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greaterlandscapes · 3 years ago

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My Dean Blunt Rotation aka High Fidelity Left A Bad Taste in My Mouth

For the past 2 to 3 months, my listening habits were teetering to an end; mostly via burnout by spontaneously listening to local artists daily and less likely of a musical discovery drought, whereas my interests of a certain artist or genre hasn't found its, sort of, "eureka", moment per se. I've been feeling less enthusiastic over the things i listen to since my friends have gradually lost their flare when it comes to discovering/exploring untapped parts of the music realm. Thus, in return, my enthusiasm not being reciprocated. It leaves an empty feeling from someone who has been yearning social interaction, may it be media being latched on the topic - it's a feeling that's been guilt-tripping me ever since I was stranded in the other end of the metro. I feel closed off, exposed to the crippling loneliness the lockdown has punished us: a defacto solitary confinement in a national level. Our act of staying online is also an act of staying alive outside.

To be fair though, it's a valid move to not boomerang compliments/gripes over an art you haven't consumed due to someone's autonomy. Your able body being to consume the art you wish to finish with free time is a luxury in of itself. The art is then failed to serve its purpose to reach its goal: You have squiggly lines heading straight to oblivion rather than swirling in the earlobes of a wandering cyber nomad. We, eventually, need to find something that could help us exit, rather than escape, from capital. We, in return, do not shut ourselves from the outside. Instead, we then tend to avoid the stress of protocols and outdoor fascism; Not avoid the indoor liberalism that is eating us alive and online. It's a capital punishment we never knew we signed up for ever since the onslaught of the virus and the state. Art for art's sake is nonexistent now, always has been, it seizes to ever since we went inside. Feeding off of a holographic meatloaf coming from a glowing screen. We have a real-life Karen acting as a nightlight in our rooms.

The COVID lockdown made us listen to music — both for better, for worse. For one, it made us pass most days. You could say the same for any sort of media: film, mixed media art, or whatever pre-Covid activity that sprung up during our time in isolation. For music, however, there was an uptick of new listeners that made others Wheel-of-Fortune the fuck out of their music discoveries in sites like RateYourMusic, Bandcamp, or even Sophie's Floorboard. We've continued to expand and became more open change of opinions and be less of a jackass towards someone else's opinions. On second thought, our opinions have been catalogued, leaving more notes than actual footprints of our previous listens. Our new discoveries made new bands and re-emerging bands, bands who faded to obscurity, crawl back in the surface with newfound interest from younger listeners (ie Panchiko, Jai Paul, and Dean Blunt) and this glowing, previously unseen and unexpected overwhelming support from fans of departed artists (ie SOPHIE, MF DOOM)

For the other, we've hogged gratuitous amounts of media, resulting into losing our primary direction as to how we want to consume our media based on the preconceived notions of what we want in our art. There is goodness in becoming directionless when you think about it, but there comes a cost to our identity as music listeners. Instead, we end up widening our tangents, falling in endless rabbit holes, having zero chances to emerge from the surface. In fact, i refuse to call it a "rabbit hole" instead i'd rather call it a "pipeline" of sorts — transitioning casual music fans into a full on, different, unique versions of themselves that would define them when laws and protocols have eased in the outside world. Our act of staying online has either made most of us break our character or enliven our past selves. The music pipeline is now more apparent, stretching the norms of what was once alienated by a silent majority, but now accepted as an acceptable form of expression. The more music we are exposed to has made casual listeners stranged out or react in ways that our personality have betrayed us or deemed not as acceptable to them. Still, not changing anything that was prominent pre-pandemic. Liberal cop behavior is stronger, now more dangerous than it ever was once perceived by the outside world.

HIGH FIDELITY? NO, THANK YOU.

Imagine a situation inside of a record, pre-pandemic of course, where you do not feel like lifting a record out from the shelf, instead, you window shop just for the sake of windowshopping. Capital and media made us think that going to record shops is a semi-productive activity. The age of discovery has died ever since High Fidelity romanticized and normalized the incelage of horny record diggers. Does this movie age well, yeah sure it does, for old 90s nerds at least. But did it translate well over in the past 20 or more years of events and tragedies that unfolded in pre-9/11 America? No it didn't. It was an age of free expression, only liberals would dream of whenever they take a sip of Guinness beer in their favorite dive bar.

Mind you, over a couple of months ago, it was my only chance in seeing why this movie was the talk of the town back when it was released. There's music, yeah, and attractive leading leadies, yeah, it has everything a 90s kid would love to salivate and drop their gonads over while they watch this movie. I obviously did not live to see the movie on opening day but i could imagine the scent that came out of that movie theater with attendees donning windbreakers and The Who shirts with popcorn dressing stains on their plastic cups. If there was a Filipino counterpart to this movie, i'd bet corporate champions Eraserheads and Rivermaya would soundtrack their music over and have either Tado or have Boy 2 Quizon, but i sense it to age like milk more than it could age like fine wine due to the senseless jokes one can execute in a Cubao or Cartimar record store.

John Cusack is obviously the incel in question here: a damaged, vengeful ex who constantly fails to live his partner's expectations and weaponizes his personality over the situations that has nothing to do with his interests. I spent the entire time being absolutely disgusted over the spineless responses of John Cusack's leading character. The movie then treads on flashbacks with John Cusack's failed relationships and what he could do to move on from each and one of them. If i could stand a SONA for 3 hours then I can't stand John Cusack being the dull entry point to incel, making more reasons why you should hate record store clerks who don't give an iota of shits to someone's inviting rapport. High Fidelity is opium for massive music circle jerks who can't take a single breathe of fresh air or a single quota of touching grass. There's more targeting weak and inferior guys and hot women who dump dumb overconfident dudebros more than the actual "music recs" in the entire movie. The more I think about this movie, the more I realize how our personality is in line towards Dick, the record store being unmercifully dunked on by the movie's two leading characters. He's an angel in the world of cynical bastards, witnessing both demons pitchforking record store customers in the ass while they're purchasing the latest Sonic Youth album.

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I believe that Jack Black, the dark horse of High Fidelity, has a pleasing personality more than an irritating demeanor due to this behavior in the record store. In fact, outside of the record store, Jack Black doesn't seem to take the business is your pleasure act pretty seriously. Unlike John Cusack's character he brought his obsession over involving a record in an important memory/point of his life. There is so much stuff that has happened outside of the record store, so much for Rolling Stone and NME being the bible of music at the time, endlessly christening and shilling artists that believe to become the second coming of the Beatles. The music references here however are treated as fluff than it is a mechanism that would drive the senseless plot forward. If anything, there are events pointed out in the event that doesn't have anything to do with the life of the characters.

If anything, this movie did a great job at capturing the feeling of music bros being dumped on the wayside by a mature set of characters and how their current conditions aren't perfumed by the studios' liking of having to Cinderella story the shit out of a bunch of normal record store owners. The reality is in the reaction of one's social capital being invaded and we're here to witness how those reactions panned out in 2021. This is a villainous depiction of music nerds being the salt of the earth, the bane of all media discussion, still reflective of the insufferable salt of cyberspace found in music forums like 4chan and RYM. High Fidelity is a pipeline of 90s musicology, a dreaded fever dream of an owner waiting for the decade to end, trends ossifying and re-emerged by the hands of nostalgia-savvy individuals. It was, at its time, every music-movie nerd's excuse equivalent of Scott Pilgrim VS. The World. There are memories worth remembering and cherishing, and this movie isn't one of them.

DEAN BLUNT, WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK

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In the past two weeks I've been fancying myself into sitting down and listening to different projects from the ever elusive, UK-based sound artist Dean Blunt. The first time i chanced upon his music wasn't too long ago - albeit a recent one in the time of COVID - was when I randomly stumbled upon his records at a Spotify recommendations section under John Maus (yeah lol i know the implications whenever his name is mentioned) - but then i was enamored by his online presence so quickly I put everything down and dedicated an hour or two researching about this man's music.

Other than the fact that his album "The Redeemer" wasn't the best record to start off in journeying through his discography: ending up disgusted and borderline bored even and I was more likely to lambast this record's aimless, pretentious art-pop inflections. By the end of the day, it was a preference long solidified by his undying fanbase. According to his hardcore fans, the music isn't really music, evaluating it as a free form of sound art, rather than sticking to a structured and conventional cues; the genre is nullified by most analysts of the arts. The growing interest of the general public towards Dean Blunt's pranks and antics have long appealed to my tastes as a chaotic neutral individual. Pranks that are well executed to piss off UK gallery connoisseurs and entertain ironic attendees who'd shit on the art piece rather than participate in it.

More of the resources I've found about Dean Blunt online: numerous aliases and collaborations that lasted around almost 2 decades. The most notable of all them, at least for my money, are either Hype Williams, a duo consisting of Dean and frequent collaborator Inga Copeland, and Babyfather, an art performance parodizing the pirate radio culture in the UK. I have not delved enough in Blunt's body of work to evaluate everything and what i could synthesize from it. For now, I enjoyed it as a form of entertainment. Well, color me impressed because Dean Blunt isn't clowning around, he, in fact, makes blissful and transcendental music from left to right.

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Dean Blunt was the only few artists that made me want to binge on their discography. His movements in his music has attracted this pesky listener who thinks that being mysterious is a plus. I mean, look at me who thinks The Paul Institute, Panchiko, and Burial are the greatest artists that have walked the face of the earth.

