beat of the music and visions of Halloween masks. Skeletons slide past her, girls with impressive (read: petrifying) make up, fairies with fangs, and even specialists with werewolf ears.

She isn't sure quite how it happened, but a group of girls she isn't particularly close to, from her English class, had begged her to be their ninth muse.

"Your name is Musa!" Daisy, the water (not earth, not earth) fairy had said, leaning against the back of the chair and giving Musa her biggest puppy-dog eyes. "And we totally like, need a ninth muse. Please!"

The other girls had all nodded vigorously. Musa had inwardly cursed her inability to pack away her things faster and high-tail it out of the class as soon as the bell had rung, cursed herself for letting them corner her like this. And even though she hadn't wanted to, she could read the wholesomeness radiating off of them like enormous waves. It was only an earnest desire to have fun. Daisy had prattled on about the group photo opportunities, how she even had Musa's costume all lined up, when Musa had lifted her hand to silence the babbling.

"Alright," she said, to their elation and surprise, "fine." And then she'd put her headphones on and done her best to forget about it.

She'd wondered for a while, briefly, if the Suite had wanted some sort of group costume. It wasn't Stella's thing, really, to coordinate outfits with other people, and as the end of October rolled around, Sky and Bloom had begun the hunt for couples costumes and Musa had supported each suggestion whole-heartedly; eager to avoid any awkwardness.

Stella's at this party too, somewhere. Dressed in some intense haute-couture, and Terra too, as a bat? Musa isn't sure, and she wasn't about to ask. Aisha would show, for an hour or less, before rushing back to the dorm to study for the Elementals final on Tuesday. Sky and Bloom were on the dance floor, and Musa allowed herself a moment to bask in their respective bliss.

It had been a good night so far, to her surprise.

Daisy and her classic-fanatics had helped her into costume, and there had been pre-drinks (fruity cocktails that were worryingly easy to drink) and a lot of photos.

Musa had to admit, they looked good. The nine of them, in their silks and their satins, and the intricate, embroidered masks that sat on the bridge of Musa's nose and fanned her eyes with fine, delicate lace detail.

"You'll be Euterpe," Daisy had said, with perfect pronunciation, as she helped Musa into the lilac and purple swathes of silk that cinched in tight at the waist. "The muse of Music. Since you're always listening to it!"

"Funny." Musa grinned, only a little forced, before she'd turned to the mirror and blended out her eyeshadow.

It's not that she doesn't like Daisy. Daisy’s fine. Nice. Perfectly average. It’s just Musa keeps to herself. Her mother had always called her an introvert, or rather: someone who re-charged in the dark with music, before the battery was high-enough to go out and socialise again. Some people require more energy: the girls in her Suite are a moderate amount, but Daisy and the English Lit gang? They require a lot of power. They can be draining.

They're all out on the dance-floor now, though, leaving her alone, and Musa sips her strawberry daiquiri and basks into the mind-numbingly, paradoxically loud, peace of the crowd.

"As hot as you look in that costume," comes a slow, sultry drawl, "I'm sure you'd look much better out of it."

Musa's smiling, it's a reflex to smile now, whenever she hears Riven's voice. She doesn't like to think about the ramifications of that too much, so she turns and grins up at him, content to enjoy the night without over-analysing the feelings that have been simmering just under her skin for a while now.

Riven's...well, she's glad for the low-light, because she can feel the burn in her cheeks. Some sort of pirate, maybe? But he's shirtless, with that broad, wiry definition she's grown use to seeing from their Specialism training together, and there's a dark trail of hair leading into his black leather pants. He's got a leather waistcoat on too, over his bare torso, and an eye-patch flipped up onto his forehead, a red bandana tied around his neck and his hair all mussed in that way she knows takes him at least twenty minutes in the mornings.

He towers over her, a drink in hand, and an appreciative gleam in his eyes. She leans against the pillar and sips her strawberry potion. "How many times have you used that one tonight?"

"Only half a dozen," he shrugs, one hand toying with the silk train of her dress. The fabric is so light, it glides through his fingertips and she can feel the heat of his hands on her thighs.

"Wow. Way to make a girl feel special."

He chuckles, and his breath fans over her ear and she shivers all over. "Is that what you want, baby?" He asks, pushing in closer, and she sets her drink down before she spills it. "You wanna feel special? I can arrange that."

She wonders if he's drunk, or feeling bolder than usual in the dark- she certainly is- and she almost can't contain her joy that he likes her back. It spills out of her, and he smiles in bemusement.

They've flirted before, in class, or well- something like flirting. Something like banter, but with softer edges, and secret smiles and inside jokes, but he's so well-guarded, Musa can never quite get a fix on his emotions.

She can now though, she can read the desire and it's not at all hidden, and she feels brave and confident so-

She stretches onto her tiptoes (screw Daisy and these short-ass sandals) and bites the bullet and kisses him.

He moans in surprise, and she hears his own drink being set down, before his hands are in her hair, mindful of her mask, moving gently through the beads and jewellery, skimming down her body to her waist and then his mouth is on her jaw, and Musa leans her head back, granting him all the access he wants, as she clings to his shoulders.

It’s perfect. It’s body-tingling, it’s everything she let herself think it would be on all those lonely nights when he was just letters on her phone, shining in the darkness.

"I've wanted this for so long," she admits, elated, and Riven hums in surprise, pulling away a little.

His lips are raw, and she runs the pad of her thumb over them. She did that. He nips at her finger, and she laughs.

"Really?" He asks, curious but not displeased, as he leans in for another kiss, "do we share a class or something?"

She laughs, before she realises he's being serious. It takes her a long, awful moment, before it all clicks.

Riven doesn't know it's her.

Riven doesn't recognise her.

It's like she's been shoved into the Alfea-River, cold and sobering and awful (no matter how much Aisha sings it's praises) and Musa stumbles out of Riven's embrace, heart-pounding, stomach dropping.

"Hey," Riven frowns, reaching for her arm, "what's wrong-"

"I-" She can't believe it. For a wild moment, she'd thought- allowed herself to think that Riven wanted- "I have to go." is what comes out, before she turns and bolts into the crowd. She runs into people, gets a few elbows in the ribs, her dress snags on a door handle and she hopes Daisy isn't mad- before she finally gets outside.

She gulps in the night air, feels the prickle of tears on her cheeks and wipes them away harshly, laughing at her own ludicrousness. What was she thinking?

She rips off the mask, and a loud, embarrassing sob tears from her throat. She looks over the empty-parking lot, can still hear, mostly muted now, the music inside. The drop from cloud nine to here is giving her whiplash.

"Musa!" Comes Terra's concerned yelp, and Musa jumps. She's not used to being taken off-guard, not when she can feel people before they sneak up on her. Especially Terra. And now great, she's crying, and she hates crying in front of people. Terra bundles over, wrapped up in a thick winter coat. Was she leaving the party early? "What's happened! Are you okay?"

Musa tries to play it off, she doesn't like being the centre of attention. "Yeah, no- I'm- long night. A bit fried."

Terra nods: understanding. "I'll bet. Me too. Let's go back to the Suite. I can make us some hot-chocolate. We can watch a movie?"

"That actually sounds really nice." Musa whispers, letting Terra guide her away. Terra's a comforting mix of worry and a fissure of pleasure. Musa assumes the latter is because they're finally spending some time together. Terra's all about roommate bonding, and Musa supposes she hasn't always been the most accommodating. It’s a good distraction, to focus on how she’ll make more of an effort with Terra.

Later, once they're both in Terra's bed, drinking hot chocolate (which is really, rather painfully sweet for Musa's taste, but she drinks it anyway) and watching Garfield Goes to London, the events of earlier seem sort of like a nightmare.

She drifts off, her head finds Terra's shoulder, and Terra is warm, and smells like apple-body wash, and she falls asleep, hoping that when she wakes up, it won't have been real. It'll be the morning of October 31st, and none of will have ever happened.

The sun rises on November 1st.

Riven tosses his shoe at it, but it remains stubbornly in the sky. Mocking him. It's then he realises how cold it is. And then, a little dimly, he notices that he's outside. Dazed, aching, and evidently he slept in the now dew-damp grass. And that the rather ugly looking cloud frowning down at him is-

“Morning, Silva.” Riven mutters, trying to block out the light. His voice sounds as rough as he feels. He gets to his feet, wobbling, and Silva steadies him and brushes some of the dead grass off his shoulders.

“This is the way to behave?" Silva berates, but he doesn't sound too angry, so Riven drowns it out. "This is the kind of example my two best Specialists are setting? I expect this from you, Riven, but Sky? How disappointing.”

Sky? Oh, that's right. Riven has a murky memory of the two of them searching for the grounds for- shit. More memories trickle back to him. The lovely lady in lavender, with thighs he's desperate to get his hands on, and who'd had a crush on him for ages. How she's disappeared and he didn't have her name, her number, her instagram, only a description of her costume. Sky had been eager to help, more than a little drunk, with Bloom on his arm. Riven wonders where Bloom is, before deciding he doesn't really care that much.

“Saul, it wasn’t, I’m sorry.” Sky stammers, as Riven turns and heads back to school.

It's still excruciatingly early for a Sunday morning, as he staggers back to his room and into the shower. The hot water cascades over him, sinks deep into his bones and soothes. I've wanted this for so long the mystery-girl whispers, and she's achingly familiar, tantalising, lighting up a spark inside him that doesn't burn often. Fuck, she was hot. He's not sure what happened, but he's pretty sure it isn't how the night was meant to have ended.

When he gets out of the shower, Sky is sitting on his bed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Got a good tongue-lashing?" Riven asks, pulling on a shirt.

Sky groans. "There was more alcohol in that punch than I thought." His phone buzzes, and he smiles at it, and Riven rolls his eyes.

"I take it your girlfriend got back."

"Yeah, she- oh wait." Sky's eyes light up, "did we find your girl?" Riven shakes his head and Sky slumps with disappointment. "Oh, maybe Bloom knows. What was she dressed as again?"

"I don't know, a goddess or a princess something? It was purple."

Sky types into his phone and Riven chugs half his bottle of water and contemplates bullying one of the first-years into bringing him a stack of pancakes from the cafeteria.

"She can't remember anything." Sky says apologetically, sliding his phone into his pocket. "We think someone spiked the punch."

"Right." Riven sighs, and honestly, of course someone spiked the punch. He knows at least five different people who tossed vodka shots into it throughout the night. He may have been one of them. "I need food."

He's almost out the door when Sky's voice drifts after him. "You're still gonna look for her right? You said she was your soulmate!"

Jesus. He's way too soft a drunk. "Forget I said that." Riven demands, even though it's futile, because Sky likes to collect all the soft, little vulnerable parts of people and treasure it about them forever. "But yes, I'm still gonna find her. At the very least, it's a damn good lay."

Sky jogs after him down the hall, stumbling into a member of the cleaning-staff and haphazardly picking up the mop. "And at the most: you'll fall in love. Imagine it, Riven." He slings an arm over Riven's shoulder. "You: in love. It's hard to picture, right?"

"Keep dreaming, mate."

"It'd suit you, I bet." Sky continues, ever the optimist, "maybe it'll tone down your dickish tendencies by 30%. Maybe even 40."

The arm over his shoulder turns less into a friendly gesture and more into a drunk man desperately needing support, so Riven clutches Sky tighter and helps him down the stairs, wondering when he got such an idiot for a best friend.

The cafeteria's fairly empty, Riven would expect nothing less for this hour, so he dumps Sky unceremoniously at one of the many vacant tables, and flashes his most shit-eating grin at the lunch lady who hands him a plate full of pancakes so reluctantly, he'd almost think she'd rather have handed him a terminal illness.

He turns, ready to re-join Sky and hatch a game plan for finding his mystery girl, when his eyes lock onto a figure in the corner of the room.

It's Musa. As soon as he realises it, he's already on his way over. He's drawn to her, he's always been drawn to her. It had been easy, at first, to shrug it off as attraction. He's hot, she's hot, it's basic physics. But they've been sparring partners for two Semesters now, and though he'll never admit it, he likes her company. Likes the easy banter and the way they fit together. If he ever let himself think about it more deeply, he knows he'd stumble onto how compatible they are. How everything seems just a touch brighter when she smiles at him.

"Well, you look radiant this morning." He says, dumping his plate onto her table with a clatter and watching her wince.

Her hair's a mess, her make-up dried, and her eyes red. He chuckles at how bedraggled a figure she makes, normally so pristine and put-together. It's a fun contrast.

She looks up at him, annoyed, before something strange flickers over her face. It startles him, whatever it is, she looks- ashamed?

"Ut-oh," he sing-songs, folding up one of his pancakes and sliding the whole thing into his mouth. "Regretting last night's decisions, are we? Where'd you end up? Let me guess: Terra talked you into her weed-brownies and she fucked up the batch. Baked, I don't know, fucking clovers instead of weed into the batter."

It earns him a tiny little smile on the corner of her mouth, and his whole body curves closer to her in response. "Don't even. I want to forget it. Forget everything about it."

She takes a long gulp of her drink and he notices it's black coffee. Not very Musa. She likes that disgusting earl grey shit the school doesn't stock very often. When she's forced to have coffee, it's so milky that she might as well not bother. Something's off. He examines her a little more closely, and, not for the first time, envies her powers. To see what was going on in her head, to see her emotions instead of sitting across the table and guessing at them, would be extremely useful right now.

She reaches across the table and steals one of his pancakes, and she looks so pitiful that he lets her, and she tears it up like a bird before she eats it. "What about you?" She asks, not meeting his eyes, "how was your night?"

For some reason, he doesn't want to tell her about the mystery-girl and his new quest to find her. It feels...wrong, to brag about some conquest. It shouldn't. It's not like they're- they're just friends. Barely. "No complaints," he says instead, and he hates this a little bit, that they're both being so evasive.

So, he gives her shin a good kick under the table.

"Ow! Riven!" She scowls, whacking his arm.

He grins at her. "Muscle spasm."

She huffs out a fond laugh, when anyone else would have stormed away from him. "Oh, really? You're getting muscle spasms now? Good to know, so I can kick your ass in training this week."

"You wish." He hums, ripping the next pancake in half and offering the larger piece to her. She takes it and eats it, and when the maple syrup dribbles down her hand, she licks it up from her wrist to her thumb, with a rose-pink tongue that Riven can't look away from. He thinks, vaguely, that she's asked him a question, because she's looking at him with expectant eyes, but there's still glossy, shiny maple on her lips and he thinks it would probably taste a lot better on her. "Huh?"

"I said, I think Sky's going to throw-up."

He follows her gaze to where Sky is leaning over the table, looking particularly green.

Riven shrugs, going for another pancake. "Probably. He's a light-weight."

"Shouldn't you tend to him? Best friend duties?"

"Oh," Riven hums, smacking his lips together, "is that why all of yours are here with us?"

Musa frowns down at her coffee. "They wanted to come with me, but...it's so loud sometimes, you know? Sometimes I just need this. Peace." She closes her eyes, breathes in deeply, and Riven is arrested by the sight of her.

By the time he regains control of his vocal abilities, her eyes are open, ringed just a little with purple, and she's beautiful. "Does that mean I count as peace?" He teases, just a little flattered.

"Please," she scoffs, "your emotions are not quiet. You're as loud as Terra-"

"Fuck you, take that back."

"-but it's different."

Riven leans closer on the stool; curious. She doesn't often talk about her powers with him, and he knows why. He'd been pretty blunt when they were first paired up, practically threatened to ruin her life if she'd so much as peeked into his head. He knows now that her control still isn't great, and that she tries, and that most of the time, she doesn't want to know what anyone's feeling, not when it drowns out her own emotions.

Prompted by his look, she struggles to find the words. "Terra is...it's like a room of people all yelling my name. They each want something different, they each crave something, and it's just not a fun situation, really."

That sounds about right. He can't imagine any situation being fun with Terra. "And what about me?"

"You-" she meets his eyes, and quickly looks away again, and he's so fucking intrigued by her. What is this? She's never been like this before, he's never been like this before. It's too soft, too intimate for them. But it's a quiet, empty Sunday morning, when she looks at her black, black coffee and says: "You sound sort of like a rainforest. It's lots of sounds: a growling jaguar, beetles scuttling up wet bark, gorilla's moving through trees, the creak of branches, storms, rain, it's...it's a harmony. Each sound is a different emotion, but they come together, like an orchestra. It's..." Her cheeks flame red, and he can tell she wants him to look away from her, but he can't. "It's peaceful." She admits, finally.