The most I've enjoyed from Dean Blunt's discography are his mixtapes and collaborations: preferably his Soul Fire and ZUSHI, both of which were packaged as B-sides or supplemental releases rather than major releases such as the Babyfather project or the Black Metal releases. His knack for blurring the lines between genres still fascinate me as of this writing, and it continues to amaze me how he doesn't seize to compromise his art, he's here to prove a point and it sells quite well despite the lack of direction in his music. Blunt's music has more aggressive and hazy texture than the hollow, wide, soulless structure of art-pop/hypnagogic pop released today. He creates terrains from the rubble of his country's current shortcomings. The music overlaps the actual intentions with abstract concepts, becoming deconstructed down the line. In Babyfather, noise music coincides with Blunt's amateurish rapping. In Black Metal, Blunt isolates himself along with the assisted skeletal guitar playing. Both projects throwing all tropes in a vaccum alongside Blunt, who he himself would sought to become a personification of a musical void.

(Excerpt from the Babyfather album review in TinyMixtapes)

Dean Blunt is an entity that wishes to become one person, but no, this isn't a figure in a specific art form; this isn't Banksy, this isn't Bob Ong, this is made by one person, clearly it is if you listen closely, and it's been entrancing me ever since his presence was felt on the horizons of the internet. Dean Blunt, what the actual fuck.

#dean blunt #high fidelity #music #film #music review #2021 #hype williams #Youtube

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baekchelor · 5 years ago

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𝕕𝕒𝕪𝕤 𝕠𝕗 𝕕𝕖𝕔𝕖𝕡𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟

pairings: George Mackay x reader genre: romantic comedy rating: pg13 synopsis: on the set of his new film, golden boy George Mackay learns a basic human truth: that the heart is deceitful above all things. warnings: slight smut

❝i love the ground under his feet, and the air over his head, and everything he touches and every word he says. I love all his looks, and all his actions and him entirely and all together.❝ ― emily brontë

FOUR | ENDINGS & BEGINNINGS ◄ ᴘʀᴇᴠ

George has six different scripts waiting for him on his red mailbox when he gets back to his apartment building. The tail end of this autumn is a chilly, constant rainfall —one of the coldest London has seen in recent years.

Alma rolls down her window and waves, "Call me if you need anything." She's in the passenger seat of the Range Rover that picked them up from the airport.

"My sister sent over food," George responds. Daisy's text came in shortly after they landed. "I'll survive, Alma."

"That's not what I meant," his manager replies pointedly.

A mob of fans had been queuing in wait at the airport. George knew they were in for the hysterical cries and invasive photography, the obstacle course of thrust-out gifts and feet to trip over. He wished he could have had his last goodbye in peace, a memory in a hushed corner, however brief. But the sheer mass of bodies had been too much to contend with. In the end, he and Y/N were escorted out through separate gates. She took a flight to Los Angeles, he to London.

So again, with only the slightest fluctuation in tone, George says, "I'll survive." Because he and Y/N's friendship remained on good terms, and now that her T.V. Series promotion summoned her to L.A., he will have time to get over his little infatuation. When they see each other again, George's heart won't be able to jeopardize their relationship, and the prize will be to have Y/N in his life forever.

Not even an hour later... his plan goes to shit. George considered himself a man with a strong will. Apparently, when it comes to the girl who stole his heart in Mumbai, his resolution is tossed to the trash. He played London Boy first, then the Heartbreak Prince song, and before he noticed, he had ordered Chinese, simmered his ass on the sofá, and listened to Taylor Swift's entire discography as thoughts of Y/N, Mumbai and the way she makes him feel invaded his mind.

It takes almost a month for George to meet up with Dean, who's finally back from his filming schedule in France.

They kept in touch via texts. Dean asked for advice in certain scenes, described his character and his approach to him, and narrated funny anecdotes on set. In turn, George told him about Mumbai in vague, emotionless terms. He's had no contact with Y/N since they got back to their real life, and instead of making him forget, it filled him with a deep sense of loss. George partially blames Taylor Swift for that, but he doesn't tell Dean. It would be too humiliating, especially since George has never been lovesick before. The feeling is persistent and tactile, and terribly unsettling.

Today, they're at Dean's flat, smack dab in the centre of Soho. Dean has got his head bent over his phone, reading some table nonsense to not lose the habit. George nurses an iced coffee he ordered from UberEats and delves upon the fact he doesn't even like Taylor Swift's music yet his phone automatically play her songs whenever it is connected to Bluetooth.

George still holds out hope that he's going through a phase. A Y/N induced phase. Maybe, sometime soon, it will pass.

"You okay, Geo?" Dean is looking at him with concern.

George blinks, and he realizes belatedly that his friend is no longer at the table. He's standing by the water dispenser in the kitchen.

"I'm just thinking," George says dismissively, eking out a smile. He doesn't want to talk about this.

Dean smiles back, understanding, but he refuses to cave. Once his glass of water is filled, he returns to the table, and with a sigh, he asks: "Have you read the news lately?"

"No, not recently." George drums his fingers over the table. They produce a dull sound. "Why?"

"I'll show you," Dean says, handing the phone with a window open in a gossip article that headlines Henry Cavill and Y/N Y/L/N had ended their long term relationship. This time for good.

George's mouth quirks, "I see."

Pressing his elbows to the table, Dean nestles his face between cupped palms. "What are you gonna do about it?"

"About what?"

Dean's eyebrows slope and George traces the wood grain of the table with his fingertip. "You could be happy, you know? If you tell her," Dean addresses him openly.

There's that all-too-familiar twinge again; a heartstring plucked. "You don't know that," George bites the inside of his cheek. "We never even..." He trails off, and of course, he remembers: Y/N's fingers lacing into his, Y/N's warm body wrapped around his… Y/N's mouth, slick and soft and open for a kiss.

"That doesn't mean nothing happened," Dean mutters. "I know you, George. I know how much you're keeping from me. Your texts were dead giveaways if anything at all. Do you know how sad you look right now?" That word, again. "It's the first thing I noticed when you came in. I've never seen you like this. Like you're lost, or something." He puts his hand on the back of George's chair. "You realize everything's changed, don't you? And it's never going to go back to the way it was, no matter how much you force the issue?"

"What do you want me to do, Dean?" George says, feeling caged and itching with defensiveness. "Throw away our friendship, this special bond we have for an infatuation? For all I know, she can only think of me as a friend. Nothing else." He's embarrassed by the tremor in his voice. "I don't even know what I'm doing, pining over a girl like this, and she and I —we never discussed what this was, between us. And it's like you're asking me to risk it all, our friendship, Daisy, my peace of mind, so I can try for something uncertain with, with..." He hasn't said her name in a while, so his tongue stumbles over it. "Y/N."

"Yes." The word is as solemn as a prayer. "Because, clearly, you don't love Daisy, you never had, that's why things between you were nothing but a fling. You love Y/N. It's not just an infatuation."

George breathes silently, heavily, staring at the table.

The next words that come out of Dean's mouth are gentle, designed to coax, not provoke, "You have to stop torturing yourself, George. It's just making you miserable."

"Dean..."

"Listen," he sighs, clearly exasperated. "You say you don't want to put your friendship with Y/N at risk, but you already did. You're losing her in every fucking way possible. You haven't talked to her in weeks. Right now, you two are as close as strangers. All because you're scared."

"I am not scared. I am rational."

"You are not, Mackay. And you need to realise it."

They would've most likely kept going in circles if friends-with-benefits Daisy hadn't chosen that moment to text George. He replies because he wants a distraction and needs reassurance that what he is doing is the right thing to do, but the words of a dinner date and romantic plans sting nonetheless because it's something George wants with Y/N and can't have.

When George leaves the apartment, promising Dean to meet on Sunday for a match of Call Of Duty, the latter looks over and asks for George's well being.

George pulls up a smile to reassure him, but it's acted, and he knows it. All he can think about is that barely-there brush of lips in a hotel bed, that Thank you for Mumbai, that last look at the crowded airport, that question Y/N never asked him fading away like so many summer days.

It takes another four more months after that, and up until the very end, George vacillates between doing it and not doing it, making up his mind only to change it again at the last minute. But when he finally ends things with Daisy, it's almost like she's prepared for it.

They're sitting in her car, in somewhere's basement parking lot. Daisy doesn't have a speck of makeup on. It makes her look younger, more fragile.

"I wondered who was going to end it first," she says, thumbing at the steering wheel. "I thought it might be better if it was me. Maybe it would hurt less." She shrugs, and a lock of hair falls over her shoulder.

"I'm so sorry," George mumbles. He brushes it back, out of habit, before he realizes he doesn't have the right to do that anymore. His hand recoils. "I never wanted to hurt you."

She shrugs again, but her mouth twists this time. It's a defence mechanism. "I shouldn't be this upset. We weren't dating, you didn't love me, and since day one you made it clear you didn't seek for commitment," George can't stand the look on her face —one of pure defeat. "I told myself so many times that I could win you over. For a while, I was convinced I would actually get you to love me. There used to be this shiny little space in your eyes, reserved just for me... but when I visited you in Mumbai, I'd already been replaced without even knowing why."

"Daisy..."

"Do you really think I believe you want to end this because of your agenda, George?" she murmurs. Her laugh is brittle, like clattering metal. "Don't lie to me. I know it is because of Y/N." Her lip trembles, so she sucks it into her mouth.

She had known, after all. And she's angry, of course, she is. George deceived her. The shame of it makes his stomach roil with acid.

"Daisy," he entreats her, "She never...we never...I didn't..."

"It's worse that way," she hisses back at him. "It's even worse." She doesn't expound, but George understands her perfectly: a betrayal of the heart, not of the body.

When she adds, "I always knew you would fall in love. I just thought it would be with me," the blood rushes straight to George's head.

"I am not —I am. I don't know," George answers helplessly. He's dizzy, and he feels naked. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"I loved you so much," unrelenting, she whispers. A plump tear rolls down her cheek, followed swiftly by another. She draws herself up; proud as the Ophelia she plays in the theatre. "I don't want to see you anymore. Not anywhere. Delete my number. Delete our pictures. Don't bother sending back anything I've left at your place —you can have it all. Throw it out, if you want. I don't care."

George thought he'd been prepared for the consequences. He didn't realize it would feel like he was tied to a whipping post, his back exposed, as Daisy's words lashed him again and again.

The worst part is that she probably feels the same kind of pain, too.

"Why couldn't you love me?" she shakes out. Her cheeks are wet.

And George doesn't care if she hits him, doesn't care if she bruises his chest and his face with her balled-up fists that still smell like the coconut in her lotion. He reaches across the passenger's seat, pushing right past the boundaries he'll have to observe from now on, and he envelops her in a fierce, hopeless embrace.

She cries silently, her tears and sobs suffusing his shirt with damp heat. He holds her through the whole thing, knowing full well it will be another one of those last times until, after a long spell, she calms.

"I did care for you," George says then, tenderly, his voice breaking. "How could I not?"

Her entire face gentles, just a moment, before the softness is gone; the keenness of fresh heartbreak taking its place.

Daisy nods, perfunctory, and looks away.

When the door on his side unlocks with a quiet click, George knows she's telling him to go.

The bitter afternoon turns worse as George settles down on his couch, back at his apartment. His phone rings with a notification from Dean claiming it is better if Georges hears such news from him. A link is attached, and as soon as George opens it, he feels his heart rip apart.

All along, Dean was right. The time spent worrying over Dev Patel and Henry Cavill was a waste. He never saw Luke Hemmings coming, the thought didn't even cross George's mind, and now Luke and Y/N had been spotted together. Several times.

They went to Trader Joe's, left the store with bags of organic food and bottles of pink lemonade. They spent a weekend in San Francisco, Luke's nails painted red, and his fingers resting on the small of Y/N's back. They shared a cigarette at Sunset Strip, outside some old bar 80's rockstars use to hang out at. It annoyed George the most. She smokes with Luke but refused George's cigarettes the many times she came along to watch him poison his lungs with nicotine.

Dean was right.

Taylor Swift is right too, it feels like death by a thousand cuts. There's no use to get drunk, it won't be enough, he knows it. George pretended it was okay for so long when it isn't. The morning will come, and Y/N won't be his baby, won't be his friend. She is Luke Hemmings', and it is all George's fault.

At the pre-screening party for Dharma, two days before the film is slated for release, George finally sees Y/N again.

It's been months since Mumbai, months since Daisy, months since Luke Hemmings and months since they've had any sort of contact.

George's dyed his hair chestnut in preparation for a new role. Tonight, he wears eyeliner under his eyes (it reminds him of those days he filmed Hamlet) and a leather jacket. Greta thought it would be fun to throw a rock-themed party, she hired a band to perform live and required the dress-code to be inspired by the Age of Rock.

Y/N is wearing a black chain embellished mini skirt, a white turtleneck underneath a fucking 5SOS t-shirt, and she's, again, hanging off Luke Hemming's arm. His hair is a blond silk sheet draped over his forehead, and his lips hover close to Y/N's ear, speaking into it confidingly. It gives George a pang, right in the centre of his chest.

There's no avoiding each other. Not when Y/N is looking at him, all smiles and excitement, and she excuses herself from the conversation with Luke, Timotheé Chalamet and Florence Pugh to run straight towards George. He is tongue-tied, yearning, and all he manages is a lame nod that suits neither him nor the object of his affections. Y/N stops right in her tracks.

"George." Not London Boy, neither Heartbreak Prince. It sounds unnatural.

"Y/N," he replies. Not Gorgeous. "It's been a while."

They shake hands, and George is satisfied with that, but Y/N encircles her arms around his neck, hugging him as tight as George had wanted to hug her all those months they spent apart.

"I missed you," she says, a whisper. If only she knew how much George missed her, and the lengths he went to get her out of his head. He tried to hang out with new people, meet new girls. Hell, he even went out with his ex-girlfriend Doone. Twice.

Before George can be honest, his body tingling from the embrace, Luke greets him. He is polite and keeps things as brief as possible, but George forgets about him immediately after. Y/N is here, right here, within his grasp. She's with a handsome man, and it's been so long, and George is afraid she's forgotten all about their time in Mumbai. But there it is —that blessed, steadfast question flickering behind Y/N's orbs, and George clings to it like a port in a storm.

The moment Luke excuses himself to the stage (he will bless every guest with a song —George want to roll his eyes at it), the atmosphere shifts between them. She attentively waits for Luke to start singing; everybody is cheering and excited, and people let out awe sounds when Luke strums the first chords of Eye In The Sky. Of course, he would sing such a hit. Of course, his voice sounds perfect, and George grows embarrassed over his two songs from the Been So Long soundtrack. Of course, he feels, once more —The first time was when he walked inside and Here I go Again blasted on the speakers—, attacked by a song tonight.

"How've you been?" Y/N murmurs, eyes trained on a point across the room. The stage. "We haven't spoken to each other since we got back." She licks her lips into a cautious smile.

George follows the movement closely. "I ended things with Daisy," he says. Just like that.

"Did you?" The smile falters. "I mean if that is what you wanted... I'm —I'm glad..." If George hadn't spent so much time with Y/N before they stopped spending so much time together, he would have missed the subtle quake in the girl's voice. "How are you holding up?"

"Better." George looks over at her. He doesn't mean he felt terrible because of Daisy, and now he is better. George is better now because she's here, near him. "It was a big mess, but now I feel free." He licks his lips too because they've gone dry. And then he catches it —Y/N's gaze darting quickly to his mouth.

He places his hand on Y/N's thigh. It tenses, just for a second, before giving in. George realizes, at this exact moment, when Luke sings about how he can read someone's mind by just looking at them, that he can read Y/N's mind, and gaze, and body language, and he knows what Y/N has wanted to ask him. He's just been a coward.

"That's good," she exhales. "I'm glad."

Well, he won't be a coward anymore.

"We should talk," George says, voice pitched low. "You should come over to my suite, and we should catch up."

"Tonight?" her limbs tense again, muscles shifting under George's palm.

"If you like." George wants and wants and wants. "But only if you haven't got anything planned with your boyfriend."

"He's not my boyfriend," Y/N tells him, and George knows there's an unspoken yet in her words. His heart skips a hundred beats. He still got a chance. He can still get the girl. And he can't wait for this party to be over.

"I'll come over tonight," Y/N agrees. "After this, whenever it ends. Wait for me." She passes her hand over the one George's resting on her thigh. Every meeting of skin on skin is a promise. George wants to hear it out loud for once.

"Perfect," the last of George's fingertips traces over her knuckles. Luke is weaving his way back through applauses and clinking champagne flutes.

"All right then, Geo."

George French-exit at ten, because he just can't sit still any longer. Plus, parties ain't something he is kneen of, they are a part of his job, and he has to endure it as much as filming in cold-ass water. He didn't even attend The Oscar's after-party, to begin with. Tonight he decided to come along because he wanted to see her, be near Y/N at least one more time. If everything goes well after midnight, he will lay eyes on the girl of his dreams forever. It gives George hope.

He squeezes his way out of a cluster of guests and quickly pulls Y/N aside.

"I'll see you around midnight," she whispers. George's thumb traces soothing little circles into the underside of her wrist.

"Midnight." He feels the skinship all over his body, like concentric ripples of water. "I'll be waiting."

George is wearing sweats now, showered, changed, and just...ready. His bangs are flopping into his eyes (he grew his hair for the same role he dyed it, and it is long enough for him to tie it in a small bun at the back of his head). With arms exposed to the warmth radiating from the fireplace, George rests on the duvet in front of it, staring at the flames and cursing himself for blowing it out of proportion. The fact he has felt blue since Mumbai is his own doing, and taking such responsibility, is what tells him this love is worth the fight.

The clock on his wrist reads half-past twelve. It's not that he is afraid Y/N won't come —although the thought of it makes him lose his mind. It's that the build-up to this moment has been torturously slow, achingly indefinite and he just hopes this thing, whatever it is, works out the way he wants it to. Which is Y/N, telling him that her heart belongs to him, that they'll be just fine.

It's a quarter to one when the doorbell sounds. On the other side of the door, Y/N's face is exhausted. "I'm sorry. I couldn't get away until now."

"It's fine," he says, stepping aside so she can come in. "You've never been late before."

Y/N slides off her jacket at the entrance. She's still in her party outfit, and even though she's still wearing that damn 5SOS t-shirt, George has never seen anybody look so perfect. Perfect for him, especially.

He doesn't know what his body is telling his brain, but suddenly he's reaching out and curling his fingers into Y/N's hair.

Both freeze on the spot, unsure of their actions. When she looks up, George's ocean eyes are perilously wild.

"I don't wanna lose this with you," he says.

And finally, velvet-toned and whisper-soft, she asks: "How do you feel about me?"

George is standing in the portal of the foyer, a step above her. Barefoot, in a tanktop, shutting the door close. This is it, he intones, brimming with everything he's kept to himself all these months. Finally.

"How do I feel?" he mumbles, more to himself than anyone else. Then he rests his forehead against Y/N's, his hand cupping her face with such love, if they were still filming Dharma, Greta would have gone nuts. He once told Y/N that James and Marina's love seemed out of this world, and now, he understands them. He feels such. "I'm in love with you."

All the resistance seeps out of Y/N's body —a vapour, escaping. Her shoulders sag in relief. Her expression softens, turns bittersweet.

They've wasted so much time.

"That's good to know," she breathes out, shaky "because I am in love with you too."

It's George who steps forward and presses her against the wall. Y/N is ready for him, craning up, so their lips latch together like magnets. At first is gentle, soft, almost fearful, but it slowly morphs into a kiss hot and heavy, deep and merciless. They breathe in through their nostrils, so they don't have to stop kissing. There are no polite introductions, no tentative licks against the seams of their mouths. She opens up for him willingly, without being asked. Their tongues circle in a primal dance and George gets completely drunk off of it, plunging in for more.