Riven opens his mouth but nothing comes out. It's the nicest thing anyone's ever said about him. He feels raw, cut to the bone and exposed like a deep paper cut. The air seems to sting around him, and he can't believe that it's Musa, Musa, that associates him with something that isn't bad.

"So. Yeah." She says, awkwardly, toying with her empty coffee cup. "I feel really stupid, by the way, so feel free to even the playing field."

"Don't feel stupid." He whispers, and his voice must sound different because her eyes snap up to meet his. His hand is across the table, and he's not sure how it got there or what he planned on doing with her. Her fingers thrum against her cup in response. Neither one of them moves. "I uh-, that's...I picture you sometimes. Like, obviously I don't know what you're feeling, but sometimes when you're talking or we're fighting, I get these images of you, like landscapes." What the fuck is he doing, why is he speaking, why doesn't he shut up- "like a white-sand beach, or an over-grown field of harebells."

Riven can feel his heart thumping in his chest, and Musa is staring at him, and their fingers are inching, slowly, towards each other and then-

Sky vomits. Loudly.

Musa jumps up. "Oh my god!" She cries, rushing over to him. Riven scrambles after her, as Sky coughs up the rest of it. "I'll get him some water."  Musa says, running to the lunch lady.

Riven pats Sky's back, and Sky looks up at him, still a little green around the edges. "Oh hey! You should definitely ask Musa if she saw your mystery girl last night." He says hoarsely. Still definitely drunk, then.

"Shut the fuck up and don't say anything about that to her." Riven hisses, as Musa returns with a plastic cup of water. She looks between them curiously, and Riven gives Sky a warning glare, but all Sky does is vomit some more, and then reach for the water with a pained smile. "I'm gonna take him back to the dorm." Riven mutters, and Musa nods.

"Sure, uh, feel better Sky. I'll see you in class, Riven."

"Bye Musa! Say hi to Bloom for me!" Sky bellows, and Riven regrets, just a little, spiking the punch.

"Dressing to impress." Stella observes, spotting Musa through her hand mirror as Musa walks into the classroom on Monday morning.

Stella's been bitchier than usual to all the girls in the Suite. Musa is nearly one hundred percent sure that things with her mom are worse than usual, so she's given Stella a lot of leeway. Her patience is reaching it's limit, though. Especially because she is dressing to impress. They share this class with the Specialists: History of Magic, and as she'd pulled on the thigh-high socks and fussed over her space-buns for slightly longer than usual, she maybe, sort of, a little, had a certain Specialist in mind. And Musa does not like being called out.

"I'm surprised you even noticed my outfit," Musa says, voice just a little mean, "considering the fact you spend almost all your time looking at yourself in the mirror."

"Hm." Stella cocks her head, "can you read how I feel about that joke? Or should I tell you?"

Definitely a mom-thing.

"Watch it, princess." Riven calls, catching Musa's attention from one of the desk's near the back. He kick out the chair beside him for Musa, who ducks her head to hide her smile, as she goes over to join him.

Stella rolls her eyes. "You fighting Musa's battles now for her?" She asks, as Musa shrugs off her backpack and takes out her pencil case.

"Musa starts her own fights," Riven grins, grabbing the leg of Musa's seat and dragging it closer to his own. Their thighs touch. Musa's breath hitches, and she looks up at him, but he's still looking at Stella; a challenge in his voice. "But I sure like to finish them. Wanna tussle, blondie?"

Stella looks over the two of them for a moment longer before turning away. "Whatever." She mutters, dismissively.

Riven looks down at her then, a lot closer than Musa expected, and smelling of cologne. Does he normally wear cologne to class? She doesn't know. But he fills her head with pleased, protective, content and she likes that he's in such a good mood. "She's not wrong, though," he murmurs, tweaking one of her space-buns, "this is a big improvement from the train-wreck you were on Sunday."

"Gee, thanks, Riven."

"You're welcome."

The teacher walks in then, so Musa has to flip him the bird under the table, and Riven laughs too loudly and has to turn it into a cough when Dowling glowers at him.

To Musa's relief, the lesson is...normal. As normal as it is for the two of them to sit beside each other in History of Magic, which isn't really. She normally sits beside Stella, and meets Riven's eye every few minutes, as he purposely disrupts the class, or cracks a joke, and then he seems to find her, relishing in everyone's good-humour but seeking her out all the same, as if to check he's made her smile too.

Or maybe she's reading too much into it. He's forgotten the kiss, that much is totally clear. It probably happens to him all the time, kissing unknown girls under flashing lights. After she left, he probably found a new conquest.

She tries not to let it get her down. It's not as if he's dating anyone, not that it would- not that it would matter.

But then she remembers yesterday morning. Remember's him leaning in, his emotions a swirl of brutal honesty as he said she was a field of overgrown harebells.

She hadn't even known he knew what harebells were, but then again, why wouldn't he? She has a vague memory of him as a first-year, hiding in the Green House most lunch times, smuggling potted plants back into his dorm room. She knows if she told anyone (which she wouldn't, not ever, not without his express consent) how soft, and sweet and brutally deep he can be, no one would believe her because he hides it, buries it deep under everything else, and for some reason, he shows it to her.

"What?" He whispers to her, and she turns, pulling from her musings to see him leaning in, an eyebrow arched.

Musa looks at him quizzically, before he taps the edge of her notebook.

Oh fuck. She's written his name. Riven stares accusingly up at her from the top corner of her page.

Thinking on her feet, she scribbles some more:

wanna have lunch today?

He reads it, and he nods, but still looks a little bemused, so she keeps writing:

in the woods. past the barrier.

"Ah," he whispers, nodding, and she feels relief bubble up inside her. "Sure. I'll meet you at 2."

"Riven," Dowling calls, and Musa jerks her head up. "Something you'd like to share with the rest of the class?"

Riven pretends to think. "Not that I can think of." He says, "you go on."

Musa can't help her smile, and Dowling catches it. Disapproval wafts off of her, and Musa cringes away from it.

"Ignore her." Riven mutters, uncapping his pen, "crazy old bat."

Then he writes Musa in the top left corner of his notebook, and she knows he caught her, but when she sees his smile, her mortification fades away. She likes her name in his handwriting. How he loops it, how the M's tail drifts into the u.

She pushes her own notebook towards him. "Write it again," she whispers.

"Kinky." But he obliges her, and writes Musa, you should wear those socks more often. His eyes flicker to her legs and she rests her chin on her hands.

"I knew you'd like them."

His hand reaches under the table, toys with the end of her socks on her thigh. "You were thinking of me then you put them on?" He asks, voice low, and she doesn't mean to dip into his head but the arousal is strong and sweet and addictive.

Triumph lights up her mental periphery, and Musa looks around to see Stella's eyes on them, a smirk on her lips.

"Shit." Musa whispers, pulling her legs away, turning from Riven entirely, heart pounding. She can feel his disappointment, but she forces herself to focus on her notes. It could be worse, she tries to reason, Stella's a great secret-keeper, when she's not pissed off. And besides, what's the secret? Sure, she and Riven flirt, it's harmless, it's nothing, it's-

"You're in love with him." Stella says, accosting her after class, as Musa looks desperately for an escape route.

"What? No-"

"It's not fun, is it? Having someone know your feelings?"

Musa sighs and takes a breath. "Look, Stell, it's really nothing. Please."

Stella looks over her, pursing her lips thoughtfully. Finally, she relaxes. "I'm not going to tell anyone, Musa. I'm not a total bitch."

"I don't think you're a bitch." Musa says honestly, "I think you can be bitchy, when you have a bad day, but I know you're going through your own stuff. Everyone has their shit."

"You sound like him." Stella shudders, looping their arms together and leading them down the halls like they're best friends again. And really, with Stella, they might be. The girl doesn't hold a grudge. "But I like it: the two of you. You really were dressing to impress. Have you made a move?"

"No- look, I-" she doesn't know where to begin, or how to explain, and Stella's eyes are really blue and piercing and a little frightening.

"Stone circle." Stella says, steering them to their next lesson. "Perfect. We'll partner up, our powers don't need too much guidance, and you can tell me everything. Finally. I feel like you never have any good gossip, when really, you should have the best considering your power."

"I don't really wanna talk about it, Stella-"

"Tough." Stella sings, navigating the cobblestones outside in her heels with enviable grace, "you're getting my help, whether you want it or not."

Musa thinks of the notebook tucked tenderly into her bag, of Riven writing her name, and he way he'd pulled her chair closer to his. The way she'd flushed hot all over at such an easy show of strength.

"Maybe I do need your help." She mutters, and Stella squeaks so loudly that two magpies leap out of trees into the sky with fright.

Riven's scanning instagram account after instagram account, looking for any girl in the school that bears a passing resemblance to the one he kissed on Halloween. A lot of them posted photos of themselves in costume, so it's easy to cross them off the list. But it's not really working. He can't quite get a fix on the features the girl had. The shape of her lips or her nose are a blur to him. He shuts off his phone in frustration and Sky pauses in his never-ending quest to do as many push-ups as possible.

"No luck?" He guesses and Riven clicks his tongue. "Maybe she doesn't go to our school."

He's considered that. "She said she'd liked me for a while."

"Maybe she's from some sort of facility? She's clearly not well."

Riven tosses a pillow at Sky, but it lacks heat.

Sky gets to his feet and reaches for a protein bar. "Maybe we should just accept that she's gone? You and Musa seem to have a pretty good thing going."

"Musa?"

"Don't play." Sky rolls his eyes, "I'm not blind. Also, you left me alone at a lunch table to puke my guts out while you made moon-eyes at her."

"I think the alcohol has seriously affected your recall abilities."

Sky shoves him a little, before joining him on the bed. "She's nice, she likes you, you like her. I'm not seeing the problem?"

Oh brilliant, they're doing this. A conversation about feelings. "We're friends." Riven says carefully, because Sky talks to Bloom and the last thing Riven needs is for Musa to hear some hacked, Chinese-whispers version of this. "We're good friends, and I don't know if there's anything more to it than that. We flirt, but..."

"You're a flirt." Sky nods, understanding. "You don't know if it's real?"

"Exactly."

"Well, do you want it to be?"

"Jesus, Sky, what are you, Freud?"

"Seems like a straight forward question."

"Well, of course." Riven erupts, getting to his feet and pacing the length of the room and back. "Of course, I'd like it to be real, why wouldn't I? She's the only person at this school that understands me. She's gorgeous, she makes me laugh, she-"

"Oh shit."

Riven turns to look at Sky, who's looking at him like he's grown two heads. "What?" He asks, feeling self-conscious, and Sky back-pedals.

"Nothing, I just- you...you love her. It sounds like. Like maybe you love her, a little."

Riven remembers his stomach tightening when she'd taken the seat beside him in History. Of the way he always seems to seek her out, how each buzz of his phone might be a notification from her.

Love is a far-fetched notion. But he likes her. A lot. Too much, sometimes. He always feels one breath way from over-playing his hand, from revealing his deck, and he just doesn't know if his flush is enough to get him through to the next round. He doesn't know if he can risk going all in. Doesn't know if he'll survive it.

"You've got to tell her, dude," Sky murmurs, and Riven nods.

He decides he'll do it in Specialism, but words fail him when he sees her on their training mat, hair in two high pig-tails, grinning at him in the morning sun. "Ready to get your ass-kicked?" She calls, as he drops down his bag beside her and joins her in their warm-up stretches.

"In your dreams." He says, wondering how they got here. Marvelling at the fact she's here, in their spot, on their mat, waiting for him with that smile. Wondering when and how and why she stuck by him when all he ever tried to do was shove her away. "Musa," he begins, watching as she fumbles with her laces. He knocks her fingers out of the way and laces them for her himself, the way he does every week. She emits a little pulse of gratitude and it wraps around him like an embrace. "You're getting better at that." He hums.

"It's pretty great," she beams, proud of the advances in her magic. She's been struggling for some time, but more and more often lately, she's able to communicate like that and Riven's rewarded by little pulses of smugness, playful, pleasure as she projects them at him in lieu of a response.

He wants to feel other emotions from her. He wants to know what want will feel like, knocking him to his core, knowing that she could show him if she wanted him, when she wanted him- "Musa," he tries again, when Dane's shadow falls over them both.

Riven glowers up at him and Dane's smile wavers. "Uh, hey Riven. Hi Musa."

Musa offers a small wave, and Riven gets to his feet. "What."

"I just- Sky told me a few days ago about that girl you were looking for? I think it might actually be a friend of my sister's. She's a second year too: transferred a few months ago. She's really nice, her name is Lila."

Riven takes a deep breath and keeps his voice low. "That's great, Dane. Now get lost."

"Uh, o-okay, do you want me to text you her number?"

"Scram!" Riven growls, and Dane high-tails it, and when Riven turns around, Musa's face is different, and she's lacing up her other shoe on her own, so skilfully Riven suspects she never needed any help at all, and crap.

"You've met someone," Musa says, smile tight, tone light hearted. "That's great."

Riven looks at her. "Is it?"

"Well, sure it is," she laughs, "you didn't say. When did you guys meet?"

He wants to rip his hair out in frustration. Does she not care? Is this all a front? Does she want him to find someone else because she can read all his emotions and the fact that he's in fucking love with her is creeping her out? Is she jealous? "On Halloween, actually."

Her eyes flash to him and away again. Her voice sounds heart-broken when she says. "Oh."

He can't bear the sound of it. He reaches for her wrist, staring at her as if he could peer into that brain of hers and get just a glimpse at whatever's going on. "I was looking for her, but I'm not anymore."

"Why not?"

"Because she's not you."

Musa's breath hitches, and Riven's hand on her wrist gentles, and her fingers touch his arm. "Riven..."

"Do you? Even a bit?" He asks wretchedly, trying to brace himself for her disgust. For her to pull away. Or maybe she'd do it gently, full of kind words and understanding, and honestly he's not sure which he hates more. But he won't lash out. Not at her.

She laughs, a little watery, and she moves so their fingers are twined together. "I've liked you for ages, Riven," she admits, and his heart swells, when-

It all fucking slots into place.

"Jesus." He groans, pulling her hand to his and kissing it. "It was fucking you, on Halloween, wasn't it? I should've guessed." He's such a moron. Of course it was her, who else could it be? Who else could hold even a candle to what he feels for her?

Musa's eyes are owlish. "What do you mean?"

"You're the goddess. The purple one."

Her cheeks flame and she ducks her head. "You remember that?"

"I just told you I was looking for her!"

"For me?!" She squeaks, "I thought you'd hooked up with someone afterwards-"

He pulls her in for a hug and wraps his arms tight around her. Smells her hair and feels almost giddy. "You thought I didn't want you." He breathes, the thought unfathomable. Does she not know? Does she not know the depth of his desire for her?

"Well, I don't know," she says mulishly, her voice muffled into his chest. Her arms are looped around his neck, and she fits into him: small and perfect. "I wasn't sure if it was more than flirting."

"It was. It is." He promises, and they pull apart, and he feels shy, suddenly, under her shining eyes. "Show me." He pleads quietly, "project it."

She worries her bottom lip with her teeth, but nods. "Alright, but if I turn this entire class into an orgy, that's on you."

When the love wraps around him, it isn't a pulse of emotion. It doesn't feel like finger-tips tracing over his skin, like her joy does, it feels like something else. Like warmth. Like turning your face into a shining sun, or putting your frozen-hands above a fireplace. It's heady and endless and perfect.

"Ow," Musa pants, and the warmth disappears, and she's standing in front of him, rubbing her temples. "Did that work?"

He steps forward and kisses her, leaning down, emoting as much love as he can, hoping she can feel it in her mind, or from their kiss, hoping that she knows, finally, that he's been waiting for her just as long as she's been waiting for him. Maybe longer.

"Oh," she murmurs, pleased-as-punch, when they pull apart. And he laughs.

"Yeah. Oh." He brushes her hair out of her face, "what does it feel like? My love?"

He's not sure what he expects her to say. Something about a beautiful rainforest, or perhaps a landscape. Maybe something like what he felt from her: a warm, life-giving heat.

But instead, she leans up to kiss him again and she says:

"It feels like you."

[meliaaizawa]

MARRIAGE STORY

Inspired by the intro to Marriage Story, when Charlie and Nicole go over what they love about each other, but Sho and Mei are NOT getting a divorce.