The sound it pulls out of her makes George kiss her harder. He takes one hand from where it's tangled in Y/N's hair and trails it down her neck, her shoulder, her chest, and back around to her bum. When he creeps a hand under the skirt to palm her legs all the way up to her smooth back, the girl breaks away for air.

"Do you know," George rasps, "how crazy you make me?"

"Do I?" The question isn't provocative, is innocent. Y/N really is clueless about how she makes him feel.

"You're making me jealous all the time," George mutters. He pushes their hips closer together, and they both let out sibilant gasps.

"I thought you were in love with her. When you brought her over." Y/N is trying to regain control, but George presses in to make her shudder. "Thought it was over between us."

"It was never over." George tugs at Y/N's bottom lip with his teeth then lave over the spot with his tongue. "My body is mine, my lips and skin as well. But I am not. I am yours."

On cue, Y/N slips a hand under his tank. Her fingers meander over the grooves of George's abs, searing the skin. "Your body is yours, your lips are yours, your skin is yours. And I am. Yours," she murmurs, chest heaving.

George shuts his eyes. It feels so good. All of it. He brushes his thumb, feather-light, over her lips. His voice is dangerous, "What parts of you?"

"Everywhere," when she answers, George pulls the girl flush against him, peeling away from the wall so he can walk them both in the direction of his bedroom. Y/N lets him lead the way, as she sucks at the side of his neck. She's going to leave marks at this rate —a row of dark red roses—, and fuck it, he wants her to, so he can see the evidence of their mutual longing tomorrow. Y/N feels George's heat and his strength, there, between her legs, and it's enough to make her shudder. "Everywhere."

They don't say it while they're naked, writhing at every touch to uncharted territory, sweating from their exertions towards climax as they come together as one.

George does say, "I didn't look at anyone else since I saw you," and Y/N whispers, " I didn't think of anyone else since I thought of you."

They say it in the daylight, over the pot of coffee Y/N brews and the out-of-a-magazine waffles she blushes at when she sheepishly serves it to George, sprinkled by powdered sugar and syrup.

"Hey," George says, pushing around the berries. She's sitting on his lap, wearing his shirt, his scent on her skin, and George feels in heaven. "I love you."

He strokes the side of her face, slowly, sweetly, shyly, until the two of them are blushing. He suspects this is one of those moments he will carry around with him like a photo in a locket —a small and lovely secret.

"And I love you, Geroge Mackay," she says in return. "More than anybody else."

►

A/N: aaaand, that’s it. Hope you enjoy it. Next week I will post the Epilogue and the heartfelt message for all of you who have read this. Lots of love. xx

#did u see the captain fantastic easter eg?? haha #George mackay #dean charles chapman #Luke hemmings #Henry cavill #william schofield #schofield #Thomas blake #blake #1917

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eveningclouds · 4 years ago

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tlgad anon idk if u will see this coz u sent this this morning but i have ur mssg belowww i just copy/pasted it so i could put it under a readmore and also respond to it w more ease :P

I personally love tlgad because she’s telling someone else’s story, but she connects it back to herself in a way that’s unexpected but really fits. I don’t mind self-references— in fact, I tend to prefer the more obviously personal songs because nobody else can write them. The story-telling is top notch, and the build up during the bridge to “and then it was bought by me” is just perfect.

i think we both agree that it’s interesting how she ties the speaker’s story to that of someone else!! i also appreciate the storytelling aspect of this song. i think my issue of it has more to do with the mechanics (i don’t think it utilizes repetition as well as it could, for example)

Also, I love how subtly it deals with the topic of sexism. The Man is great, but since the sexism in tlgad isn’t the main focus (or it is, but it’s within a greater story) it has more of an impact, at least for me. Like, the way Rebekah is judged for marrying into a rich family or already having a failed marriage (“how did a middle class divorcée do it?), and how the town is constantly criticizing her but masking it with a compliment (“the wedding was charming, if a little gauche,” “their parties were tasteful, if a little loud”). Also, their insults to her: they call her mad and shameless, the latter of which is a word often used to describe women who don’t try to conform to society’s expectations. And the Bitch Pack— which was a real thing Rebekah’s friend group called themselves. The town uses that name as an insult, as you can hear in Taylor’s voice as she sings. They can’t stand that she’s bringing all her city friends to this exclusive area. They mock her for her use of finances: “blew through the money,” “losing on card game bets” (not that she’s playing cards, not that she’s gambling, but that she’s losing). You just feel their judgment throughout the entire song, without Taylor ever saying “they judged her.” And yet, Rebekah doesn’t stop. She embraces the Bitch Pack name, she keeps filling the pool with champagne and swimming with the big names. She even bites back at her judgmental neighbors (dying the cat dog key lime green). But neither is she painted as a crazy woman without feelings: the line about how she can be “seen on occasion, pacing the rocks, staring out at the midnight sea” evokes feelings of grieving contemplation, especially once you’ve heard hoax (“stood on the cliff side screaming give me a reason”). It’s affecting her even if she doesn’t want to show it. When Taylor shows up at the end, it’s as if she’s keeping to Rebekah’s legacy. It’s actually very similar to The Lucky One from Red— she’s telling someone else’s story (this time that of a celebrity that came before her) before connecting it to her life during the bridge. However, in The Lucky One, Taylor wishes she could follow in her muse’s footsteps (“you took the money and your dignity and got the hell out”) but can’t, because her name is up in lights— she’s been ensnared by Hollywood society. In tlgad, she’s not trapped anymore: instead, she follows Rebekah’s example of rejecting it all and having marvelous time ruining everything.

agreeeee w all of this; i especially like what u said about the gambling & the bridge!!! i’m very gnsjdfhjfdaja about. the way taylor talks about & writes about feminism tbh but this is def one of her better ones considering the topic imo

i think this is what i mean by self referential though, where it sort of ... requires? you to have a broader understanding of the artist’s discography/album in order to understand the song. i think that that’s def sth rly cool & i love when songs build off of each other, but i think that this song specifically is markedly weaker when listened to in isolation compared to the other songs off of folklore because it is so reliant on external context. idk if this makes sense because i just finished writing an essay for another class and i’m tired ndsfjdjkfhd...like i feel as if there is a difference between personal songs (i love those too!!) & overly self referential songs which risk either being too on the nose or weaker out of context ykwim

This turned out much longer than I intended lol. I love this song— I literally printed out the lyrics and annotated it like poetry when it first came out and have done a close reading on the bridge for the fun of it. It’s so good. But thanks for coming to my Ted Talk 😅

thank you for writing all of this it’s so cool 2 hear peoples’ opinions on songs!!!! & omg...ur mind...i really appreciated reading this, i loved ur insight on the feminist aspect of the song & the way you connected it to the lucky one because i never considered the latter (& will def relisten to that song again)!!

#i Do like the song it does a good job of a lot of things (which i talked abt in a previous ask so i didn't say again #so as not to be redundant)#mail #taylor swift

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malcolmfm · 5 years ago

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* 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐨 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 , i hope u are all doing fabulous . my name is 𝐤𝐨𝐝𝐲 , & i can’t even begin to explain how excited i am to be a part of this group . i come from the 𝐩𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐳𝐨𝐧𝐞 , my pronouns being 𝐬𝐡𝐞 / 𝐡𝐞𝐫 . i am so happy & so fortunate to be able to write with you all , as all your characters are just amazing . if any of u are interested in plotting & becoming the best of friends , please give this post a 🖤 to consent to an endless love spam in ur ims .

new york’s very own malcolm ‘ mac ’ dunn was spotted on broadway street in converse chuck taylor’s . your resemblance to joe keery is unreal . according to tmz , you just had your twenty - fourth birthday bash . while living in nyc , you’ve been labeled as being contumacious , but also jocular . i guess being a taurus explains that . three things that would paint a better picture of you would be comic filled bookshelves , roughed up sneakers , and laughter floating through a room .

tw ﹕ depression , suicide attempt .

* 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥 .

𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 ﹕ malcolm ronan dunn . 𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 ﹕ mac , mac daddy ( no one calls him this , he calls himself this 🙃 ) , mac attack . 𝐚𝐠𝐞 ﹕ twenty - four . 𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐡 ﹕ may thirteenth . 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 / 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐬 ﹕ cismale / he ﹕ him . 𝐬𝐞𝐱𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 ﹕ heterosexual . 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 ﹕ heteromantic . 𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 ﹕ american . 𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐲 ﹕ irish , english , scottish . 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐫 ﹕ malcolm first began his career as an actor during his teenage years with michael cera’s filmography . he has starred in films that include juno , superbad , nick & norah’s infinite playlist , & scott pilgrim vs . the world . since he had the opportunity to help write & produce songs for the spvtw soundtrack , this eventually led to his transition from acting to becoming a musician , claiming twenty one pilots as his sound . currently he has only released the album blurryface , & has recently concluded the blurryface tour . presently , he is now writing & producing songs for his upcoming album , trench . 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐩𝐨 ﹕ chandler bing friends , ron weasley harry potter , star - lord guardians of the galaxy , steven hyde & michael kelso hybrid that 70s show , scott pilgrim scott pilgrim vs . the world , jim halpert the office , cody ko youtube , beast boy teen titans , steve harrington stranger things .