Word count: 1,478

~What I love about Shota~

What I love about Shota… Shota doesn’t care what others think of him. He is sure of himself and his abilities. He is skilled and strong yet is never proud. Shota loves coffee and drinks at least two cups a day… the caffeine doesn’t affect him in any way, he just loves the flavor. Shota is a simple man and is content with the things he has and is never in want of anything new or improved. Though Shota is always grumpy, deep down, I know him to be soft and incredibly kind. Though he rarely lets even his friends see that side of him, I can see through his tough guy act. He especially enjoys cuddling our cats and taking care of them at home. Shota is incredibly fit and healthy. He doesn’t diet… in fact, he usually eats like crap. His metabolism and hero work manages to keep up with him though, so there’s really no need to worry about what he eats. His genuine smile melts my heart, but it can only be seen during rare candid moments. If he actually tries to smile, the result is horrifying… but cute.

Though he’d never admit it, Shota loves kids. He is a wonderful teacher and mentor to so many. He knows the best way to push his students to make them become better. Even if his methods are more strict than the average teacher, he is well meaning. I know he would make the best father. Shota isn’t a fan of PDA, much like me. When we are alone though, he loves touch… whether it’s his arm around me, us holding hands, or even just our feet barely touching under the kitchen table, I think physically feeling that I am with him brings him comfort. Shota can play the bass. He hates playing in front of others, and he doesn’t have any opportunities to do so, so hearing him play is rare. For a guy who doesn’t care about appearance, Shota can be bashful when it comes to the attention of others, especially when he is dressed up nicely. I think he likes his appearance to be overall disheveled so that most people wouldn’t give him a second glance… plus he’s just lazy. Anytime he has to dress up in a suit, he hates it. I think he looks handsome either way.

Though he seems irritable at times, Shota never raises his voice at me and is so incredibly patient in dealing with my indecisiveness. He makes quick decisions, so he is always willing to help where I struggle. He is also the best at giving advice. He thinks everything through rationally and is able to view a situation from every angle when assessing it. Shota is an immense help around the house. He helps me with the dishes and folding laundry and cleaning. It gives us even more time together, even if we don’t say a word while cleaning. Shota is rarely cleanshaven, which I prefer. I always love the familiar feeling of his scruffy face when he kisses me or rests his head on me. Part of me thinks it’s because he’s just lazy, but at the same time I’m convinced he keeps the scruff because I just love it. Shota is a good listener. I don’t always have a lot to say, but when I do, he just sits and listens. He will also comfort me when I am sad and knows just what to say if I am feeling lonely or unworthy.

Shota is an incredibly hard worker. He stays up late nearly every night, either out on hero patrol, or finishing grading his papers. He never procrastinates and gets everything done in a more than timely manner. If Shota cared about ranks, he would easily be in Japan’s top 10 heroes. He is incredibly accurate in the use of his capture weapon, his strategy when going against villains is always spot on, and he makes the most of his quirk, despite its many drawbacks. He is also strong- both in mind and in body, and has saved countless people, even if they didn’t realize it, since he always works behind the scenes. Shota is very eloquent in the way he speaks. He may look homeless, but the man is incredibly smart. He puts a lot of thought into what he says and how he says it. He never wastes his words. He is also not afraid to speak his mind and is always willing to put people in their place if he must.

~What I love about Meiya~

What I love about Meiya… Meiya loves to eat. I don’t know where she puts it all away, as she has an overall fit body, but she seems to always have a pair of chopsticks or a snack in her hand. She always has food in the house. Not just enough for us, but also enough for any unwanted guests that may show up. Meiya has an air of self-confidence. Though I know that she often doubts herself, she doesn’t let it show. She doesn’t care what others think of her and is always genuinely herself no matter the audience. Because of this, others are often comfortable being themselves around her, so she had a lot of friends because of this. Meiya is diligent in everything that she does. She keeps our home clean despite its unorganized appearance, and she always decorates our home in her own way. I never cared about decorations, but our home is more presentable thanks to her. Meiya is loyal to a fault. She trusts others easily, and until that trust is broken somehow, she is fully devoted to that person and would sacrifice herself for them. She likes being unique and never conforms to those around her. In fact, she oftentimes goes out of her way to try and be different.

Though I can be incredibly stubborn, Meiya is constantly patient with me. She knows how to convince me to do things I don’t want to and is usually willing to stand in the gap between me and those I don’t want to interact with. I can’t tell you how many small talk conversations she has saved me from. Meiya doesn’t necessarily need to be romanced in the classical sense of giving her flowers and chocolate. She prefers to just have quality time. A simple kiss on the cheek, a nap together in the sleeping bag, or a bowl of freshly made ramen are enough to remind her how much I love her. Meiya is one of the most competent heroes I know. She is proficient in using many different kinds of quirks, she is a skilled fighter, she cares for others deeply, and is willing to do whatever it takes to protect her loved ones and society. She is also a wonderful teacher. The kids are all just drawn to her, and she is incredibly kind and helpful in the way she helps the students learn more about their quirks.

Meiya loves karaoke. She gets overly competitive when going out with Mic and Ectoplasm. Although she claims she can’t sing well, she has a nice voice, but even more amazing is how well she knows all of the songs and is able to hit every word and note with accuracy. I just enjoy watching. Though Meiya is not a huge cat person, she was willing to get cats with me. She loves them too, though I doubt she would admit it, and she takes time throughout her day to play with them and care for them. Meiya is emotionally strong and a dependable wife. She remains level-headed in stressful situations, and she knows how to support those around her. Despite this emotional strength, she still cries frequently when watching movies. Meiya goes to sleep early and wakes up early, though I am more of a night owl. She will often fall asleep on the couch with me while I grade papers. Even her tired, unconscious presence is enough to make me feel at home. It also gives me the chance to carry her to bed and tuck her in on those nights.

Meiya is a responsible adult, but she is also a child at heart. She would prefer to go to an arcade or festival over a fancy restaurant or party any day. And as far as gifts go, she would much rather have the latest volume of her favorite manga over a piece of jewelry. Along with being a pro hero, Meiya also enjoys dabbling in support things like costume designing. She has an eye for art, and she is good at anything she sets her mind to. Meiya packs us both lunch every day, because she knows I like her food over Lunch Rush’s. We often eat in the teachers lounge, but we also find ourselves on the rooftop, where we used to eat as high schoolers.

[mordoriscalling]

Stay or Sail Away (3/6)

Part 1 Part 2  (@geraskier-trashh  @negativenuggetz) 

*** 

“How is it?” Jaskier asks, “at sea?”

Geralt looks at him thoughtfully for a long moment. The silence is broken only by Ciri’s chattering on the phone with Yennefer outside the door.

“Empty,” Geralt answers finally, “Sometimes there’re some moments when life erupts at the surface.“ The tiniest of smiles lights up Geralt’s face. “Like when a group of whales shows up. Or something else is happening, like storms. Those can be fucking terrifying. Other than that it’s... nothing. A vast blue desert. It scares the shit out of you at the beginning but you get used to it. Over time land can become too much. You miss the calm.”

“You love it,” Jaskier remarks, entranced by Geralt’s quiet passion. It’s fascinating how a man as taciturn as Geralt can reveal the depth of his feeling through the minute shifts in his expression – the slightest upturn of his lips, the barely-there crinkling at the corners of his eyes. Jaskier wants to study all the little changes in Geralt’s face, decipher what they mean. He hasn’t been this intrigued in a long time.

“Hmm,” Geralt replies in assent and smiles a touch wider than before, “I once saw... a single bolt of lightning hit the water in the distance.”

Jaskier gasps as the image of it appears in his mind: both the sky and the water illuminated by the sudden flash. A violent shiver runs down his spine and the hum of inspiration starts coursing through him. Words pop up in his head that describe the scene and the emotional impact of it. Jaskier instinctively reaches for his phone to write it down but then firmly files the words away for later. He has guests he should focus on now.

Geralt and Ciri arrived two hours ago. The absolute shock Jaskier experienced when he saw Geralt – how muscular he is and how bloody well he looks in a black leather jacket (and black everything) – should qualify for therapy. Jaskier almost fucking choked on his tongue. Thank goodness that Ciri was there, so he focused his attention on her. The girl looks a lot like her father but carries herself with confidence which Jaskier assumes she got from her mother. She’s perceptive, asks questions and talks back. Jaskier adores her at once.

So far, Jaskier ordered everyone their favourite food and they ate it. Ciri bombarded him with questions about his music, the two of them also discussed their favourite music bands and singers. Geralt spoke little, only threw in some dry comments here and there, which always made Ciri laugh, and didn’t seem to mind when his daughter talked about him too.

Turns out Geralt is a commander. As Ciri recited, he can command a frigate, destroyer, submarine, mine countermeasures squadron, fishery protection squadron, patrol boat squadron, aviation squadron or shore installation, or may serve on a staff. It’s so hot. (Even if Jaskier has no idea what half of those words mean. Still. A fucking submarine? Jaskier’s a goner).

He promised Ciri that he would sing for her after they finished the meal but Yennefer called before he could fetch his guitar. The girl rushed out of the living room to talk to her mum, leaving Jaskier alone to fall prey to Geralt’s enthrallingly calm and restrained presence.

Now as he looks at Geralt, he can’t help but wonder what hides beneath the facade of his collected demeanour. Geralt must have numerous stories to tell. Jaskier wants to know them all.

“So, when are you sailing off again?” he asks.

“I’m... retiring soon.”

“Why?” Jaskier blinks, baffled.

Geralt swallows hard. “I’ve served for the Navy for seventeen years. Ten in total at sea.” The corners of his lips turn downward, a pained frown on his face. “I... haven’t been present enough for Ciri. Not nearly enough.”

For a fraction of a moment, Jaskier can see it all in Geralt’s expression: the pain of losing so much precious time with his daughter and missing out on so many crucial moments of her life, the sheer guilt of not being there, the torment of still choosing to do what you love even though it hurts the ones you love, the self-hatred of such selfishness.

Then, Geralt’s face becomes a blank mask. He reaches for a glass of water on the coffee table silently and doesn’t spare Jaskier a glance.

“I’m sure she understands,” Jaskier tries to reassure but immediately realises it was a wrong thing to say. Geralt fixes him with a gaze so burning and deadly that it reminds him of the surface of the sun that he’s seen in photos and videos.

It’s clear now that Geralt doesn’t have to do much to keep his authority as a commander – a look like that is enough to cower anyone. Anyone but Jaskier, perhaps. The thing with Jaskier is that fear... doesn’t come to him sometimes. He knows it should be there but it isn’t. Must be the reason why he’s been described as “feral” by many.

“You don’t –” Geralt begins.

“Okay, all done!” Ciri announces cheerfully as she enters the room and sits next to her father, breaking the tension in the room. “Mum wanted to speak with you,” she tells Jaskier, “She wanted to give you a shovel talk but I convinced her not to.”

“She would... do that?” Jaskier asks, not believing his ears, “but Geralt and I aren’t even together!”

Ciri only giggles.

“That’s why I’m single,” Geralt grumbles.

Ciri giggles harder. “Mum just likes being scary,” she says, “but she’s actually very soft.”

Jaskier frowns at her in disbelief. Intimidating the guy your ex-husband agreed to fake-date yesterday and soft don’t go together.

“Don’t ever tell her you know that, though,” Geralt advises almost playfully, “she’d make you forget.”

“I... I’ll go get my guitar,” Jaskier answers.  

After that, Jaskier is in his element. He plays and sings a few of his songs and some classics. Ciri joins him with her sweet voice, making everything even more joyful. All the while, Geralt’s sun-like eyes are on Jaskier, watching, assessing. Daring him to be just a little bit less subtle when he throws quick winks and wide smiles Geralt’s way so that it’d be blatant how Jaskier is actually flirting with him through singing. The almost-glowing gaze should be unnerving perhaps, but it only feels strangely familiar. Jaskier’s idiotic brain sees the opportunity to make it romantic and naturally seizes the chance, supplying the thoughts of how they could know each other from their past lives, or how their atoms could be birthed from the death of the same star, and other such poetic heart-ruining bullshit. Jaskier shoves them away eventually. He just wants the moment to last.

It doesn’t last, of course. Geralt and Ciri soon have to go.

Ciri leaves with the happiest grin, Jaskier’s autograph and a selfie with him, for which Geralt thanks him very nicely. Jaskier gets overtaken by the urge to have him stay and, when Geralt is walking out of the door after Ciri, he blurts out anything to stop him.

“Oh, Geralt!” he says, making Geralt turn back around and look at him expectantly. “Uh... Please don’t wear all black to the party. It’s not my father’s funeral.”

“Hmm.”

It’s a playful hmm and Jaskier later has to send a text that strictly forbids Geralt from wearing his suit. Jaskier has looked at the picture of him in the suit an embarrassing number of times in the past two days. He wouldn’t survive seeing that live.

TBC

Part 4

***

A/N: the Internet says the earliest you can retire form the RN is at the age of 55 but well, Geralt deserves a break. 

[newtafterdark]

Taste of Metal - Chapter 12: Turning up the Volume -  [AO3 LINK]

The song Gordon is singing in this chapter is "I Hate to Dance" by Mustasch! Click here to listen to it!

PS: The alternative title for this chapter: "Gordon Goes Apeshit In A Healthy Way!! YEAH!! >:D"

- - - It was always something else to hear how your voice sounded like to everyone but yourself.

Gordon had been used to it for a long time, mostly thanks to the years he recorded music with his band, but seeing his new friends react to his recorded songs made him pause a bit in thought.

When he and Newton had founded “Black Velvet Rabbits” together, both of their voices were still in the middle of their second puberty. Uneven, scratchy at times… and by far not as resilient as they wanted them to be.

That didn’t mean it stopped either of them from putting their heart and soul into every song they played. It made their first few tapes rough to listen to, but Gordon felt a huge amount of fondness for them regardless. 

All their frustration with their lives, the school system, society, their bodies, their struggles with ADHD and BPD respectively-  it all went into their music. 

It was the sound of desperately struggling youths doing anything they could in their limited power to be heard.

Gordon was well aware that some of their former bandmates thought back to BVR and rolled their eyes at their gigs and “rockstar dreams”. He himself though? He was proud. Both of himself and Newton.  Proud of having this tangible proof that they got through one of the hardest times of their lives together, doing something that they had put together with no outside help, with no overbearing parental figures forcing them to succeed. They created music because it was the one thing they had complete control over… and it had been absolutely intoxicating and freeing at the same time. 

Even now, as their old recordings played in the background, Gordon found himself gently swaying side to side to the tempo of the tune, humming softly along as he was sorting through the remaining contents of the boxes on the floor.

He looked up from his spot, smiling fondly at Bubby letting out a cry of joy when he recognized another classic rock song that BVR had recorded a cover of. 

“Your band might sound like absolute ass but at least they had taste!”, he exclaimed, drumming happily along to the beat on the floor beside Gordon.

“Yeah… our sound quality wasn’t the greatest until… 2014, I think? ”, Gordon pondered out loud. “You’ll notice the change instantly though! Around that time we also actually figured out in which direction we wanted to take our style as well. Took us a while, I know, but… good things take time!”

Speaking of good things taking time- the construction of the pocket dimension within the storage closet seemed to be going nice and steady by the looks of it. 

Every time the doors opened and Tommy stepped out to take a small break, Gordon couldn’t help trying to catch a glimpse inside, which kept earning him a loud “NO PEAKING!” from Tommy- only for him to hear it echoed by Dr Coomer, Benrey and Joshua seconds later.

When eventually each member of the Science Team joined Tommy to help out with the closet, Gordon let himself be focused on his sorting task, Sunkist laying beside him as his only company for the time being. 

“Guess it’s only the two of us for a bit, huh?”, he said, giving the huge dog a few loving pats on her side. Sunkist let out an affirmative woof and rested her head on Gordon’s thigh, earning a smile from Gordon. 

He resumed swaying along to a new tune starting to play on the stereo, now allowing himself to add a few more subtle movements as well. 

He found himself nodding along to the rhythm, his long wavy hair swaying in a way it hadn’t in a very long time.

As the side of his right foot began to gently tap against the floor as well, Sunkist got up and pushed her head against Gordon’s shoulder. 

Gordon stared at her for a moment, unsure of what she expected him to do, but as the golden retriever started to gently dig into the carpet surprisingly in tune with the beat, something clicked in Gordon’s head.

He scrambled to get up on his feet, laughed as Sunkist let out a happy bark and started running excited circles around him when he started tapping his foot again.

It had been a while… but no one was in the room right now to judge him. And Sunkist, being the perfect and most supportive dog, would never make him feel guilty about any of this.

He looked down to his tapping feet, his hand closed into a fist as he assembles the old courage and opened his mouth-

“♫ I ain't a boring barfly…so please don't get me wrong, oh- Come on! Yeah, come on! I've been saying this for. Far. Too. LooooOOOONG!! ♪”

Gordon felt himself smile as he raised his voice, mirroring the energy of the younger version of it coming from the speakers.