* 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 .

malcolm ronan dunn is the first born of derrick & vivian dunn , that alone creating a set sum of high expectations for the male descendent . being the genesis of what would eventually be a very famed family , it entails great pressure of being the eldest . being the offspring of a prominent actor during the 80s turned car mogul & one of the most exceptional astrophysicists of this decade , it was said that malcolm was destined to be an extension of their talents . his childhood was as ordinary as any other , attending school & having juvenile interests . . though one prominent influence in his life was music . ever since he was a baby , a set of hazel hues twinkled & cheeks were perked by harmonies that would liven up a room . by the time he was eight years old , he had already been familiar with all of queen’s discography & can partake in a discussion of how music truly defines our society .

advancing several years ahead , malcolm reaching the ripe age of sixteen , it was then he set his sights on becoming an actor . by the time he had made this realization , he had already been writing music of his own & had become what many would consider an expert drummist . however , music was subsided as a hobby for the time being , as his parents insisted that is what it was meant to be , just a hobby . his parents , his father in particular , was very ecstatic to hear that his son’s interests in becoming an actor . with the vast amount of connections he accumulated during his cinematic years , it had only took a single phone call for malcolm to star in his very first film . a quality in which almost anyone who had known mac is how effortlessly comical the boy was , & could light up just about any crowd with vivacious laughter . the boy’s innately jocular mannerisms is what landed him in his first role as evan in the seth rogan production of superbad . this film would end up being one of malcolm’s most prominent roles in his acting career , alongside scott pilgrim . following his comedic role , he starred as paulie bleeker in the romantic drama juno , which would be his first role in the romantic genre . the project that quickly followed afterward was nick & norah’s infinite playlist , leading as nick in a romance accompanied with comedy . after receiving roles back to back , his name began to rise up in day - to - day conversations , especially amongst younger audiences . he accumulated a vast & very dedicated following , all expressing their adoration for the boy & his charmingly dorkish demeanor . once he hit the age of eighteen , it was then when he landed on what would be his final role in a film , for at least awhile . the media was in a frenzy once it was revealed that malcolm would be portraying scott pilgrim in the upcoming picture , scott pilgrim vs . the world , based on the graphic novel series by bryan lee o'malley . malcolm would consider this role to be his personal favorite , as he was already a devout fan of the graphic novels to begin with , so being able to portray one of his most favorite fictional characters . . a dream , he’d say . not only was the spvtw production his favorite because of his role , but because of the heavy influence music had in the film . he was fortunate enough to be able to write & perform on the soundtrack , along the side of the best song writers in the industry . this is what ultimately led to his decision to transition from acting to becoming a musician , & his involvement in this film is what made many people realize that malcolm was quite the virtuoso .

tw ﹕ depression , suicide attempt .

when malcolm had settled on becoming a musician , his mental state began to gradually decline once he revealed this ambition to his parents . to say the least , they were not very supportive of his shift in careers , especially on what career he was shifting onto . considering malcolm did not have much going for him academically , this alone had concerned his parents . being an actor was what they considered to be stability for him , so to be presented with this news was dismaying on their behalf . the pair genuinely had exhibited zero faith in their son becoming a successful musician , & had forewarned him that there were thousands of talented musicians , essentially raising the question ﹕ ❛ what makes you think you will be good enough to make a living out of this ? ❜ . malcolm felt dispirited by his parents lack of encouragement , as well as faith in himself , to pursue the one thing he has been passionate about since the days of his youth . eventually , the voices in his head began to deter him from fulfilling his passion , & convincing him that he has amounted to a failure . among other contributing factors , malcolm eventually slipped into a deep depression for several months . his days would be spent lying in bed , in a state of restlessness , often skipping meals for the fact that he genuinely did not feel like nourishing his body . the mental state he was exhibiting was so detrimental , that his own life began to be at risk . there would be days where he would wonder what would come from ingesting more pills than what he was prescribed , or having his head remain sunk beneath his bath water for more than a few minutes . on one evening in particular , he decided to test his theory , as he had been sprawled upon the tiles of his bathroom , a capsule of his medication clutched within his palm , ebony hues ascended onto the ceiling in what he believed would be his final moments . he was in too deep . . convinced that there was no light at the end of this tunnel . though fortunately enough , his younger sister , discovered him at just the right time & immediately demanded that he receives help .

end trigger warning .

after several months of therapy , the virtuoso had begun feeling tremendously better , his mental wounds somewhat healed though not entirely . during his dark times , he managed to get some writing done , the various pieces which would eventually be released as his first official album , ��titled blurryface . by the time he had turned twenty two , the album made its debut & became one of the most streamed albums of the year , & won a grammy for top rock album of the year , along with many other achievements . his most popular tracks off the album include stressed out , ride , tear in my heart , & we don’t believe what’s on tv . his second album , trench , is currently in production & will be releasing singles when the time calls for it . while his depression hasn’t been entirely rid of , he a majority of the time is content with the way life is going .

* 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 .

as mentioned before , he is the most comical guy , & often uses humor as a coping mechanism . you are likely to hear him crack a joke at inappropriate times , & find him laughing in scenarios that make him uncomfortable . he often gets himself into trouble for this , naturally . malcolm has a very robin williams - esque to him , where making others laugh & feel happy to be one of his favorite past times . however , you would never suspect that someone so animated would be suffering from depression . admittedly , he has improved since the evening his sister discovered him , but of course , it still continues to creep its way back into his mental . he doesn’t like to talk about what had happened , & it was hidden from the press entirely so he wouldn’t be pitied or constantly reminded of that night . he tends to avoid the topic of it altogether . the man is one of the most loyal people you could ever meet , & would do absolutely anything for those he loves . his sister , markelle , being a prime example of this . he loves his family more than he loves himself , & prioritizes their well being before his own . he often kept his depression disclosed from them , as well as his friends , for he genuinely did not want anyone to be concerned , in spite of having a reason to be . he is always willing to be the hero in someone else’s story , but never his own , which is probably the most heartbreaking yet beautiful aspect about him . he would sacrifice his own life if it meant that the people who he cared about would be safe , & exhibits bravery in any conflict he finds himself in . to those who don’t know him personally , or even people that do , they would simply describe him as a happy go lucky guy who is constantly seeking an adventure .

malcolm is the kind to downplay his achievements , exhibiting a humble attribute , & is truthfully touched by anyone who enjoys his work . having been told that his work always lifts someone’s spirits when they are down , or his films being involved in the most memorable moments in a person’s life . . that shit means the absolute world to him , & gives him a feeling that he would want to live on for a lifetime . the man loves music , & incorporates music in his life on the daily , for it has the biggest influence on him . his stage presence is truly fucking awesome , for you are truly getting your money’s worth by attending a concert of his . he feels alive & a rush when he is standing before thousands of people , & his faith in the world is always restored when he hears the crowd sing in unison as he performs . there is nothing he loves more than music , & music is an element of what makes him who he is . he is extremely supportive of those who pursue music , or anything , really . he has an understanding & admiration for those who are super passionate about their craft . however , he certainly has his unfavorable qualities as well , & we have to keep it 100 in this house . the guy can be an absolute juvenile when he wants to be , & you almost forget that you are dealing with a twenty four year old in conversation at times . his inner child can get the best of him at times , so he may handle certain situations inappropriately . not only that , he can be incredibly stubborn . varying on the cause , if he is adamant about something , he will disregard the opinions of what anyone has to say about it , even if they are looking for his best interest . in spite of all his achievements , he still can be incredibly insecure with himself or his work , & is his own worst critic . considering he isn’t academically acclaimed , he can be a bit dense . . sometimes it’s frustrating , for you genuinely wonder if he utilizes any brain power . sarcasm is one of his many defense mechanisms , & he can be pretty blunt when he wants to be , something offensive slipping from his lips & likely not even acknowledging how insulting it may sound .

#so . fucking . LONG .#i am SO sorry .#my fingers are in pain ODIFJVDOFV .#but hi everyone ily !#let me love u down !#wealthyhq:intro

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identityexcavationstation · 5 years ago

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The High Fidelity Remake is Good and my Identity is Irreversibly Linked to Music Consumption

Hi! So, I’m kinda insane about playlists.

This year I’ve made a lot of them. They’ve been short and snappy on index cards, scanned and pasted in a book and uploaded to the internet. (I’ve really fallen in love with index card playlists and they’re my thing now and I think everyone should do them always and forever.) They were easy to churn out as a retrospective exercise because the music I listened to as a teenager really defined my high school experience. Also, I have most of my favorite songs from that period in a very dramatic playlist I started in 2014 so it was really a game of copy-and-paste.

Making these smol boys in batches has been a really peculiar experience because for years now, I’ve only made one playlist at a time. In my second semester of college, I’d officially burned myself out listening to only CHVRCHES for three months and began venturing elsewhere. (Don’t get me wrong, CHVRCHES absolutely bangs, but you can only listen to “Never Ending Circles” so many times before getting seasick.) All of the random songs I was listening to made me feel kinda hazy and purple, like I’d done all of this before. So I made a playlist full of them and called it “Deja Vu.”

I added to it all semester, and then suddenly it was summer and I didn’t feel purple and hazy anymore⁠—everything was blue and crisp on the way to South Haven as my friend blasted “Settle Down” by Kimbra in her beat-up Honda. So I started a new playlist and named it the first word that popped into my head: “Roots.”

Using Deja Vu as a rubric, I developed some ground rules for the playlists I would go on to create. They are pretty nonsensical but also exceedingly firm because if I don’t make rules for every area of my life I feel like I’m falling into a deep and limitless void. Health! Anyway, the rules are:

The playlist’s title has to be a short noun (seven letters maximum).

This has since transformed into a noun that is also a verb.

To generate a title, I ask myself what short word I would use to describe the phase of life I’m currently in. The answer comes quickly and reflexively, and I choose the very first word I think of.

One song per artist, no repeats!

Exceptions are made for artists who are featured on a track.

There have been times when I’ve obsessively listened to a whole album or an artist’s entire discography, so I have to choose just one song that represents the very best of that album or artist.

Tracks are added chronologically, based on when I first hear them and/or start listening to them compulsively.

The playlist has to contain an amount of tracks that is divisible by five.