As he moved his hips and head in rhythm to the beat of the tune, he leaned down towards Sunkist and decided at the moment that, hey, she might be the best audience he had in years - might as well sing for the best girl!

She positively bounced excitedly around Gordon’s feet as the man himself started to jump along with her and the music-

“♪ I haaaate to disappoint you! I'm not the guy you need- so, feel freeee! You can leeeeave! ‘Cause I'll nEVER SWING LIKE A MONKEY FROM. THE. TREEEEES! ♫”

Sunkist let out a loud approving bark at the sound of Gordon letting himself be loud, but this time fully because of joy, nothing like the pained and frustrated yelling he had done all throughout the simulation.

This was how Gordon was supposed to sound like. Loud, happy and confident-

“♪ It’s of great importance! This is what yOU. ALL. SHOULD. DOOOOO- ♫”

The possibility of complaining neighbours be damned, Gordon rushed over to this stereo and turned the volume significantly up, still mindful of Sunkist being in the room with him. No matter how perfect Tommy made her, Gordon really didn’t want to accidentally hurt her hearing.

He returned to moving around the living room, his steps becoming confident stomping as he basically had Sunkist follow his path between the furniture at this point. He ran his hand through his hair, letting the majority of it fall over the right side of his head, showing off the remainder of his undercut on the left in the process-

“♫ BANG YOUR HEAD CLEAN OFF, JUST DO IT!! STOMP YOUR FEET AND CLAP YOUR H-HANDS-!! ♪”

He roughly brushed away a barely formed tear from his right eye, opting to stomp his feet in place of clapping his hands to the beat. He wouldn’t let his pain and trauma cut this moment short. Singing had been his outlet for all his frustrations before, why shouldn’t he try and find out if it would still hold up with the new struggles he was facing?

“♫ I AM A HEAVY METAL GROOVER! - BANG YOUR HEAD ‘CAUSE I HATE TO DANCE! BANG YOUR HEAD ‘CAUSE I HATE TO DANCE! ♪”

Sunkist affectionately pressed herself against Gordon’s side, sensing the man’s wild mix of emotions running through his head. Gordon opted to give Sunkist’s back a pat to assure her that he was doing okay. That he needed to do this. To let this all out. 

He took a deep breath-

“♪ So take me away from the dance floor- Nemo saltat sobrius - Well, that's right... fucking right. I've been telling you for far too looooooOOOONG! ♫”

He closed his eyes, his focus now only on putting as much emphasis on the words as he could. As he used to. As Gordon Martini Freeman of the “Black Velvet Rabbits” had been known for.

“♫ I haaaate to disappoint you! But I'm not the guy you need- You can leeeeave, ‘cause to meee- DISCO. DIED. IN. 1983!! ♪”

He spread his arms, his head slightly falling back and his hair following suit… and he could almost feel the comforting heat of spotlights on his skin once more-

“♪ It’s of great importance! This is what yOU. ALL. SHOULD. DOOOOO!- ♫”

He bent back forward, letting himself go off into a poorly executed guitar solo as he headbanged to the beat, his hair flying back and forth, side to side-

“♫ BANG YOUR HEAD CLEAN OFF, JUST DO IT!! STOMP YOUR FEET AND CLAP YOUR HANDS-!!  I AM A HEAVY METAL GROOVER! - BANG YOUR HEAD ‘CAUSE I HATE TO DANCE! BANG YOUR HEAD ‘CAUSE I HATE TO DANCE! - BANG THE HEAD THAT DOESN’T BANG!!~ ♪”

Gordon stood there for a moment, out of breath, hair wild and messy, chest heaving and eyes blown wide. He was only pulled back into reality from his post-rockout brain by Sunkist jumping up on him and licking his face-

“Hahaha!! Yeah, this was fun, wasn’t it, big girl?! Thanks for the encouragement, Sunkist. I mean it. I… really needed that.”

He hugged her close before gently letting her get back on all fours, smiling as she let out a soft bark and pressed herself against his side once more, her tail wagging happily-

“Well, I’ll be damned. Sounds like you don’t sound like ass anymore after all!”

Gordon spun around, instantly locking eyes with Bubby, who was leaning against the frame of the closet, arms crossed and a smug smile on his face.

“H-How much of that did you-”

“I heard enough to know that my eardrums can stand the sound of it.”, Bubby answered, “You don’t sound half bad. Obviously out of practice, but… not awful.”

Gordon scratched the back of his neck, trying to process the rare compliment coming from the older scientist.

“Uh… thanks? A-ANYWAY- how’s the pocket dimension going?”, he quickly added to move the topic elsewhere.

Bubby rolled his eyes at Gordon's obvious deflection.

“It could go way faster in my opinion! But the hallway and the basic rooms are stable now. I won’t invite you in without the others agreeing on it too, but… it’s nice. Having your own space to do with as you please, as barren as it might be at the moment-”

In the time Bubby had spoken, Gordon had walked over to him, now resting his hand on the smaller man’s shoulder.

“Hey, I might not have the biggest savings, but that won’t stop me from helping you guys find stuff for your space, okay? I know a few places we could visit sometime this week! But… first I do want to go shopping with you all to let you pick stuff for your wardrobes!”

Bubby stared up to him, a slightly startled look on his face.

“You’ll… let us… pick?”

Gordon smiled softly, hoping it looked reassuring.

“Of course! As long as you all don’t get me into the reds with your purchases, you are free to pick as many things as you want, now that you all have your own space. Honestly… go wild! Did- Do you think I’d limit you? Bubby, you guys are my friends! If anything, I wholeheartedly encourage you to get lost for hours in the nearby thrift stores and find your own style- HURGH!-

Gordon found himself pulled into a tight hug- which only lasted for two seconds.

As Bubby pulled back, he looked away, brows furrowed.

“Thanks. You- you don’t get how much this means to- ...thank you, Gordon.”

“You’re welcome. Uh… should I go get us some food for when you guys are done or-”

“GOD! YES! Fuck off before this moment gets even more awkward!”, Bubby exclaimed with frustration, a hint of a smile tugging on the edge of his mouth.

Gordon threw up his hand in mock defence, not even trying to hide his grin.

[a-silent-symphony]

Metal behemoths Nightwish: “David Attenborough wrote to personally decline appearing on our album”

The arena-filling group's golden-lunged singer Floor Jansen talks album nine, Swedish lockdown and why the world's greatest conservationist turned them down

With the exception of maybe Rammstein – and we’re only quantifying this statement because they own flamethrowers and we do not – no band in European metal can rival Nightwish for their popularity in mainland Europe.

Formed in Kitee, Finland in 1996 by top hat-wearing keyboard player Tuomas Holopainen, the band welcomed Dutch-born singer Floor Jansen in 2012, by which point they were seven records into their career. The addition has seen the symphonic metal band become bigger, grander, more expressive and increasingly ambitious. She’s such a force that she’s become a Dutch TV personality, appearing on the musical talent showcase Best Zangers.

Their recent ninth record, the infuriatingly stylised ‘Human. :II: Nature.’, is their first double-release, the second half featuring lush orchestral music over the band’s core metal. Listen to album highlights ‘Harvest’, ‘How’s The Heart?’ and ‘Noises’ – rarely has a modern metal band’s music been infused with such power and glory. Tellingly, despite being released within the very centre of storm COVID-19, the record entered the charts of Finland, Spain, Switzerland and Germany at Number One.

With that in mind, we decided to check in with one of Europe’s favourite heavy metal bands. Your guide for the duration will be Floor Jansen and her massive lungs. She will roar and you will quiver…

Hello Floor. Can I tell you what I really like about the new Nightwish album? There’s so much misery and ugliness everywhere right now, and yet your record is so ornate, grandiose and – dare I say it – hopeful…

“We were definitely going for that. There are so many different instruments on the record and so many different parts. Nightwish is quite complex music, really, and so it was important for us to have real emotion in the songs; something that cut through everything. The dynamics were really important to us. The songs needed space. Sometimes what you don’t put into a song is as important as what you do. There are nine songs on this record and eight orchestral suites. Without dynamics it would have been a very relentless listen.”

Can we go way back? I don’t think it’s any exaggeration to say that your voice is properly, brilliantly amazing. When did you realise you could sing like that?

“I guess when I was a teenager. There was a school production of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat and I auditioned. I didn’t get a very important part in it. You know how it is – the popular kids get all the best parts and that wasn’t me. But even just being stuck in the background, I absolutely loved it. I didn’t know I was any good, though. I was pretty badly teased at school, so my confidence was quite low.”

Do you want us to fuck someone up? Why were you teased?

“I was taller than everyone else and my dialect was different. I was just… different.”

Do you think that experience has had any lasting impact on you?

“I do… but, to be honest, only really positively. I can’t say I look back fondly at those years and certainly not at the people who were doing that, but I do think I stand on more stable legs in adulthood because of it. I don’t want my daughter [three-year-old Freja] to have to go through that, though.”

Do you ever have the classic revenge scenario where you’re standing onstage in front of thousands and thousands of people screaming your name and think, ‘Well, I won, didn’t I?’

“All the time. Especially now I’m on this Dutch TV show that has really increased my popularity in the Netherlands. I sometimes wonder if those people would even remember me and I don’t spend that much time thinking about them. You have to live for yourself – I’m almost 40, y’know!”

Tell me more about the TV show. I love the name! Beste Zangers!

“It translates as Best Singers! It’s not a contest or anything like that. It’s a collection of singers of different styles and backgrounds who sing each other’s music to one another, or collaborate on cover versions of songs that have inspired us. It’s a really nice show, and all about a love of music. It’s prime-time Saturday night television and it’s completely changed my life! It’s really benefited Nightwish too. We were already doing well in Holland and playing arenas, butt it’s definitely increased our profile, which is brilliant for me after 24 of nobody in my home country paying me any attention!”

The new Nightwish record was released on April 10, making you one of a tiny number of bands who can attest to the realities of releasing an album at the epicentre of a global pandemic. How has that been?

“We were one of the very first bands who had to cancel a tour. We were actually supposed to start in China. I should be there right now. Very early on we realised that the tour wasn’t going to happen, even though the illness was at that point contained in one continent. Then the global fuck-up that resulted in an illness becoming a pandemic happened. I still can’t believe that it has happened, really. It feels so incredibly unnecessary…”

I’m detecting you have an opinion about how this has all played out? You live in Sweden, right?

“I do. I emigrated five years ago, from Holland.”

Sweden’s approach to handling the virus has been very liberal – there’s been no mass lockdown, as there has been in elsewhere in the world. Do you think they took the right approach?”

“Partly. At the same time, I’m not a scientist, so what do I know? It’s all about following the science.”

I’d like to remind you that there’s a species of beetle named after you. Last year scientist Andreas Weigel named the newly discovered insect Tmesisternus floorjansenae. It’s fair to say you have more scientific credibility than almost any other heavy metal singer…

“Okay – well, in lots of ways the Swedish approach makes sense to me. Sweden is a big country with not that many people. It makes sense to me that the approach would be different to in the UK or back in Holland. Then again, a big city is a big city, whether it’s in Sweden or anywhere, and if people from the cities start moving away then I think we have to be careful. During Easter there were people everywhere near where I live, on the Gothenburg side of the country, next to the sea. Sweden is a big enough country that there’s enough space for people not to be locked down – but you head to a touristy place anyway? That I don’t get. It’s stupid.”

Speaking of space – you’re married to Hannes Van Dahl, the drummer in military history obsessed, Swedish metal titans Sabaton. Onstage he plays his drums sat inside the cockpit of a tank. I presume you have badass military stuff lying all around your house?

“Oh, everywhere. All over the house.”

Really?

“No!”

I heard that you have horses, though. It doesn’t seem fair to me that you’re allowed to have horses, but your husband can’t have a battleship in the garden…

“Oh, he doesn’t mind. Horses are nicer than war. I have two – Lily, named so after my mum, and Auri, named after my bandmates’ Tuomas [Holopainen] and Troy [Donockley]’s side project – and also a character from The Kingkiller Chronicle series of fantasy novels by Patrick Rothfuss.”

I think it’s fair to say that you’re not the only member of Nightwish that bloody loves nature. The band just teamed up with the conservation charity the World Land Trust. Tell me about that…

“They’re a great organisation. The video for the last song on the album, ‘Ad Astra’, was filmed in conjunction with them. They work to preserve our planet by buying up areas of land and preserving them. I think it’s hypocritical that we’re telling Brazil that they need to save their rainforest when European’s have absolutely decimated their own. But at the same time, we really do need to save the rainforest or we’re facing a climate crisis. The World Land Trust works with governments to find alternative financial outlets for local people to stop logging and deforestation. You can’t just say to people, ‘Stop doing this’. You need to consider the human impact, then the environmental one. We found out about them via David Attenborough being a patron…”

Please tell me he’s a fan…

“We tried to get him to speak on the album. We wrote him a letter and he wrote one back, declining, but it was very impressive that a man of his stature would write personally to us and explain that he just didn’t have the time right now.”

You can’t like all animals, Floor. There must be one you’d like to see eradicated from the face of the earth…

“No! I love all of them. I love cats. I love dogs. I love birds in all their splendour!”

C’mon…

“Okay, okay… I don’t really like snails. We grow vegetables and they eat my crops. They’re disgusting. I don’t wish them death, though! I just wish they’d go somewhere else!”

[magicdepressive-blog]

Meet The Harveys

NWI native and Chicago resident Charlie Evans wants to introduce you to his one man band The Harveys, whose debut album, after over a year in the making, is nearing the completion stage. As Evans labors through the finishing touches of the LP and prepares it for public release, he sits down with me to talk about the project and tells us what we can expect from his esoteric alter-ego.

HW: You're getting ready to release your first LP; a collection of songs you're putting out under the name The Harveys. But essentially The Harveys is just you. What made you decide to release music as a fictional collective rather than under your own name?

CE: The Harveys isn't a real band right now, so the idea that it can be locked into only one thing doesn't appeal to me since I don't have to fight other people to have it be whatever it needs to be. I’ve never been comfortable with the idea of existing as a solo act. I feel like the idea of the Harveys started as a crutch of being afraid to do this on my own. For whatever reason, the idea of having a fictional band made it seem like a more viable project in my head, and more approachable as something to present out to the world.

HW: But you're not literally the only player on the record. Who else appears on the album, and in what capacity?

CE:  One song is an old one that was written as a group by Patrick Biancardi, Sam Evans, and myself....

HW: Right...that's Werewolf Teacher, isn't it? That's a great song and I remember you telling me that it has its origins in your time as a member of (now defunct Region band) Greenstone.

CE: Greenstone was a great time as a band, and helped form a lot of the stuff that I wrote and created on this album. When I began working on recording I wanted to get an old song down that we had never had the chance to properly record. It was a great point to learn how to use recording software and to test the viability of the fictional band project. A lot of the music I wrote afterwards feels similar in some ways to what we were working on with that project, but definitely is a different animal. Not writing in collaboration with other people or having to compromise things is both a blessing and a curse.

HW: Who are some of the other people who pitched in to help make this LP?

CE: Alex Akers contributed trumpet to I Sit Differently at the Piano. I met Alex while I was working for New Oberpfalz brewery, and we struck up conversation pretty naturally. I had completed about half of the the track, adding in the vocal snippet and guitar, but I felt that guitar all the way through would be frankly boring. I basically asked Alex if he wanted to add trumpet to a weird track that I had made and sent it over. About a week later he sent me his layered tracks and it was amazing! My primary instrument is the electric guitar, so it's always really awesome to work with other instrumentalists that can bring a completely different feel to a track. That song wouldn't work without Alex's contribution. Jake Egli plays the keyboards on The Somnambulist and helped me mix and master the record along with production work.

I'm definitely open to the idea of adding a more collaborative element to The Harveys. I would love to be able to flesh it out into a full band setting. I think a lot of these songs would translate pretty well to a live setting, and there's lots of song ideas in reserve. There's always ego involved in adding other people to a band, but I enjoy the collaborative aspect of writing music a lot. Sometimes it's okay to come in with an idea and see how it gets morphed into something completely new, original, and different that way.

HW: Having grown up as an aspiring musician in NWI and now living in Chicago, can you compare the two locales where musical heritage is concerned?

CE: I would say that both have a lot in common with each other, with Chicago getting the edge of diversity simply through pure numbers. Not unlike most other suburbs of Chicago, NWI filters a lot of its musical identity from Chicago, which I think is great. The Chicagoland area has an abundance of amazing music that doesn't always get the attention it deserves on the national stage.

HW: You recorded this LP at home on your computer. Were there any technical limitations that you encountered while making the record that, had you been in a studio, you might not have had to deal with?

CE: I think the biggest hurdle for doing all recording on my own is that my ear wasn't as trained, especially in the beginning, at what was good and what was bad. I improved rapidly, but especially early on I think that having a 2nd set of ears to hear everything is very helpful.

HW: Why did you decide to release a physical LP and how do you plan to market it? What streaming formats will you be utilizing?

CE: I love the idea and the ritual of vinyl...placing the vinyl on the turntable, setting it to the right speed, and letting the needle hit the record. There’s an art to creating a track list and an album that flows correctly from side to side. I think the best records still work with that duality; breaking it down into two shorter playlists and making sure those statements stand on their own and complement each other. That being said, I think the songs stand on their own, so I don’t mind pushing it to streaming as well where the majority of people (myself included) discover their music. I’m planning on releasing The Harveys on all major streaming services. The LP version of the album will be funded through a Kickstarter.

What I like about the idea of a vinyl release and giving yourself those limitations is that it really forces you to look at how songs flow as a cohesive unit. Balancing the amount of time you can put on a side along with making sure that each track is keeping the listener along for the ride is so important. Additionally, the 2 side nature of vinyl makes you look at it as a mini suite for each side. My process was mostly trying to balance all of these things to make the strongest single unit of an album. Sifting through all the songs I had written to put together what I feel is a cohesive album was a bit difficult at first, there’s definitely enough material left off to have an extra EP in the future or work towards another album. For me, I think the unifying threads that make this album stand as a whole are some of the themes touched on like growing up and the somewhat lonely existence that adulthood can be. There’s plenty of humor on the record, though, as well, which I feel is always needed. I don’t trust people who are too serious about everything. There's a lot of genre exploration that I wasn't able to make work cohesively on this record that could definitely fit in better on a slightly different project. I would love to create a great medley style suite, ala Abbey Road. I'd love to do something soaring, epic, and heartfelt like that.

HW: There are very few recording artists who so confidently pull off such a varied palette as what you've proven capable of on this LP; some that come to mind as exceptions are Ween and Captain Beefheart and Zappa and Guided By Voices. Were any of those artists a lighthouse for you while you were crafting these songs?

CE: All those bands and artists are huge influences, Ween in particular. Reading and getting into Ween was a huge part of what made me finally get off my butt and start making music again. The independent spirit that drove each of these artists to create despite not necessarily having the big push of a label was a huge inspiration. Learning about Ween using a drum machine and writing silly songs and just generally not caring what other people thought of them was a liberating idea, and also made my excuses for why I wasn’t doing anything seem like just that: excuses.

HW: Speaking of tracks that DIDN'T make the record, Feed Me, Human is one of your standout songs and I feel like it exists in a world of its own stylistically; some kind of avant garde heavy metal oddity...definitely something I haven't heard before. Is metal a big part of your musical tastes, and if so what can you tell me about this track? It sort of skirts a strange territory that's both playful and sinister.

CE: I love metal! Metal as a genre is so tongue in cheek, and I love that about it. I never trust any metal band that takes themselves 100% seriously. I remember reading a story that Adam Jones from Tool told about how when he met Buzz Osbourne from the Melvins he told him that Boris was his favorite song and was a foundation for a lot of how he built his songwriting and sound, and Buzz responded something along the lines of, "Thanks, it's about my cat." Metal is so great because it can occupy both territories of sinister and silly.

HW: Let's focus on what did make the album. Metropolitan Malaise is unabashed power pop exuberance; Hydration is Key is a blissed out, psychedelic signal from another galaxy. You cover Big Star's 1972 acoustic masterpiece 13, and then there's the aforementioned I Sit Differently at the Piano; four minutes of Badalementi-esque guitar and trumpet noodling atop which sits a bizarre sampling of an interview with a mental patient from the early 60s. The Funkalator struts and swaggers with ballsy, bell bottomed moxie, and Werewolf Teacher is textbook singer-songwriter gold. And that's just HALF the album. But maybe the standout track here is The Somnambulist, a disarming number that begins with a tribal, measured acoustic bounce before exploding into a veritable roman candle of life-affirming guitar-fueled adrenaline.

CE: I'm particularly proud of The Somnambulist. It has the most overdubs of any track, and took me the longest to assemble out of any of them. I'm particularly proud of my vocal performance, which incubated in my head for a pretty long time, and took even longer to build up the ability to properly sing. It's the classic rock track I always wanted to write.

HW: What's your writing process like? What do you find is the most challenging part of the formula?

CE: Wake up, make some coffee pick up my guitar and start playing something...pulling up Garageband and a virtual drummer and see if I can get anything useful out of it. Record it, and see if there’s enough there to develop. Sometimes there's something good there for a full song, sometimes there isn't. I built a lot of songs on the fly, and would do multiple takes of things to see what worked or didn’t work. Having a good feedback network of people to send songs to certainly helped as well to guide the directions that were working and not working in the music. I think the most challenging thing for me with this project was not really working with other musicians to create. If I wanted to finish the song, it was on me!  

HW: I really appreciate you taking the time to offer a little insight into what we can expect from The Harveys. I really think you've assembled a great collection of songs and I'm really looking forward to the vinyl.

CE: I think the biggest thing I’m hoping to offer is a bit of a blast of nostalgia that isn’t hopefully too derivative. Power pop and dad rock have reached the level of being uncool, but I still love making it. I’m hoping that I can bring some uncool music to people and hopefully get them to dig into the same things I love too.  I was talking with Jake while we were mixing and mastering and we both said waiting for lightning to strike will involve you mostly waiting. It’ll happen, and does happen, but you have to work at it no matter what.

-End-

The debut LP from The Harveys will be available soon pending a Kickstarter. Please stay tuned to Charlie's Facebook page for more info and show your support for this gifted musician. You can stream the unmixed demo of Metropolitan Malaise on Bandcamp here:

https://theharveysarentreal.bandcamp.com/track/metropolitan-malaise

Album art by Grace Calderone, 2019. Bar photos by Harvey Woodlawn, 2018.

[rkxsungwoon-blog]

☆ MGA5 EPISODE FOUR; JULY 18 #5008 HA SUNGWOON ; FT. JUNG EUNJI ( duos 2 ) performance: can you feel the love tonight - the lion king * starts at 0:33, music cuts out at 2:33, but sungwoon and eunji sing for a few more seconds before being stopped

it was only a matter of time, sungwoon thinks.

statistically speaking, at least one member of empty enigma was bound to get eliminated soon. they’ve entered the stage of the competition where each departure cuts deeper than the one before. talented people are being sent home week after week, and it’s the height of arrogance to consider yourself safe from elimination before the results are out. part of him is surprised they’ve lasted this long as a unit when people clearly aren’t happy about them being on the show—sungwoon has read the comments, even though he advised the rest of the band not to—but even if mnet is keeping them around for whatever reason, they’re still playing with fire.

minhyun is the first of them to get burned.

sungwoon’s eyes widen in shock as minhyun and yuqi are eliminated. he doesn’t personally agree with the previous cuts either, but these two come as a surprise, not only because of minhyun, but because yuqi had been acknowledged as one of the best by the judges the week prior. he half-rises from his seat to stalk over and—well, he wants to say something in outrage, but remembers a moment later that he’s still on camera and it probably wouldn’t tide over well.

instead, he remains seated, back ramrod straight, his hands clenched into fists as the new duos are announced for the next round. his protests are lodged in his throat as he watches the ceos, as if that in itself will help him understand their decision. it isn’t fair. minhyun is a good singer. minhyun is a fair dancer. minhyun is handsome and charming with a good personality. all things sungwoon wouldn’t say out loud to his face but believes with all his heart. minhyun doesn’t deserve this.

if it had to be someone from empty enigma, it should’ve been him.

he feels obsolete here; daniel is their representative, the undisputed face of the band. woojin is slowly rising every week, kenta has the talent and charm and has somehow already befriended everyone in the competition. minhyun is the total package, the perfect idol already. all four of them are brightly shining stars. meanwhile, sungwoon is coasting, not good or bad enough to stand out. he’s a member of the ensemble, but is all this worth it for a background bit part?

more than that, he’s done this once before. minhyun hasn’t. doesn’t it make more sense for him to go home and for minhyun to forge ahead? it’s not self-doubt that makes him question what he’s doing here but sheer frustration. does sungwoon deserve to be in this competition, to survive up until this point? absolutely; he’s never doubted the fact that he belongs on stage. but should he be here? that’s a different question altogether.

he wishes he could give this seat to minhyun, wishes he could say, hey, the stage is yours and you don’t have to say goodbye yet. but the judges say as much for him when they indicate that there’s a shot at redemption for the eliminated contestants. sungwoon desperately tries not to get his hopes up for minhyun. anything can happen, after all, but that can work in their favour as much as it can against it. squeezing his eyes shut, sungwoon offers up a silent prayer. please let minhyun come back; he needs to be here.

(the nagging voice in the back of his mind asks, do you?)

-

sungwoon’s partner for the next episode is eunji.

dread settles in his stomach for a different reason than previously. while he didn’t know jaemin at all, eunji is too familiar. they’re neighbours and, in his mind, friends. he likes eunji as a person and admires her as a performer; her stages have been some of sungwoon’s favorites so far. honestly, he should be elated at being given the chance to perform with her. together, they can deliver something special.

and yet—he doesn’t know where they stand. the empty enigma reveal fucked up a lot of things. granted, sungwoon never interacted with eunji as squall, never lied about the band because it was never a topic of conversation to begin with. most of her ire seems to be reserved for daniel (for reasons sungwoon doesn’t know and doesn’t want to know), but sungwoon is nervous none the less, apologies poised to spill from his lips the moment eunji arrives at the band’s practice space for their first practice together.

they don’t turn out to be necessary, though sungwoon gives them anyway. a lie by omission is still a lie, and eunji deserves better from him. still, he’s relieved to put the awkwardness behind them and gives her his first unabashedly happy smile of the competition, knowing they’ll pull off a great stage. he doesn’t pry into her issues with daniel, but does promise to tell daniel to steer clear of the practice space until filming on thursday. it’s probably better for the both of them to put all their focus into the upcoming performance, anyway, and daniel is a naturally distracting presence.

song selection takes precedence shortly after their talk. eunji’s a powerhouse singer and dancer from what he’s observed so far. on the other hand, sungwoon gives her a wry smile and tells her that asking him to dance is a crime against humanity. sure, he feels like he’s improved a lot from last year, but he’d still look like a sack of potatoes next to eunji; she’s at such a high level that he would only bring her down. so a vocal performance it is, and sungwoon’s content with that, though he’s eager to show a more dynamic image this time around. after a ballad and an acoustic arrangement, he wants to do something exciting.

however, if there’s anything sungwoon learned from last week’s performance, it’s the art of compromise. he wants this stage to be one both he and eunji can take pride in, so he listens to her desires and soft nos and tries to meet somewhere in the middle: showtunes. musicals aren’t something sungwoon is all that familiar with. he remembers going to one on the university campus, maybe, but it was badly acted and sung. their numbers are certainly dynamic and entertaining in the right hands though, so he’s willing to give it a shot.

they settle on summer lovin’ from grease at first—an iconic classic even sungwoon is familiar with. danny zuko is a role squall could play with his eyes closed, but sungwoon is reluctant to channel him fully in front of eunji. out of embarrassment, yeah, but latent guilt as well, perhaps a smidge of this is a part of me i don’t want you to see? he remains mostly sungwoon instead, and maybe that’s why both he and eunji can’t hold in their laughter while rehearsing. summer lovin’ had me a blast—

“it’s because i’m too handsome, right?” sungwoon says in mock despair. “you’re afraid you might fall in love for real… i get it. you need to laugh to save yourself.” admittedly, there’s something about the number as a whole that strikes sungwoon as hilarious, the whole boy meets girl in the most contrived way part. he thinks he can act pretty well, but perhaps caging squall kills any momentum he could’ve had. sacrifices and compromises, though.

summer lovin’ gets trashed when they come to the conclusion that they can’t keep a straight face throughout their performance and the search for another song continues. at some point, sungwoon and eunji end up talking about the lion king remake and whether they’ll be watching it and—it’s a musical, with an iconic duet right there. can you feel the love tonight all but falls into their laps. it’s funny that the song itself is a lot more romantic than summer lovin’ could ever hope to be, but sungwoon is confident they can pull it off if they take it seriously enough.

the different style of singing throws him off initially, but sungwoon adjusts to it easily enough. the theatricality suits him, and eunji is a fun partner to play off. they look and sound good together, in his opinion. most of their rehearsals go off without a hitch, and for once, sungwoon feels positive heading into thursday’s filming. his throat is in good condition, he’s been watching the lion king non stop for the past week, and he knows the song like the back of his hand. even if he hasn’t solved the question of whether or not he should still be here, sungwoon is still going to give the performance of his life. he owes it to eunji, and to the people who’ve been supporting him till now.

(other distractions can wait).

-

he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to being separated from the rest of the band. sungwoon tries to catch a few of their eyes when he arrives, but they seem understandably busy, possibly anxious. the building never gets any less intimidating, nor does the sight of the judges seated above the rest cease to faze him. there’s an added heaviness in the air tonight when he thinks about the eliminated duos of last week. no doubt everyone, including himself, is curious to find out who survived for a second shot at the competition. he still hopes it’s minhyun. if the universe it fair, it will be minhyun.

unlike last time, he and eunji will be performing near the end, which leaves a lot of duos to get through before it’s their turn onstage. sungwoon is muted, watching the performances with controlled interest. he cheers for his friends, of course; woojin’s performance is exciting, and kenta is a joy to watch as always. daniel and hyojin’s creativity and synergy leave him impressed. it’s obvious they’ve been working hard to show the best sides of themselves, and looking at their dedication, he doesn’t understand how people can question their intentions for being here. maybe he cheers extra hard out of spite, whether consciously or unconsciously.

when it’s their turn to take the stage, he turns to eunji and whispers, “good luck! just remember,” and here he grins, a mischievous glint in his eye as he croons, “summer lovin’, had me a blast.” sungwoon fails to hold back his laughter as he faces the ceos and bows before making their introductions—they decided to introduce themselves as simba and nala, though eunji did manage to talk sungwoon out of ending his introduction with a growl (probably for the better).

their performance isn’t as flashy as some of the others; it’s stripped down and bare. seated on two stools, they face each other for the duration of the song. everything else falls away from the first notes of their backing track. his brows furrow momentarily—it sounds a little different than usual?—but his expression smooths over a second later, figuring he must be imagining it. the song itself is beautiful, equal parts romantic and nostalgic. his pronunciation is flawless, their harmonies and ad libs weaving into the instrumental perfectly. they’re able to pour enough emotion into their voices and their expressions to sell the song to the audience—

and neither of them laugh. that’s a bonus.

sungwoon is beginning to enjoy himself. there’s an ease to singing with eunji. he trusts her to match where he’s going and feeds off the energy he’s giving back. the corners of his lips begin to curve up in a smile when it happens. the music stops. sungwoon’s head tilts, but when eunji powers through, he follows. malfunctions happen all the time, after all, and a true professional would finish the song, right? but his mouth snaps shut rather abruptly when he hears one of the ceos call for them to stop. confusion colors his face as he turns to hear hyunbin tersely  informing them they’ve gone over their allotted two minutes.

oh.

oh.

understanding is slow dawning. sungwoon clumsily bows and apologies, a flush crawling up his neck. he’s eager to follow eunji off the stage and out of the spotlight, humiliation nipping at his heels. there’s only one explanation for their flub, and it’s one he wishes he’d come to figure out sooner—they’ve been practicing with the wrong cut of the song all week. god. how could they fail to follow the basic fucking instructions of the show? 

by all rights, they’re seasoned performers. they should’ve taken care of this right at the beginning. they should’ve never made the mistake in the first place, not at this stage of the competition. his hands shake; he curls them into fists and avoids looking at the rest of empty enigma, letting out a shaky breath as they take their seats instead. “it’s not your fault,” he tells eunji hoarsely. it’s mine. “we’ll be fine,” he adds. they both know it’s a lie, of course, but he doesn’t want to vocalize the truth. 

how could this happen? was he not paying enough attention? did he get complacent? did a part of him just cease to care and sabotage himself on purpose? the fact that sungwoon can’t find the answer makes him want to yell in frustration. he knows he’s better than this, and yet... maybe this just drives it home: he shouldn’t be here. it doesn’t matter what he wants or doesn’t want: he’s apparently incapable of the simplest of things. 