If a song in a playlist is deleted from Spotify, I have to find a replacement asap that is accurate to what I was listening to when that playlist was being created.

and, most importantly,

I can’t make a new playlist until I feel I’m finished with the current one.

These playlists represent seasons of my life, cycles in which I change and evolve and stagnate and fuck up and try again. The only rule I have for beginning a new playlist is that I feel done with the current one—those songs are a little stale and don’t represent me anymore. These “seasons” don’t have any set length, and I can never predict when I’ll feel like a new being who needs new songs to define her. So far, my life has looked like this:

Deja Vu - 176 days (12.03.16 - 05.28.17) Most common lyrics: now, love, time, need, take

snow that covers ivy that covers bricks, towers made from dining hall dishes, smiling at the bus stop without knowing, sheet masks in the dorm bathroom at 2am, pink string lights and pink crocheted blankets and pink shag carpeting, cheap beer behind tarps and walking everyone home

Roots - 111 days (05.28.17 - 09.16.17) Most common lyrics: love, one, give, wanna, know

t-shirt tan lines, mozzarella and tomato and basil and singed spaghetti, sunset walks around abandoned high schools, green leaves outlined in watercolor, the smell of mildew and old paper in banker’s boxes, sweat-soaked french braids, the knife twist of eye contact, tarot readings under lamplight

Walls - 110 days (09.16.17 - 01.04.18) Most common lyrics: wanna, know, baby, take, feel

crying in the gender-neutral restroom, pretty boys holding guitars or rolling rock, photos in the forest, blue carpeting and lofted bedframes, pitch-black bonfires, sitting in the dining hall to just watch the people pass, snow on eyelashes in large wet clumps, laughing at lies

Bite - 78 days (01.04.18 - 03.23.18) Most common lyrics: know, love, stay, come, need

impatience at the airport, texting on the laundry room floor, nervous night drives, five grilled cheese sandwiches, acne like freckles, ceiling photos taken in secret, watercolor lines and paper houses, broken glass on the sidewalk, ink-stained forearms, notebook paper comics, writing small on basement walls

Windows - 131 days (03.23.18 - 08.01.18) Most common lyrics: love, now, know, baby, fall

books piled up by the bed, rum and coke and orange juice and vodka and cheap white wine, rainy day night walks, streetlights turning the leaves orange, echoes from the party upstairs, solo trips to the grocery store, always leaving the blinds open, aperol and chai lattes and smørrebrød, never coming home

Grip - 136 days (08.01.18 - 12.15.18) Most common lyrics: know, boy, lost, girl, night

read receipts, the creaking of an empty house, sand and bricks and traffic cones, sitting on the curb and shaking, applause at dinner, bubble tea, bike rides in torn jeans, mr brightside blasting at 10am, doodles during lectures, embroidery at the kitchen table, blue bus panic attacks, half an apple for lunch

Wait - 117 days (12.15.18 - 04.11.19) Most common lyrics: heart, want, one, back, know

crying in the lobby, measuring oats by the quarter cup, drunken voice memos, shoes on power lines, another bowl of granola, reading all the lyrics, photos taken with the flash on, sleeping on strange couches, shoeboxes full of photographs, wire catching the sunlight, fifteen minutes of windchill

Wave - 108 days (04.11.19 - 07.28.19) Most common lyrics: wanna, know, now, love, come

dancing on the porch, reading on the roof, tipsy trips to the corner store, silent heavy parlor air, chocolate cake with peanut butter frosting, barred windows and string lights and exit signs, highlighting the important parts, nails tapping on wooden tables, wet wind before the storm, biking straight into the smoke

Home - 178 days (07.28.19 - 01.22.20) Most common lyrics: down, know, now, wanna, think

steep downhill walks, fingertips covered in graphite and lead, blank faces on green walls, forest walkways, hands gripping thighs too tightly, light leaks in darkrooms, the handwriting of strangers, chains trapped between teeth, white words left unread, twirling at the tennis court, yellow becoming blue

Hand - 63 days (01.22.20 - 03.25.20) Most common lyrics: know, time, love, die, back

masking tape messages, laughing four shots in, BiC .07mm HB mechanical pencils slipped into coat cuffs, cheeks blushed with red ink, green floodlights and kissed knuckles, windows fogged from the inside, falling asleep with earbuds in, finger guns and everything in boxes, wedging open locked doors

_______________________________________________________________________

It’s interesting to look back at these playlists altogether, see them as self-contained units, little stories I tell about myself, about the people I used to be. Adding a song to one of these playlists was like making a vow, entering a relationship with a collection of sounds. It’s like I was saying “this song is now a part of me.” I constructed this little world for myself in the space between my ears, and it, in turn, created me.

I really mean it when I say that the first word that floats to the front of my mind becomes the title of whatever playlist I’m making. I never question what the word means, and its meaning always ends up describing that season of my life.

“Roots” became a period of reconnecting with essential pieces of myself I thought I had abandoned.

During “Grip,” I was holding on so tightly to things that had left me ages ago, and I think I knew that, even if I was unable to admit it to myself.

“Wait” revealed itself in two ways: it was a time in which 1.) I felt stagnant and restless, unable to be patient, and 2.) I was forced to grasp with a physical and emotional weight that had been bearing down on me.

The mind is a magical thing—it processes what we refuse to recognize.

Speaking of which, these playlist covers have been driving me up the wall for ages. They’re like nails on a freaking chalkboard for my synesthesia. Is “Bite” a heavily blue playlist? Sure. But is “Home” purple? Is “Grip” pink??? I think the fuck not!

(I could do a whole goddamn blog post on synesthesia, and I might.)

Now that I know how to switch out playlist cover art (can you believe it’s taken me this long to figure out how to do that?), I have decided to issue myself a challenge/project/way to procrastinate actual work I have to do.

I’d like to make a piece of cover art for all of the above playlists. And because I am, to reiterate, insane, I’m setting up some Rules For Creation:

All works must be the same size, on the same type of paper using similar materials (tbd but probably graphite, colored pencil, watercolor, fineliners, and/or collage).

The preliminary sketch for each cover must be created while listening to the playlist.

Each piece can (must?) incorporate the five most common lyrics as listed above because goddammit I did not spend four hours compiling lyrics in a web-based word cloud generator for nothing.

If I’m not having fun, I won’t make myself do it because this is literally just for laffs.

Anyway, I’m looking forward to creating some fun weird art! I know nobody is gonna read this and nobody is gonna comment but if, by some miracle, you feel like it, comment a playlist you’ve made that you’re really proud of! Or comment if you have some weird playlist rules! Or cyberbully me! Anything’s fair game.

TL;DR playlists are fun and I’m a maniac :)

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kazz-brekker · 5 years ago

Note

Mechs asks: High Noon Over Camelot, The Bifrost Incident, Ivy, and Marius!

High Noon Over Camelot - What’s your favourite mechanisms song?

Oh, okay, you’re just hitting me with the hard question right off the bat. Pump Shanty is definitely up there because it fills the “sea shanties in space” niche in my heart and also the moment I heard it I knew for sure that the Mechanisms were going to be another obsession because it’s just SUCH a banger. One I’ve been playing on repeat lately, though, is Underworld Blues just because the tune is GREAT and Ashes as Hades is absolutely INSPIRED idea.

The Bifrost Incident - How did you get into mechanisms?

The same way a lot of people have recently, I suspect: I started listening to The Magnus Archives and kept seeing references to a band that Jonny Sims used to be in. I looked it up and it sounded very much like my kind of thing. By the time I listened to 2 songs from Once Upon a Time (In Space) I was like “fuck it, abandoning my homework to listen to this band’s entire discography instead.”

Ivy - Any mechanisms headcanons?

I really like that the idea that Raphaella, mad scientist that she is, made her own mechanical wings. And that Inspector Lyf from The Bifrost Incident got picked up by the Mechs while fleeing the end of the world and joined their band.

Marius - What’s your ideal mechanisms inspired outfit?

Honestly, anything inspired by Jonny d’Ville since he really has the peak Space Pirate Aesthetic ™. But I also really like Ivy’s skirt and honestly, everyone has pretty great outfits.

#libraryleopard #the mechanisms #asks

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welllpthisishappening · 6 years ago

Text

Nights Were Mainly Made for Saying

It's possible. Emma is certain. She's going to fix this. She's going to save him. By time traveling. Which is totally, absolutely possible.

She's read about it. There's a theory.

So, no one has ever actually done it yet, but that doesn't mean she can't or they can't try and she just needs a little help. From Killian Jones. And his magic.

Rating: Like a very high T teetering on the edge of M AN: I wanted to write something spooky. So I wrote about witches and time travel and Hamilton references. Can we still make Hamilton references? Has the time passed for that? Who cares, this is a time travel fic. It’s also absurdly long. Just like...because. I have no excuse. You should probably listen to Arctic Monkeys’ entire discography because that’s totally the vibe I was going for. Also because Alex Turner may be a vampire. That joke will make sense later.

On Ao3 if that’s how you roll.

“Say that again.” “No.” “Swan.” “I know you heard me the first time,” Emma growls, trying to push her way through the half-open doorway. Killian, however, doesn’t move. If anything, he grows several feet, eyes widening and an expression on his face that appears torn between disbelief and incredulous.

And possibly furious.

Or worried.

Emma can’t really tell the difference.

This might have been a mistake.

She huffs, shoulders drooping with the force of her own frustration. “I don’t get why you’re being such a jerk about this,” she mumbles, kicking at his ankles like they’re friends or something.

They’re not... not friends. Not really. Killian’s been around for as long as Emma can remember because he’s been David’s partner for as long as Emma can remember and magical folk alway tend to flock towards each other.

It’s some kind of defense mechanism, she’s positive, a twist of their genetic makeup or something because magical folk are emotional and prone to immediate reaction and neither one of those things ever works out very well in the real world. So they’ve got to be around each other. To make sure no one else figures out they’re there.

Strength in numbers or whatever.

No one really knows how magic started or why it only appears in certain people, but they’re there and some sort of quasi-community and support system Emma never could have imagined when she was sitting in a foster home in Minnesota, certain the way lights always flickered around her was just a byproduct of an exceptionally difficult puberty.

Magic was in her blood. As they say. Or as Mary Margaret would say because Mary Margaret loved to say things like that and promise things like that and Emma had nearly collapsed when she felt the particular rush of her magic at freshman orientation.

It went from there. Mary Margaret never left Emma’s side, or vice versa, and David appeared sophomore year, a rush of power and positivity that was questionably good at brewing things and they found more magic in New York, of the literal and metaphorical variety, a family and a certainty and nothing bad was ever going to happen.

Except, of course, when one of your magical friends is murdered in cold blood, alone, without any suspects of any kind. Then, you know, the cliché loses a bit of its weight.

Emma kicks at Killian’s shin that time.

He scowls, lips twisted and head tilted at an angle that cannot possibly be good for his neck. And, for the first time since Emma marched to his front door fifteen minutes earlier, she takes a second to look at him. Really. Because he looks like shit. Really.

There are bags under his eyes and a hint of red in his gaze, like he’s gotten approximately forty-seven minutes of sleep in the last few days. His hair is longer than usual, curling behind his ears and the NYPD t-shirt he’s got on has a hole in the right sleeve.

“Swan, I swear to God,” Killian growls as soon as the toes of her boot collide with his ankle again. “If you don’t stop assaulting me, I’m going to--” “--What? What could you possibly threaten me with? Ignoring my requests again?”

“Oh, they’re requests now, are they?” “Obviously,” Emma sneers, and this is not going the way she thought it would at all. She, admittedly, did not think it was going to go great, but the whole thing has been a disaster from the get and she’s averaging less than forty-seven minutes of sleep a night.

“Strangely enough I’m not getting that at all.” “Because you’re being the most difficult person on the planet.” “I really don’t see how that’s true,” Killian argues, and, that time, Emma’s foot comes up against an invisible barricade. The pain ricochets up her thigh, lingering around her knee and there are not enough curses or spells for all the things she wants to do to Killian Jones.

And that, really, is her problem.

Because Emma doesn’t really like Killian, but she doesn’t really hate Killian and she knows he’s the only one who will even consider going along with this plan.

It’s a relatively crazy plan.

“That’s a cheap trick,” she accuses, but he just flashes her a grin and his eyes almost look normal. Emma has no idea what his eyes normally look like.

The lie tastes bitter on her tongue, even without saying it out loud.

“I hate to repeat myself, love, but, again, I really don’t see how that’s true.” “Magician.” “Ah, that’s rude.” “A fact,” Emma growls. He hasn’t taken the barrier down. He’s lifted his eyebrows instead, the smirk settling onto his face like it’s putting down roots. “Listen, I’m going to do this whether you want to help or not, so--”

She’s not entirely sure what happens after that.

It’s a rush of something, magic and feeling and a hint of emotion that may be concern or something fundamentally deeper and far more important than that, but it leaves Emma breathless anyway, mouth falling open as she tries to take it all in. Killian jerks forward, fingers wrapped around Emma’s wrist, like he’s nervous she’s going to start disappearing right then.

She’s fairly certain that’s not how the spell works.

His fingers are impossibly warm.

“I can’t keep doing nothing,” Emma says, voice dropping of its own accord. The words scratch their way out of her, fighting their way to the surface because they’ve been sitting in the pit of her stomach for weeks and Graham didn’t deserve that.

He didn’t deserve to be alone.

He didn’t deserve to die.

Emma is going to fix this. She’s a goddamn witch.

“There’s not anything for you to do, Swan.” “We both know that’s wrong.” Killian sighs, thumb tracing across the back of her wrist. “That’s all speculation. No one’s ever actually done it.” “That you know of.” “You are pulling at straws, love.” “If that’s what I have to do, then, yeah, fine, I’m pulling at straws.” Emma wishes her voice would pick a volume and stick with it. Instead, it cracks over every other syllable, tears welling in the corners of her eyes and stinging retinas that are in desperate need of a set sleep cycle. Killian doesn’t blink. “Graham was a good guy.” “I’m not questioning that. Good is a vast understatement.” “Don’t you want to know what happened?” Emma presses, and she’s starting to sound desperate to her own ears. “It’s...it’s driving me insane. There are too many coincidences for it to be the accident David thinks it is.” For half a second Emma thinks she imagined the next few words out of Killian’s mouth. For half a second she thinks she’s actually delved into complete and utter insanity. For half a second she’s terrified.

But Killian doesn’t blink and his thumb is still pressed flat against her skin and Emma’s lungs are incredibly grateful when she takes a deep breath.

“Say that again,” she whispers.

The smirk turns into a smile. “I feel like we’re going in circles, Swan.” “Killian, c’mon, I--” “--I think it was a witch.” Emma’s entire body sags when she exhales, head colliding with Killian’s chest and she barely considers the fact that he didn’t barricade that before she’s wrapping both her arms around him. She mumbles something into his shirt, nonsense that may just be thank you several dozen times and that doesn’t really make sense, but David wouldn’t listen and Mary Margaret couldn’t listen and Graham did not deserve to die.

Alone.

He died alone.

“Did you tell David that?” Emma mumbles, Killian’s head shake almost audible.

“He’s not interested in that. The department said it was cut and dry. Wrong place, wrong time, and a weak heart, but it was…”

He trails off, Emma’s heart thundering in her ears because she knows how that sentence is going to end. It’s impossible. The medical records don’t make any sense. It wasn’t a heart attack or a stroke or anything remotely human.

It was magical and wrong and Emma is going to fix it.

Before it happens.

“You don’t know this is going to work,” Killian continues, a warning there that Emma ignores.

“I’m more optimistic about it than I was, like, four days ago.” “Why is that?” “Because I tried four days ago and it didn’t work.”

“Emma!”

She jerks back at the sound of her own name, eyebrows furrowed because they’re not friends and he never calls her that, but there’s a desperation to his voice that gives her pause. She bites her lip. “It didn’t work,” Emma repeats. “So, you know...no harm, no foul. Or whatever.” “That’s not whatever. That is…” Killian exhales sharply, tongue flashing between his lips and Emma has to dig her heels into the floor to stop herself from moving. “You can’t do that again, love. Please.” Emma nods slowly, an agreement without considering what she’s agreeing to. She can see the muscles in Killian’s throat move when he swallows though, and he’s going to do damage to his jaw if he holds it any tighter. “I don’t think anyone can do it alone,” she says. “I...it’s not simple magic.” “Because going back in time should be impossible.”

“Not in theory.” “And what happens if it doesn’t work?” Emma shrugs, a flush of fear creeping up her spine and settling at the base of her skull and the magic seems to spark in her fingertips. Killian laces his hand through hers without a word. “That’s why you’re here,” she says, and those words have a weight to them as well, a certainty she didn’t expect, but kind of needs because she’s not entirely what will happen if this doesn’t work.

Killian’s lips twitch. “And you didn’t think to ask David or Mary Margaret?” “David won’t and Mary Margaret can’t. You know that. And…” “And?” “You also know you’re better at magic than both of them. Don’t laugh at me.” “Why would I laugh when you’re complimenting me so nicely, Swan?” Emma flicks his chest, another twist of his eyebrows and quirk of his lips and his fingers are back around her wrist as quickly as if he’d teleported them there. He might have. He’s very good at magic.

He’s very good at everything.

It’s frustrating.

“We can’t just go into this blind, you know,” Killian says. “There’s got to be a plan and an escape route and--” “--And I’ve got that. All of it. Well, most of it.” “Most of it?” “You’re going to be the worst time travel partner, I know it.” “That’s assuming this works.” “It’s really not helping my confidence or my magic that you keep pointing out the likelihood of failure,” Emma mutters, trying to pull her hand back to her side. Killian’s fingers tighten. “The books are clear. It’s all about getting the incantation right and, well, you know...having enough power. I don’t...it didn’t work on my own and you’re the strongest magic I know. So either you agree or you don’t and we just...we never know what happened and we don’t fix it.” Killian considers that for a moment, eyes tracing across Emma’s face like he’s looking for the lie or the inevitable jab at his character. She doesn’t move. She doesn’t say anything. She holds her breath.

He taps his thumb on the back of her wrist again.

“You want to fix it?”

Emma hisses. “Was that not obvious?” “It felt wrong to assume.” “He shouldn’t be dead.” “The world’s not all that interested in that, I’m afraid.” “Yeah, well, fuck the world,” Emma says, and Killian’s eyes widen. “Listen. I…” “Ok.”

She’s positive she imagined it again.

That’s a frustrating habit to have picked up in the last few moments.

Emma gasps, stumbling back at the certainty in those two letters and the force of the magic around them and she’s certain they’re setting off several metaphorical alarm bells to every other being in a hundred-block radius, but ok is echoing between her ears and she’s almost hopeful this will work.

“Ok?” Killian hums. “You’re right. He shouldn’t be dead and I don’t think he died the way we’ve been told. There’s something wrong here. So, if you want to figure it out, then...seems wrong not to help somehow.” “What a gentleman.” “Something like that.”

“Alright,” Emma says, drawing the word out cautiously like she’s nervous he’s going to change his mind. “So, um…” “I’m not particularly interested in time traveling with you immediately, love. And if we’re going to assume our success is based entirely on the strength of our magic, then I’d suggest we aim for a well-placed full moon on Halloween.” “There’s a full moon on Halloween?” “You’re a very observant witch.” Emma clicks her tongue, but he’s also got a point. Several of them. She hopes she doesn’t regret this. She hopes this works.