(but eunji should be here, and in this moment, sungwoon feels like he’s nothing but a force of destruction).

[xrkeunji-blog]

                             -.✦･｡ﾟ━━━━ jung eunji ft. ha sungwoon                                                       ┆performing can you feel the love tonight

first joohyun, then jeonghan. eunji takes a deep breath, swallowing down her tears as the eliminations are announced. her friends are dropping like flies and here she is, still yet to be enthused about being here. if she could trade places with either one of them, she would. joohyun wants it more than she does, obvious to the point of risking her own health to keep pursuing a ream. jeonghan deserves it more than she does; when he calls this his last chance, she believes him, no matter how much she wishes it wasn't.

four friends are narrowed down to two. sure jeonghan gets another chance, but eunji knows better than to keep her hopes too high. as much as she wants to believe in him without a shred of doubt, the fact that he's in such a precarious position at all has already made a mockery of her skills in prediction. so she doesn't cry, though she's sure the camera and its all-seeing tyranny will see some redness around the rims of her eyes, some extra glimmer of tears that threaten to spill.

eunji takes another breath, bracing herself. it may not be fair that others are gone when she goes on, but she should go on bravely for their sakes.

at least her partner for this week isn't a total stranger. however eunji might feel about the band popularly known as empty enigma and the damned liar named kang daniel, also known as cameo, she can't hold it against sungwoon. in the past they've gotten along well; they're neighbors after all, even if they didn't know it until.. well, that's a story better kept to themselves. if she's going to be paired with one of the boys in the competition, she's glad it's one she knows and one who's as nonthreatening as they come, at least in her eyes. they've taken out their trash together. she's not afraid of him.

still, it's awkward when they're first paired together.

"should we pretend we don't know each other?" eunji risks the joke, a hesitant smile on her lips.

he answers her, "i think the problem is that we know each other too well."

she's inclined to agree, but it lightens the mood enough that they can start working together, or at least stop dancing around each other as if they're afraid to come close. eunji has danced every episode so far, maybe singing a little but not quite having the chance to highlight what she knows she can do. with sungwoon she sees an opportunity to show her talent, and he seems to be more than happy not to have to dance. it's a change of pace for eunji, her warmup exercises looking very different than they had the last few weeks. she still rolls out her neck and shoulders, but she's not doing splits or touching her toes to get ready to sing.

ideas bounce back and forth between them. sungwoon doesn't want to do another acoustic song or a ballad, eunji doesn't think she wants to limit herself to the pop genre as she already has. they both agree that they want something dynamic and different than they've done before, but they come to a blank when it comes to selecting exactly what.

"showtunes?" eunji suggests, joking more than anything. she's shocked when sungwoon actually seems to be onboard.

and that's how they end up laughing until their stomachs hurt, sungwoon trying his best to be danny zuko and eunji desperately trying to stay in character as sandy olsson. it just doesn't work. she can't get through a whole verse of summer nights without erupting into giggles; it's just a ridiculous concept to her. leather jackets, slicked back hair, bragging about the girl he had a hot summer fling with.. but it's sungwoon. she simply cannot handle it.

"we need to try something else," she wheezes, wiping tears of laugher from her eyes. they talk seriously for the first few minutes, sharing the shows they know and songs that they might be able to do. but eventually, they veer off topic. did you see that eclipse is having a comeback? have you seen the new spiderman movie? what do you think about the lion king remake? "the lion king is a musical too," eunji points out, and suddenly she's pulling up the duet on her phone. she's known the words since she was a child.

it's amazing that they can take a song from an animated children's movie seriously, but they couldn't get through a classic like grease. it's ironic in the most embarrassing sense.

but eunji supposes that she should be thankful that they're actually doing something now, not just busting their guts every time they look at each other. maybe because it's a beloved disney movie that eunji doesn't feel much embarrassment to sing it with sungwoon, not like other love songs. their harmonies and added embellishments make their voices stand out, and they rehearse seriously for the first time since being named partners.

and the day of the episode recording rolls back around. oh, how eunji wishes that they could have stayed in that practice room forever, laughing and carefree and safe from the cold eyes of the cameras. but it was all for this anyways, to show the judges, the contestants, the audience at home what they're capable of. eunji watches as pair after pair performs ahead of them, her expressions and reactions kept on a tight leash. she's enjoying every duo just fine, but nerves for her own performance keep her on the edge of her seat. she can't relax, not even to make a joke with sungwoon.

the second group from the last, they finally take the stage. eunji swallows the lump in her throat down at the first glimpse of the cameras right there in their faces. can she fake ease and confidence when there's nothing to look at but the lenses or her partner? she's not sure. but she takes her seat anyways, settling on the stool and feeling her palms turn sweaty against the microphone in her hand. she glances at sungwoon and smiles. now or never.

when the track starts playing, eunji thinks it sounds different than the one they rehearsed with. perhaps the show had used some of their resources to arrange something a little better, but there's no time to think too much about it before they're starting their first lines. they jump in together, eunji watching sungwoon as they share notes, split into harmonies, and perform their own little solos. the song is beautiful; it still gives eunji chills even after hearing it so many times. she's quick to forget about her worries about the instrumental; it doesn't seem to detract from their performance at all.

most thankfully, they don't burst into laughter in the middle of it.

they're close to the end when it happens, the music stopping before they know to. eunji's brows raise in surprise, but she was a professional once; she knows to keep powering through the technical difficulties. sungwoon follows suit, continuing the notes as they've practiced. that's when she hears it, one of the ceos telling them to stop. eunji drops her microphone from her lips, looking up at the judges. what was wrong? do they just want them to redo it all properly for the recording? but no, she doesn't see kind faces up there, she sees hyun bin looking rather annoyed, telling them that they're going over their allotted two minutes.

that's when it hits. they've been practicing the wrong cut of the song all week.

eunji's heart drops into her stomach, her face paling and her mouth falling agape dumbly. "i'm sorry," she bows immediately, begging pardon from the judges. there's no excuse for this; they've screwed up. they screwed up big time, especially considering they're supposedly some of the more experienced contestants on the show. the woman is utterly humiliated, her head hung low as they return to their seats. they're done for, she knows it. she whispers a second apology, this one for sungwoon only. if it were just her own career on the line, she wouldn't be so upset. but she's dragging him down with her, and she's never been so remorseful in her life.

[rkxsicheng]

MGA4 | EP 4 | NEW

MGA4 Episode 4 | New Classics Team G | 장미와 가시 [ @rksxngyeol , @rksomi , @rkchungha , @rkssoojin ] Song: Bad Boy by Red Velvet [line distribution] Outfit/Hair/Make-up: [x] 

 Sicheng feels his confidence growing. He’s not given himself to delusions of grandeur by any means, but when his team places third out of nine, he begins to think himself competent enough to do well, at the very least, and that’s most certainly a step up from uncertainty. 

 His teammates had been strong competitors, of course, and he didn’t know what was coming next, but he hoped that if he poured himself into rehearsal, if he did his absolute best, he just might make it another round.

 It’s only a matter of keeping up his streak. 

 When the episode airs, he watches eagerly. He can’t help but be happy about the fact that he’s at least featured a bit more, but finds himself cringing at how Yerim is portrayed. Sicheng knows that the girl is...difficult, she’s a good friend of his and he’s aware that she can be prickly even at the best of times, it’s kind of what he likes about her so much, her refusal to sugar coat that which is bullshit, but it still hurts a bit to see her made into some sort of villain. 

 She’d been kind of a brat, to be sure, but she hadn’t really been quite as bad as the show, which leaves out her softer moments, illustrates, and it claps on a light bulb in Sicheng’s brain. 

 Although he hadn’t exactly been neglected, he realises that perhaps he hadn’t given the show much to work with. So he promises to be a little less shy, a little less timid in the practice room this week. To push himself a little more to be friendly.

 It’s a taller order than it seems, of course. He was excited to find out who his new teammates were, but notably less excited for the first day of working with them. He’s always nervous meeting new people, and their initial introductions are awkward because he can only manage shy smiles and deep bows and soft-spoken nice to meet yous, although he does make a deal with himself to initiate a conversation with every one of his new groupmates by the end of the first day, to break the ice that he might work easier with them over the subsequent week.

 The leader is selected rather quickly, it’s Soojin, a cute, fairly unassuming girl, Sicheng thinks initially. The song selection takes a bit longer as they cycle through options, discussing their skillsets, crossing options off their list based on the group’s strengths and weaknesses until they decide on Bad Boy. A good choice, Sicheng thinks. It hasn’t got a rap part, because nobody in this group is a great rapper, but it still manages to exude a strong, dark energy that Sicheng thinks makes up for that. It also allows him to showcase a very different colour, versus what he presented to the judges last week, and he’s eager to do so. 

 Once the details are ironed out, they divide up lines, work through the beginning stages of learning the choreo, and during their first break of the day, Sicheng decides to try and challenge himself, to greet his teammates.He tries this with Sungyeol first, who is apparently also quite awkward. They exchange an awkward how are you, I’m fine thank you, and then sit in a near-painful silence for a moment before Sicheng giggles and apologises, 

“Ah hyung, I’m sorry, I’m so shy...”

 Sicheng is beet red, but Sungyeol is very kind about it. 

 Later, he tries the same thing on Somi, a rascally thing with an enormous amount of very cherubic energy, asking her how she’s doing over lunch, and she knocks him far off his game, telling him about how pretty and shiny he is, and he’s reduced once more to a redfaced, giggly mess. 

 It’s here that he largely gives up on this quest, although he does find that as the day wears on, it happens naturally, that the ice is broken. Chungha, who is initially intimidating, is actually quite cool, and Soojin, who he first thought was cute based solely on her appearance, proves a stern leader, running them like he imagines an actual coach might, although she doesn’t go as far as to make practice miserable, by any means, simply...very well-organised. 

 She in particular, helps Sicheng quite a lot. She gives him lines that stretch the limits of his vocal ability, but also takes the time to sit him down, seeming to recognise that he’s a young singer, without much experience, and give him a few short, impromptu vocal lessons, a dozen or so very important pointers. How to control your breathing for better control while dancing, for one, which Sicheng grasps quite easily; he’s danced much more intense dances his entire life and is thusly in quite good shape. She gives him advice on oral posture, as well, and teaches him how to project for more volume. 

 On the second day, the two of them sit crosslegged in one corner of the room and she runs through a vocal exercise with him, wherein she sings a note, and he matches it in pitch and volume as best he can. It starts out seriously, but eventually dissolves into the two of them getting louder and sillier, culminating with Soojin doing her best impersonation of an opera diva and Sicheng attempting to follow suit only for his voice to immediately crack into a low wail, which sets the two of them off into a fit of laughter. 

 Soojin runs a tight ship, certainly, but she’s no cruel captain. There’s room to enjoy practice a bit, too, sometimes even a lot. 

 He warms to everyone in his group, over the course of the week. Chungha and Soojin at one point reassure him when he expresses worry about the sultrier vibe of the song that it’s less about being “sexy” and more about rocking it in a confident way, and that he’s doing well and really just needs to relax a bit. 

 Sicheng can’t help but follow their lead, trying to study the ease with which especially Chungha performs, putting on an attitude that suits the track and the dance. It’s impressive.

 He’s always been one who appreciates an opportunity to learn, and he’s sure to express his gratitude every time someone takes the time to help him where and when he needs, doing his best to return the favour where he can, helping the others with their vocals a bit, using what Soojin’s taught him, suggesting ways of bettering the impact of their dance. He gives Soojin a few pointers when it comes to performing when she expresses a bit of anxiety over being overshadowed.  

 They carefully select their costumes, and even do a fun little runway, cheering for one another as they one by one do their little dance on the catwalk and strut their stuff. Sicheng can’t help but believe that he looks good, and it’s a much-needed boost of confidence, even as he blushes so profusely that his face pulses with each heartbeat.

 Sungyeol brings his daughter, an adorable little thing. Sicheng doesn’t know why, but he’s shocked to learn that he’s a father. He seems so young. Sicheng loves children, though, and interacts well with them, and so whenever he gets a chance that day, he crouches down to her level to ask her how she’s doing and coo at her just a little bit, even playfully sneaking her the biscuit he’d brought for himself as a treat with lunch.

 On the final day of practice he is sure to take a minute to speak to his group. 

 “I just...would like to thank you for working so hard with me this week, and for teaching me things. Let’s do well together!” and although his Korean is slightly accented, and perhaps a little childish, he does his best, although he still blushes at the sentiment. It’s a little corny, is all, but he still means it. 

 By the time Friday rolls around, he’s surprisingly confident in his part. Not entirely lacking in nervousness, by any means, but confident that him and his group are capable of giving a worthy performance. They were awfully thorough, especially compared to his last group, who were much more laidback, even laissez-faire about certain things, whereas with Soojin’s guidance, they’d left no stone unturned in their quest to improve this performance. They’d gone about every decision with a discussion, with logic, allocating lines based on skill, thinking about who should be in the centre and when, what to wear, how best to deliver Bad Boy to their audience in every way. Sicheng hoped it had been enough.

 It’s incredible how fast this week had passed, how it seemed like one second he’s stepping into the KT practice room for the first time, and the next, he’s on stage, the lights dimmed as they stand in their starting formation, and then they raise, and the track begins and they begin to move, and sing, and perform. 

 Sicheng has a few key moments in the centre of the performance, and he does his best not to waste a second of it, finding his cameras, painting on an intense expression, half-envisioning how he might look to a fan on the other end of it, and adjusting accordingly. He’s always been photogenic, at least, having good camera sense as a result of being sat for more photoshoots with his dance company back home than he can count. Tilt your head back a bit, stick your chin out, tense your forehead. Even when he’s not in the centre, he’s flanking the person who is for much of the performance, and is thusly sure to keep the intensity up even when the focus shouldn’t necessarily be on him. 

 He keeps the pointers Soojin gave him in mind every time he sings, as well, and is surprised with how much a few technical improvements can go to really making one a better vocalist, and when the performance winds down, and they’re in their ending poses, he finds himself at peace with what they’ve achieved. 

 As they make their way backstage he bows in greeting to the next group waiting, giving them a friendly hwaiting. He’s happy, and hopeful.

[twelvesignsrp]

congratulations nicola/lola, capricorn is now coraline “cora” lansbury with the faceclaim aisha dee

APPLICATION

Character Sign: Capricorn

Character name: Coraline “Cora” Lansbury Birthday: 24/12/1997 Sexuality: Pansexual Gender: Cisgendered Female Moon Sign: Scorpio Faceclaim: Aisha Dee please if that’s okay c:

Power

Super Strength — For as long as she can recall, there has been one giant taboo making its rounds through Cora’s mind whenever she was in need of a reminder: giving up was never an option, failure unacceptable. But instead of cracking under the pressure applied on her fragile frame by both her family and herself, she never troubled herself with the prospect of not succeeding for she knew, deep within her, that she would always be stronger than her opponents or the obstacles she was to face. Some might call it exaggerated confidence, its roots untraceable even for her, but her belief in herself has so far secured her a spotless track record. And even if she was to not come in first place, she had always persisted, her endurance admirable enough for her performance to still be considered a victory of a different kind.

What do they study?

With possibilities seemingly endless, Cora struggled to make a final decision for quite a while but eventually wound up opting for International Relations. She has always exhibited a keen interest in politics and the law, in the order of the world and how its staying in tact was to be ensured, even long before she had reached the appropriate age for such worries. While Law and Politics were available separate options, she found her concern for worldwide affairs to be best covered in the major she has eventually chosen.

Biography:

A wide-eyed doll of unconventional porcelain, dark locks sizzling like flames under the force of gushes of wind. Faster. Stronger. Better. It had always been on her to bring glory to the name, never mind the difficulties she had to face others failed to fathom.

A rabbit-hearted girl could outsmart the lazy lion in a heartbeat, for endurance is true strength.

An only child, the Lansburys only hope after so many desperate attempts resulted in nothing but pain and heartbreak, Cora didn’t need to be told that she carried the weight of being destined for greatness on her slim shoulders — yet she would, several times over. Medically, she was considered a miracle (of natural conception, no less), a word that would echo through her mind in the voices of various relatives until she had grown infatuated with its meaning. A Christmas miracle of a child, a wunderkind — an aspiration well suited for a child like her, the girl who always seemed to stand out from the crowds no matter how hard she tried to blend in. Her brows too bushy, her curls too unruly, her smile too wild and forceful; a natural-born outsider among the upper-class crowd, their dullness threatening to swallow her individuality alive if she wanted to stick with them and have a shot at their successes. But a girl as clever as her was not meant to struggle for long, nor to betray herself in favour of conformity.

Instead, a warrior was born amidst a sea of rosé tulle, flashing her fangs at afternoon playdates and digging her claws into the keys to victory: education and training, practising until there was nothing left to learn, nothing left to devour by a soul as eager as hers. Her future shone brightly, kneeling at her feet in an act of devotion, but popularity was a whole other story, a different battle to win. They knew her as an overachiever now, the girl who could potentially help you with your homework but was often too stubborn to do so. Before that, they had known her as the odd one out, a misfit trying too hard to squeeze herself into their pristine puzzle of poshness, and they had never failed to find the right names to let her know she just wasn’t quite right for them. Hardened by the times, she strode on, Coraline the lone wolf, blissful in her own company and that of her family, a loving bunch luckily providing her with a handful of cousins in a similar age group that never allowed her to experience true loneliness. At the very least, she would never be naive enough to trust blindly. A girl with her insight into the human psyche and the different types of people it produced — deep enough to be able to sort them within seconds she would like to think — knows all too well whom to avoid to not get hurt again.

By sixth form, her last struggle had been overcome. Cora had found her kind, a decent sized group of a somewhat snobby but lovable bunch usually knee-deep in first world upper-class problems they at times could have easily averted. No matter how often they implored her not to judge them, not doing so silently often turned out to be impossible but she never saw the harm in loving judgement — even less so since she never once turned them down when it came to trying to find a solution to their woes. And thus the loner became the rock, the fixer, the shoulder to cry on who would catch your head from way up in the clouds and screw it back onto your neck with the support of a logical solution to a seemingly unsolvable issue. Sugarcoating was all but her strong suit but, alas, what use was there in denying the truth if it was your only saving grace; if there was only one way that would bring you salvation and it just so happened to be hers? Can she, in the light of that, really be blamed for not wanting to venture from the tested road she has chosen for herself when all the others look like dark, twisted alleyways leading to doom?

Hardly.

As far as she is concerned, she is on the right track and she has brought proof as well. But go ahead, try and tell her otherwise.

Five interesting facts about your character:

i. Even though starting ballet was originally her parents’ idea for her, she grew to love it almost instantly, the feeling of having complete control over her body filling her with a strange sense of inner peace strong enough to keep her coming back to occasional classes even now. Her studies don’t grant her enough time for regular courses anymore and at times she’s resort to yoga for relaxation but nothing quite compares to the feeling (or pain) of pointe shoes being tied again every to every other week.

ii. Cora, CC, Lin, Lina, Coco, Coral, Corali — she has a great variety of nicknames and willing accepts being called by either of them, though it all depends on your relationship to her whether you are allowed to use a certain name. All of them are availabe to family members and Cora is available to absolutely everyone she knows, simply because she feels Coraline sounds a bit too highbrow to fit her at times, but if you’re not a blood relative, you’ll have to earn the right to use a certain batch.

iii. Another (nerdy) passion of hers are languages and literature. Her library at home was excessive, mostly dominated by classics even though the first book series she fell in love with was, unsurprisingly, Harry Potter (Hermione being the first character she ever identified with), but not at all limited to those or merely English literature in general. She more or less fluently speaks English, German, Spanish, French and Italian at this point and is looking to branch out into the Asian and African continent if she should find the time to acquire more.

iv. People tend to assume she is joking but her instrument of choice and the only one she can play exceptionally well is the ukulele. Sometimes, when is trying to clear her mind, one can find her strumming away on it, lost in thought or composing her own original songs — though she would stop singing immediately the second she realises she has company as her singing voice is one of the few things she isn’t confident in.

v. As a child, she had a pet rabbit called Cookie whom she would carry around with her wherever she was allowed to bring him. Her trust in him was so strong that he ended up being the only creature she would tell her secrets to and thus his demise hit her even harder than most kids. Still, she owns a locket her mother gave her when she wouldn’t stop grieving with a photo of the rabbit as well as a small strand of its fur. She doesn’t wear it anymore but keeps it in her jewellery box and likes to hold onto it for comfort when she is devastatingly sad.

Character Quote

“The water sustains me without even trying; the water can’t drown me, I’m done with my dying.” — The Water by Johnny Flynn

If your character had a patronus what would it be? and why?

Regardless of the fact that she had one as a child, Cora has long since assumed that her patronus would have to be a rabbit. Like her, they are all too often underestimated and deemed weak and cowardly yet they tend to have the upper hand even in very perilous situations, are resilient and clever.

WRITING SAMPLE

The world’s mysteries at the reach of her fingertips; an ambitious dream but hardly out of line for someone as dedicated. She had grasped it all but love, love alone should proof to be her Achilles’ heel. A good generously dished out by her parents, her family, the selected few who had her trust but none of it had been acquired through war, battled for, pursued with utmost urgency. Someone as composed, controlled and seemingly emotionally cold as her had to be too focused to be distracted by sinful, weakening impulses, right?

Alas, her time would come and she would succumb like a moth to the flame, drowning in its waves, forceful as a tsunami. Succumb gladly, until the fairytale turned bad.

Michael had been a good match for her, they had all said so, constant affirmation honey on a greedy winner’s tongue. As per usual, she was on top of the world, one part of the school’s dream couple. The ugly duckling had once and for all become a swan of radiant, unstoppable beauty, making memories she was hoping to cherish forever despite being a realist by birth. Deep down, Cora had known that this would be a fleeting love, like most puppy loves: intense, all-consuming but as quickly to burn out as it had first been sparked. All these nights, wrapped up in each other or out in the countryside with his old Mercedes, silently watching the stars with Cigarettes After Sex on the car stereo — all of them turned into regrets when she could no longer fight her suspicions, with one swift swipe of her thumb. Why did Michael have to be just about the only person on this planet who still didn’t use a passcode for his phone?

She had come out to visit him in his dorm as she did every other weekend ever since he had left for university, being a year her senior, and was waiting for him to return to the bathroom when she just had to give in and choose the worst possible pastime option. Teeth dug into her bottom lip, an inner voice scolding her for becoming one of those distrusting girls who went through their boyfriend’s phones, the kind she deemed ridiculous just a year before but distance had made her see their point all too clearly. Cora squeezed her eyes shut as her fingertip brushed against the green icon leading her straight to Michael’s messages. A pause, a breath, a beat and she pressed down anyway, fluttering lids giving room to widened pupils as her whole world came crashing down. Figuratively, of course, though at the time it felt literal, the weight of it crushing her heart into a billion shards, provisorily patched up by nothing but pure, unadulturated rage.

Her fist curled up around the mobile phone, teeth gritted as she forced herself to take a deep, albeit shaky breath. ‘Be rational,’ Cora’s mind warned her with the warmth of the big sister the universe hadn’t allowed her to have. ‘Give him a chance to explain. Don’t just assume things that fit your paranoia.’ Only that she didn’t have to assume. It was perfectly fucking clear. The phone’s screen cracked under the force of her grip without her even paying attention to it just before the door swung open again, marking the return of a cheerful now ex-boyfriend to be. “Who’s Louise?” was all she could recall herself saying to him, her tone verging on a screeching scream. “Who the fuck is Louise?” Stuttered explanations fell on deaf ears, her vision blurred by anger as she scrambled to her feet, the phone dropping onto the bed and her empty fist now hitting the boy’s chest, once, twice — but not thrice for a soft push had sent him flying into the wall behind him, leaving the two of them dumbstruck with fear.

Panic pushed its way through the raging curtain, prompting Cora to rely on her instincts and flee, her pace steadily sped up until she ran to safety, to her escape, to her car. Instantly, she locked the doors from the inside, fumbling to stick her keys into the ignition but dropping them in shock, her breathing unsteady, eyes glued to the inside of her right palm. Blood dripped from small but undeniable cuts in her skin, some of them pricked by small glass shards driven deeply into the soft surface for which she had only one explanation — one explanation that was, under no circumstances, possible whatsoever. Then again…

Could this really have been her doing? All of this? Hell, she was half Michael’s size and weight. Even the mere thought of her being capable of pushing him into a wall without using excruciating force or of cracking a phone’s screen onehandedly went against all logic. Yet…

It took her ten minutes to finally lean down and pick up her keys. Ten minutes filled with heavy breathing, shivering and tears. Ten minutes and a fuzzy mind fumbling for a reasonable explanation as though its life depended on it. At last, she turned them in the ignition, foot pressing down on the clutch pedal. Perhaps it was her wrath. Perhaps it had become an odd driving force that enabled her to access supernatural powers, like those distressed mothers trying to rescue their kids by lifting cars and the likes. Granted, not the best example but it made some sense, right? Right. Another deep breath as she backed out of the parking lot. That had to be it.

Nothing unsual. All was well. Just your average, enraged girl who had been cheated on. She may have always been a bit of the odd one out but that odd? No fucking way.

ANYTHING ELSE?

thank you loads for taking the time to read my messy incoherent crap!! i haven’t written a bio in months and i’m afraid it shows, unfortunately — & my favourite colour is royal blue c:

[hknorr2597-blog]

Mardi Gras Through The Eyes Of An Introvert

Beads flung from the balconies of Bourbon Street scattered across the ground, rendering it nearly invisible. People packed themselves onto Bourbon Street like sardines. My fiancé, Darren, grabbed my hand:

“Follow me,” he said.

I kept running into women flashing their chests to the balconies while trying not to roll my ankles walking on the sparkling purple, green and gold beads.

A group of three of our friends, Matt, Joe, and Christina (she prefers to be called “Teeny”), followed closely behind.

Darren cleared a path for us. At 6-feet 9-inches tall, his hazel eyes easily scannedabove the sea of people.

How am I ever going to survive this night?

Club music boomed from every bar and the smell of people sweating alcohol wafted down the street. This was my first Mardi Gras, and I could tell it was more party than I could handle. I knew I was going to need to escape the chaos of Bourbon Street, and fast.

I had been to New Orleans before to visit Darren at the Belle Chasse Naval Base. Previous trips had been relaxed. But this time, the sole purpose was to experience Mardi Gras to the fullest. And party.

It was 9 p.m. I hadn’t eaten all day. I was confident I would die if I didn’t get some food in me before the adventure ahead.

Darren led us to NOLA Po’boys, one of my favorite spots for the state’s signature sandwich. About a three-block walk up Bourbon Street.

“You know what I like,” I said to Darren with a smirk.

While the gang sought a table in NOLA I hustled to make a bathroom break. When I returneda spicy grilled shrimp po’boy waited for me.The fresh French bread and spicy shrimp soothed my soul from the chaos happening just outside.  

But I needed more than a sandwich to get through the evening. I needed to find a peaceful place. A place free from the hellish sounds and smells of Bourbon Street.

We finished our food and stepped back out into the party. Darren took the lead again. We followed closely behind, weaving through the crowd, dodging flying beads.

I dodged to slowly. I was hit in the eye. And those stupid little beads hurt. I’d had enough of the street and it had not even been 10 minutes.

“Alrighty babe,” I said holding my hand over my eye. “Let’s seek some shelter.”

I had seen Bourbon Street on a previous trip to New Orleans. We had gone at around 9:00p.m. on a Sunday that time. And I thought it was bad then.

Darren led us further up Bourbon Street to a little bar called Lafitte’s. It was far enough away from the crowds to be considered peaceful by Mardi Gras standards.

“This is about as mellow as it’s gonna get guys,” Darren said.

We walked inside the tiny bar, which was originally a blacksmith shop built in 1722, to find a live pianist and candlelight. The building sportedits original flooring, old wood beams held up the 300-year-old ceiling, and thestonewalls felt refreshing to lean against.

I was in love.

Darren walked to the pianist who plays any song request for a dollar. The sound of Toto’s Africa filled the bar.

“You have got to be kidding me,” I said with a laugh.

I hate that song, somehow it plays everywhere I go and has turned into my unwanted anthem.

But it put me in a better mood. The live music, the candlelight, and the people at Lafitte’s were like a microculturein comparison to the rest of Bourbon Street.

Mellow.

We found an empty table amongst the crowd and made it ours. Matt ordered a round of drinks. He came back with Laffite’s signature Frozen Voodoo Daiquiri. Better known as “purple drank.”

We made that piano player at least $15 richer as we sang, drank, and danced.

My anxiety was settling. I was one happy introvert.

I discovered a new love for Lafitte’s, but the love was fleeting.Time to find something new.

“Hey bartender!” I shouted. “Where can I find a more laid-back type of party?

She replied in the sweetest southern drawl,

“Baby, Bourbon Street has nothin’ on Frenchman. That’s where the locals go. Good music, good drinks, good people.”

Say no more.

Off we go to Frenchman Street.

We were about halfway to Frenchman when Matt said,

“Wait! We need to see this!”

He was right. And as much as I wanted to get the hell off of Bourbon Street, the drag show that was happening inside a club called Oz was not to be missed.

We entered the purple and blue lit club to catch one queen perform “Diva” by Beyoncé in a neon yellow-green body suit. She looked amazing. Her energy was fantastic. If she could be in a party mood, so could I.

We left Oz. And with a newfound energy, I took head of the group.

We stopped at a little daiquiri place for those tall skinny neon cups with the crazy straws to sip on as we strolled through the narrow streets of The French Quarter. Laughing and singing our way to Frenchman Street.

In minutes we arrived. Calm washed over me. This was it. This was my Mardi Gras-peaceful-place.

The sound of old New Orleans jazz played on rich brass instruments washed out of the bars lining the sides of the street. People filled the sidewalk and street, but I could walk without running into people or stumbling over beads. It smelled of the rich Cajun spices instead of alcohol sweat.

Every bar looked appealing.

Our first stop would be Blue Nile.  

Little neon painted moons, planets and stars splattered across the ceiling of the blue-lit room. The band playing at the front of the bar embodied the energy of Mardi Gras. Lively, colorful, and loud. The singers voice was strong, but still soothing to listen to.

I ordered a gin and tonic and made my way to the dance floor. Darren stood out, as usual, making it easy to find the group.

The distinct beginning notes of Gnarls Barkley’s Crazy catch our ears.

Darren, Matt, Joe, Teeny, and I belted that song like our lives depended on it. Out of key, out of breath and buzzed. We sang along at the top of our lungs.

After five or six more songs that I honestly can’t recall, and a few more drinks (which is more than likely why I can’t recall the songs), hunger overcame us. Again.

Across the street from Blue Nile, a neon sign reading Dat Dog sparked our interest.

As we arrived, it came to my attention that this was a little hotdog joint. And as a vegetarian, I assumed it had nothing to offer me.

I was wrong. So wrong.

I took a glance at their menu and discovered a vegan section with four veggie dog options.

I have spent 10 years taste testing a variety of grocery store veggie dogs at family barbeques only to be disappointed by their rubbery texture and flavor.  I set my skepticism aside in the spirit of Mardi Gras and order the Vegan Italian Dog.

Made of eggplant, red wine, garlic and fennel, the Vegan Italian dog was nowhere near the rubbery texture I had become so used to.

It burst with flavor.

To call it delightful would be an understatement.

Full and happy, a bar called Bamboulas was our final stop.

This bar sports a more open and lit atmosphere. Exposed brick covers the wall where a band of six plays classic New Orleans jazz.

Less packed than bars we had been to earlier in the evening, we found a booth with ease.

Teeny came back with a round of shots with limes.

“Let’s end this night right,” she said.

“Tequila!”

We took our shots. The lime doesn’t help much with that agave liquor sting. But my god does it make for a good time.

I don’t consider myself a dancer by any means. But about 15 minutes after that shot, I was ready to swing.

I grabbed Darren by the hand. He doesn’t consider himself a dancer either.

Too bad.

I pulled him onto the dancefloor, and we performed what I’m assuming looked like some kind of flailing, uncoordinated swing dance.

We didn’t care who was watching or what we looked like.

Soon our group joined us.

Then other couples.

Within five minutes the dancefloor was filled. The music seemed to get livelier with every person who jumped on the floor, as if the band was feeding off of our energy.

We danced for at least an hour. My feet ached, I was sweaty, out of breath and exhausted.

I gave Darren a glance.

“Bedtime?” he asked.

Yes. Bedtime.

On the walk back to our hotel, we crossed through Bourbon Street again.

Frenchman had transitioned my crabby, anxious, Mardi Gras-hating-self, into a calm, happy lover of Mardi Gras.

I though Mardi Gras 2019 would be my first, and last.

Mardi Gras 2020 can’t get here fast enough.

[kimbiablue]

Short johnlock song ficlet for shawleyleres

For @shawleyleres based on her post 💖 I’d never heard this song before but it’s very lovely and fitting for these two! Enjoy :)

—

The music starts. John’s lips quirk up to one side and he runs his fingertips over the back of the pale hand he holds in his lap.

You think I’d leave your side, baby? You know me better than that

Sherlock’s brows pull down. John gives a small, amused shake of the head in response.

You think I’d leave you down when you’re down on your knees? I wouldn’t do that

In the course of eight years, John has come to understand Sherlock as a highly emotional man, far removed from the portrait of a sociopath he had once tried so hard to present. However, John cannot say he has ever truly understood the depth of insecurity behind Sherlock’s confidence (and sometimes arrogance).

He holds Sherlock’s gaze, now, watching lashes blink rapidly over those incredible eyes, the music swelling through the flat. Whether the detective is confused or moved or perhaps just staring at him as he usually does, John can’t tell.

I’ll tell you you’re right when you want And if only you could see into me

The years have been generous with Sherlock’s humanity, bringing compassion and sacrifice and love. John thinks he should have known that with the demolition of emotional guards, and the introduction of a romantic partnership, insecurity would only naturally follow.

Oh, when you’re cold I’ll be there Hold you tight to me

“What if I never stop saying things that are not good?” Sherlock had asked him. “What if I sulk one too many times after a row about the shopping or acceptable sleeping times or the fact that I’ve deleted some social courtesy or other?”

“I don’t care about any of that,” John had replied.

When you’re on the outside, baby, and you can’t get in I will show you you’re so much better than you know

“What if I always put sugar in your tea whenever I actually make tea?”

“Sherlock,” John had said, laughing. “I especially don’t care about that.”

John regrets laughing now, just a little. He runs a hand over Sherlock’s cheek, over the bow of his lips, relishing the flutter of eyelids in response to his touch, and the small burst of heat in his own chest. He doubts they’ll ever stop wanting each other.

When you’re lost and you’re alone and you can’t get back again I will find you darling and I will bring you home

“What if I can’t…” Sherlock had flapped a hand in the air and thrown himself down in his chair. “Satisfy you?”

John had simoly stared down at him, no reply forthcoming.

Sherlock had raised his eyes, looking embarrassed and yet impatient. “You know. Sexually.”

“Sherlock,” John had started, but closed his mouth again. The most gorgeous and tempting person he’d ever known was asking him this. He’d kissed every inch of Sherlock’s body, heard that voice in all manner of gasps and cries and moans, felt those elegant fingers in places that set him running hot just remembering.

They don’t make love as often as John was accustomed to in relationships, but he’d found it didn’t bother him a lick. He’d been so in love with Sherlock, for years, and if he were honest, their first time, or their first kiss, or even just the very first moment that he’d known for sure that Sherlock loved him too, when they’d broken down together in desperate confession… that would have been enough for the rest of his life.

And if you want to cry I am here to dry your eyes

He’d knelt in front of Sherlock, placing a hand on his knee, struck by the memory of his stag night, years ago. Before Sherlock was his. Before he’d been granted the incredible gift of being loved by Sherlock.

“Sherlock,” he’d tried again, lips turned up in a smirk. “When I take you to bed, or you decide the hall is the perfect place to suck me off, or when you can’t even remember your name because of what I’m doing to you, and I get to see that brilliant mind switching on and off in pleasure… you think I’m not satisfied?”

John had rocked back on his heels then, suddenly coursing with no small measure of arousal, drawing in a deep breath to will himself back to the topic at hand. The blush that spread across Sherlock’s face would have been thoroughly distracting, were it not for the wounded expression underneath.

“But John,” Sherlock had whispered. “What if I’m just not enough? You deserve so much.”

And in no time You’ll be fine

Something had tightened in John’s chest, and then he was pressing into Sherlock’s lap, kissing him, running hands up into curls, mind racing in an attempt to find the right words to say.

His lips and hands had slowed, and he’d pulled back with a half smile, certain of his next action but unsure of what the reception might be. He’d stood, crossed to his laptop, queued a song, and pulled Sherlock to sit on the sofa with him.

“Right, look, Sherlock, I love you,” he says now, as the music continues on around them. “And I can’t imagine why you’d ever doubt that you’re worthy of it, but I figured music might help you understand. Even if it’s, y'know, pop culture music.”

There’s a shrug and a quirk of lips from Sherlock in concession to the statement. John laughs, all fondness, and strokes his thumb over Sherlock’s lips again.

“Whatever bothers you, ever, we’ll get through it. I don’t care if your tea is more sugar than water. I don’t care if you’re in a strop sometimes. I don’t care if you only want to fuck once a week or once a month. I don’t care if you don’t eat or sleep for four days when we’re on a case. Well, I do care about that, but our rows about it won’t be enough to drive me off. Nothing ever will.”

Sherlock’s lips are trembling beneath his fingers. He turns his body to directly face the man, their knees slotting together.

“I’m not ever giving you up,” he tells Sherlock, a subtle growl in his tone. “Most days I can barely believe that after all these years, I finally have the fucking pleasure of calling you mine.”

The song ends, but Sherlock is frozen under John’s touch, stormy eyes glistening, giving him away.

John is all at once overwhelmed, wanting, needing, to drive home how indescribably lucky he feels to be enough for this person he loves more than anything. He claims those lips again, hard, climbing right into Sherlock’s lap, tears building in the corners of his eyes as he drowns in adoration.

“I love you, John,” Sherlock breathes through kisses. “You’re everything. God, everything.”

—

John wakes to the sound of the Stradivarius floating through the door of their bedroom.

He stretches, chuckling as he catches sight of Sherlock’s rumpled suit jacket and trousers on the floor. He remembers how much it used to turn him on, to wake in the morning after a night of glorious love making and see those expensive articles abandoned, having been hastily removed and promptly forgotten. Still turns him on, if he’s being honest. He swings his legs over the bed, ignoring the growing interest in his pants in favor of heading toward the music.

He is greeted in the sitting room by an image he knows will be imprinted in his mind until the day he dies, and perhaps longer than that - Sherlock, back to John as he faces out the window, curls dancing as he moves with the music he plays.

He moves to lean against his chair, content to watch Sherlock and not speak. He doesn’t recognize the tune, but he hazards a guess that’s it’s not classical, and also that it’s not an original composition of Sherlock’s, as he’s developed a feel for the detective’s style. The notes are slightly faster paced than what he normally plays, and a touch more upbeat, a song that sounds as though it probably doesn’t belong on a violin, though Sherlock can adapt anything.

Then Sherlock begins to sing, voice rich and low, something John rarely has the fortune to hear, and he suddenly understands.

When you’re on the outside, baby, and you can’t get in I will show you you’re so much better than you know

Sherlock’s head turns from the window, gaze drifting over John, eyes iridescent with the morning light. John is half aware of the picture he presents - a grown man standing with his mouth open in a shocked smile, tenting his pants, eyes locked onto the man advancing towards him with not a beat missed.

When you’re lost and you’re alone and you can’t get back again I will find you darling and I will bring you home

This is simultaneously the most arousing and most sentimental thing John has ever been witness to. He steps around his chair to bring a hand up to Sherlock’s, the music fading as the strings still. The memory of tears and declarations drawn from Sherlock as John pressed kisses to his skin and buried himself inside him the previous evening burn clear and vivid in his mind, and he tightens his grip on Sherlock’s hand.

“I love you,” he tells Sherlock. “Christ, I love you. And you’d better put that violin down right now.”

Sherlock smiles, radiant and cocky and eager. John barrels him down into his chair as the Strad is set safely aside, their lips meeting furiously, and he can taste everything except doubt.

—

Okay so that was super quick and my heart felt all warm and happy while writing it so yay. Shawley darling I hope you love it. 💖 I’ll tag a couple lovelies who I think might like it!

@the-7-percent-solution @inevitably-johnlocked @beejohnlocked @chrysanthemumsies @shag-me-senseless-watson @johns-posh-boy @just–elope @holmeson @redpeacoat3 @kellpod @sherlock-overflow-error @love-in-mind-palace @loveinthemindpalace @snarrylock @one-thousand-splendid-stars @the-blue-carbuncle @consultingeastwind @depth-of-loyalty-and-love

[vintagemichelle91]

A Little Lesson in Victory

Author’s Note: Rafael took a hard loss, but what happens when he has a victory? Once again, thank you for the feedback! We love hearing from you guys! @rauliskafan and I hope you enjoy this little lesson!

           “You promised, Papi!”

Violetta stomped her foot on the hardwood floor of the home office. Her adorable little pout brought Rafael to his knees and his heart broke in two. She was never one to forget a promise, especially when it came to taking her to ballet class on a Saturday afternoon. That and a banana split with lots of chocolate syrup after he watched her perform her pliés and pirouettes.

“Muñequita, perdoname… but I can’t today. I have so much work to catch up on.” Rafael gestured towards the pile of briefs scattered across his desk. Violetta’s pout intensified and her emerald eyes glistened with tears.

“But you always working!” Violetta cried. He tried to hug her when she shrugged him off. He hated being the cause of her tears.

Just then, Natalia stood by the door with purse, keys, and Violetta’s pink tutu in hand. And a knowing expression crossed her face.

“I know,” he said. “And I’m sorry. I promise that when---”

“Atticus, don’t promise anything right now,” Natalia started with a sad smile. “My verdict aside, I know you won’t focus on anything else until you get another win.”

Rafael was ready to protest when she gave him a quick kiss.

“And I understand,” she whispered. “I’ll do my best to explain as much to our baby ballerina”

Best to listen to his wife’s wise words. As much as he wanted to spend a lovely summer afternoon with his girls, he was well aware that he needed to win this case.

Even if it was proving to be an incredibly frustrating, nearly impossible task.

“How about tonight I read you two stories?” he asked. A little break in between wouldn’t hurt and anything to put a smile back on his little girl’s face before she drifted off into a world of sweet dreams. Violetta stared at her Papi and mulled over the prospect of two tales for the price of one. Her stance shifted slightly, and she finally sighed.

“Okay. I going to hold you to that. And a song.”

Natalia’s smile brightened at her negotiation skills.

“She’s learning from the best.”

Rafael looked away for a moment, still not sure if that was true as he held out his hand. “You have yourself a deal, muñequita.”

“I serious, Papi. No talking shop at bedtime. Only sing,” Violetta warned him as she shook his hand and trudged back to Natalia.

“Ready to go, sweet pea?” Natalia asked.

“I guess… I just go say bye to Harold.” Rafael and Natalia waited and watched her walk out of the room.

“She understands a lot more than I realized,” Rafael commented as he shoved his hands into his pockets. Soon enough, their daughter would understand even more complex things, and in the blink of an eye it would be her first real day of school... then college applications. The idea twisted his heart. If he could keep her small forever, he would.

“Violetta is growing up, Rafael.” Natalia replied.

“Please don’t remind me.”

“I’m not a total fan, either,” Natalia admitted as he gathered her in his arms.

“I hate wasting even a moment,” he said. “But I need my next argument to be untouchable.”

“Even though I took such care of you in the wake of you so-called defeat?” she teased as his mind drifted back to the bath.

“Wait till you see me if I get a guilty verdict, hermosa.”

She giggled excitedly and found his lips. “How is the case going?”

Just like that the spell was broken.

“Don’t ask.”

“But you said you had so much evidence and---”

“Only to realize that it’s not going to do me any good,” he replied. “Not with this jury.”

Natalia sighed and cupped his chin. “Please don’t doubt yourself, Atticus.”

“Tell that to our friend the DA.” The earful from Ward was the least of his problems; it was the complete lack of confidence in his instincts.

“We won’t listen to him,” Natalia said as she eyed the many files on his desk. “You got this… one bad call doesn’t kick you out of the game.”

His lips curled into a smile. “Always the optimist.”

“One of us has to be.” She giggled again as he nuzzled her neck and Violetta’s pitter patter was heard down the hall, coming back into the office and pulling Harold behind her.

She wiped her brow and tugged on Rafael’s legs.

“Harold say she keep you company while you work.” Violetta set her pink hippo friend on the chair in front of his desk.

“Maybe Harold can help me go over my notes?” he asked.

“No, Papi. Harold can’t read yet.” Violetta covered the hippo’s ears with her hands. “Mami have to teach her still.”

“I promise that I will soon, sweet pea. But right now, you have a dancing date.” Natalia lifted Violetta into her arms. “We will bring you back some ice cream, Papi.”

“With lots of chocolate syrup!” Violetta agreed.

“I have the sweetest girls in the world,” Rafael said as he kissed each of them good-bye.

“We on your team, Papi!” Violetta replied as she blew him a kiss, and once they were off he glanced at the hippo.

“Okay, Harold. Let’s try my closing argument. And be sure to let me know if doesn’t ring true.”

When the plush toy stayed silent, he patted her head.

“Now I just have to find a way to get you in the jury box.”

           Monday morning came much too soon for Rafael, and the thought of having to face the hippo-less jury with less than a sure thing had him on edge. Dragging himself out of bed and from Natalia’s side, he hit the shower.

           The entire weekend he tried to think of anything that would make for a solid finish, and so far he had three solutions. But they were murky at best. He made a mental note to pull Liv aside before the trial resumed. Maybe running it by her would trigger something to put him on solid ground.

           If only there wasn’t so much pressure…

           Rinsing the last bit of soap away, Rafael turned off the shower and quietly continued with his morning routine. Natalia deserved to sleep in; after all, she had entertained Violetta the entire weekend so he could focus on the case. Save for the two stories and the song. Which Violetta asked for three times in a row. Guilt pricked away at him as he realized he put them second when they showed him nothing but love.

           And brought him ice cream as he was at his wit’s end.

           “I switched out the white shirt for the striped one. I thought it would play better with the jury,” Natalia said as she smiled and greeted him with a kiss, running her fingers through his hair.

           Rafael pressed his forehead to hers. “You really think I have it in the bag?”

           “I know you do… and if the jury looks the other way then they have no sense of what justice means,” she replied sincerely. The case of the unfortunate intern and her supervisor was a classic case of he said, she said, but in his mind the evidence was clearer than the summer morning just beginning to rise.

           “You should be the judge,” he said.

           “And you would always come out victorious in my courtroom, Atticus,” Natalia sighed as she pulled off the towel and let it pool around their feet. Her hands glided up and down his bare body gently as her lips pressed small kisses along his jawline, his neck, his chest.

           “You are biased, hermosa.” Rafael chuckled.

           “How can I not be?” She whispered into his lips as his arms instantly wrapped around her waist, and he hoped that their moment would last. The idea of leaving her was dreadful.

           “What am I going to do with you?” he asked with mild curiosity. The gleam in her eyes said it all, and he couldn’t help but kiss her again.

           “Win the case and rush home so I can show you my closing argument.” Natalia’s voice was sultry and full of lustful promises.

           “Well in that case, I’ll be in and out of that courtroom so fast…”

           “Ah,” Natalia pulled back slightly and her smile seemed brighter, as if she just found something that she was searching for. “There he is; my confident, determined Atticus.”

           “This was your plan all along?” Rafael asked as his eyebrow arched.

           “And it worked,” Natalia said as she slipped on his shirt, skillfully easing button after button into place.

           “What would I do without you?” he asked, already knowing the answer. Natalia watched as he eased into his slacks with his tie in her hands.

“How about we don’t find out?” she challenged.

           “I like the sound of that.” He smirked as he let her slip on his tie and form a perfect Windsor Knot.

           “And I love the way you look,” she said as she helped him into his jacket, seemingly happy with the suit she hand-picked.

“Go, Atticus. I wish you all the luck in the world.”

“Then what more do I need?”

   Walking out of the courtroom with a triumphant smile on his face, Rafael pulled out his phone and typed a quick message to his wife.

           You were right. The jury came back with a guilty verdict.

           Within seconds, a response lit up his phone.

           Because you presented a solid case, Atticus. I’m so proud of you.

           I don’t deserve all the credit. Harold made for good practice.

           Violetta will be so pleased to hear that.

           Setting his briefcase down on a bench, he exchanged a few quick words with Liv before focusing on his wife.

           Now I’m ready for your closing argument, hermosa.

           His heart fluttered at the thought of what she had in mind, and he was already typing a text to Carmen to let her know that he was calling it a day. But Natalia’s message came through first. A picture of her clad in the sheer black number from Valentine’s Day, her body gracefully sprawled amongst the ivory covers of their bed.

           Ready to present it when you are, Atticus.