“Just like that?” Emma asks. “Full moon on Halloween and you’re ready to go back in time and prevent a murder?” “You came to me, Swan.” That’s another point.

Emma’s going to scream. Or curse him. Or something else. Something less aggressive, but possibly just as drastic as cursing.

“Yeah,” she mutters. “I did.” The floor creaks when he moves, stepping away from the doorframe and Emma shudders as soon as his arms wrap around her. It’s like...something or everything and the magic in her veins practically sings, a certainty and confidence and she buries her face against Killian’s chest without asking.

His fingers drift across her spine, tracing between her shoulder blades like he’s following a path he can see and Emma lets her eyes flutter shut. She’s exhausted and worried, but she’s also tired of both of those emotions, and even more tired of seeing Mary Margaret cry and David ignore the possibility that there’s magic in New York they’re not aware of. So Emma doesn’t move, just breathes in the scent of laundry detergent and something that smells a bit like salt and it’s as if time gives them both a second to be.

Just to be.

Emma assumes that means time is on their side.

She appreciates it.

“You can’t tell David or Mary Margaret,” Killian says, the words far too loud in a moment Emma didn’t particularly want to end.

“No, no, I won’t. They wouldn’t...they’d try to stop us and--” “--I know, love.” Emma doesn’t think he realizes he keeps switching between endearments – he’s got nicknames for everyone, sarcasm and smirks and a distinct lack of sincerity that always seems to fall by the wayside whenever he glances her direction. She’s not sure he realizes that either. And she’s got no idea when she did.

Probably before deciding to time travel with Killian Jones.

“If I say that we should meet at moonrise, are you going to actually make fun of me?” Emma asks, leaning back in just enough time to see his tongue find the corner of his mouth.

“Absolutely.”

“Ok. Good.” “Maybe a few minutes before moonrise. Just to be safe.” “That’s what we’re being? Safe?” Killian nods. “When playing with uncharted magic, yes, but ...you’re right. I think this could work.”

The magic around them grows, strong enough that Emma is surprised she can’t actually see it. She can feel it though, like it’s cracking through the air and weaving between them, connections and knots, all of them twining together and twisting and it’s not as terrifying as it probably should be. It’s comforting.

“Moonrise,” Emma repeats, taking a step back and Killian’s hand falls to his side. “Here?” “Less likely for David or Mary Margaret to appear unannounced, yeah?” There’s something on the edge of his voice, but Emma’s too preoccupied with her pulse and her magic to linger too long on it. She hopes that’s not a mistake. “Yeah,” she agrees. “Ok, so, uh, it’s a date?” Killian chuckles lightly, hair grazing his eyebrows when he nods. “It’s a date, Swan.”

She sends Mary Margaret and David an email.

In case this doesn’t work.

Or something.

It seems less hokey than taping a note to their apartment door – which is only a few doors away from Emma’s apartment door, but it also feels a little less emotional and a bit more detached and Emma doesn’t bring anything except her phone with her when she walks fifteen blocks to Killian’s building.

He answers on the third knock, a different NYPD shirt and sneakers that look new. There are candles everywhere, more than few stacks of paperwork littering the floor. Emma’s eyes dart around the room, not sure what to land on because she’s now only a little worried they’re going to burn to death before they can even start the spell.

“What the hell is this?” she asks. “And did you buy new shoes?” Killian doesn’t quite glare at her, but it’s an admirable effort. “Why is David already texting me?” “I asked you first.” “This is...not a big deal. Did you tell David and Mary Margaret what you were doing?” “No!” “Swan.” “Not...directly.” “Emma,” Killian groans, and she wishes he would stop doing that. It’s messing with her mind and her center and she needs both of those to be as perfect as possible. Her magic is vibrating, she’s positive.

“I’m not having this conversation with you right now. We are running out of time.” “We are literally trying to time travel. We have more time than we could possibly know what to do with.”

“So then ask me this question when we’re in the past,” Emma mutters. “Did you work on the pronunciation for the spell? That’s important.” “I’ve cast spells before, Swan.” They’re both dancing around each other, deflections and distractions and neither one of those seem entirely appropriate a few minutes ahead of what they’re trying to accomplish, but it’s also the basis for their entire relationship.

Emma wishes her mind would shut the hell up.

She can hear kids laughing on the street below them, trick-or-treaters and humans without any knowledge of the magic that exists around them and sometimes threatens them and if there’s a witch out there killing other beings, then they’ve got a moral obligation to stop it.

Together.

She sighs, a breath of air she probably needs, and it takes less than a full moment for Killian to move into her space. His fingers are still warm when they brush over hers, twisting her hand to place something in her palm.

It’s a moonstone.

“Where did you get this?” Emma asks in disbelief.

“I’ve had it.” “What?” “Hold onto it, ok?” Emma nods slowly, lips suddenly dry because at some point her mind decided to start breathing through her mouth and moonstones are supposed to protect travelers. She doesn’t ask if he has one for himself.

“Alright,” Killian continues, grabbing several candles and moving them around a photo on his coffee table. Emma nearly chokes. It’s the crime scene, police tape obvious and a body even clearer and her vision spins as soon as the realization slams into.

He must feel the shift in her magic because he spins as soon as Emma’s breath hitches, a mumbled hey, hey and something that sounds like it’s alright, love and she nods as soon as his thumb grazes her cheek.

“Fine,” Emma promises. “I’m fine. You seriously know how to say all the words, right? I don’t want to end up, like, in the prehistoric age.” “I highly doubt that’s how it would work, Swan. Plus, every theory I’ve read says if you want to travel, you need visual of where you’re going. We’ve got that.” “You’ve got that. Why do you have that?” The tips of Killian’s ears go red. It’s a tell. It’s been a tell for years. “I already told you. You weren’t the only one with suspicions.” “You’ve been researching this!” “That’s a very dirty-sounding word. I’ve been...looking into it. That’s all.” Emma hums, but that realization seems to crash into her with the force of several eighteen-wheelers and the stone in her hand feels as if it’s vibrating. “Sure,” she says, taking a step around him and it feels like a million miles. “Alright, so we focus on the picture and the moment and--” “--Cast the spell? Yeah, that’s usually how it works.” “I’m going to kill you and leave your body in the past.” “That is violent.” “Happy Halloween.”

Killian barks out a laugh, teeth finding his lower lip. “C’mon, Swan. We’re getting very close to the witching hour.” “That’s not how that phrase works at all.”

“C’mon.”

She doesn’t argue that time, sinking onto the far ground at the far edge of the coffee table. It isn’t easy to keep her eyes away from the photos, but she’s going to lose her nerve if she sees, and Killian is right – it’s time.

“You ready?” he asks, like this wasn’t her idea and Emma nods brusquely, taking his hand when he holds it out. Still warm. “Try to stay in rhythm when we talk. The world likes that, usually.” Emma laughs, but it’s not a joke and her whole body starts to tremble as soon as Killian waves his hand over the candles. The flames jump, a flash of blue light and energy and she knows she’s speaking, can hear her own voice echo around them, but it feels like she’s watching it as well, hovering above the scene like she’s totally detached.

“Buailín, bean an taistealaigh, féachaint ormsa,” Killian says, care on every letter. His fingers don’t leave Emma’s, growing tighter with every moment. Her palm is sweaty, she can feel the moisture, making it difficult to hold her grip, but he doesn’t let go.

She digs her nails into the back of his palm.

“Cibé an bhfuil mé ag taisteal san aer, ar thalamh nó ar muir,” Emma continues.

The flames shift again, a flash of red and anger – the emotion almost palpable in the air, as if the air is angry at them for trying. Emma squeezes her eyes closed, doing her best to fight off the wave of nausea in her stomach, but the smell only gets more potent.

It’s like burned rubber and ashes, disappointment and fury and none of it is right. She’s shaking now, quick jerks that send pain through all of her limbs and into the base of her spine, moisture pooling at the bottom of her neck.

The smell grows.

And Emma gasps when she hears it, a cry of despair that seems to rip across all of time. Her eyes snap open, if only to check that she’s not actually being ripped apart as well. It feels that way, agony and an emptiness that seems to stretch out as far as she can see.

Her eyes widen, trying to find an end, but it only looks more vast the longer she stares ahead, a never-ending wasteland of darkness and nothing.

Alone.

The word flashes in front of her gaze like a neon sign, taunting and Emma shakes her head. It doesn’t move. The feeling grows, blooming in the very center of her chest like there’s a black hole there, and Emma can’t breathe.

She tries to lick her lips or swallow back the cry in her throat, but she feels like she’s standing on the edge of something, any movement certain to leave her falling into the abyss in front of her.

“Swan!” She doesn’t hear it at first. It’s nothing more than a wisp and want, but he yells again and squeezes her hand and Emma grips the moonstone as tightly as she can.

“You’ve got to finish it, love,” Killian says, and, that time, Emma hears him perfectly. “You can do it. I know you can.”

Emma shakes her head. “I don’t…”

“I’m not going anywhere, Swan. You’ve got to say the words.”

“Cosúil le talisman--” she starts.

“--i mo phóca clochfaidh mé.”

His hand never leaves hers. And everything goes dark.

Emma wakes with a start, eyes scanning the room and there’s no one there.

She sits up slowly, wincing at the ache in her right palm and her fingers barely unclench. There’s a moonstone in her hand.

“Oh shit,” Emma breathes. “It worked.”

It takes her a frustratingly long amount of time to figure out where she is, her apartment looking almost foreign without the empty takeout containers and piles of half-finished laundry she’d accumulated in the weeks after Graham’s death.

She shouldn’t be in her apartment.

She should be in Killian’s apartment.

She should–– “Oh shit,” she hisses again, leaping out of bed and wobbling as soon as her feet hit the floor. “Killian! Killian, are you here?” Silence.

Painful, vaguely terrifying silence.

“Killian?” Emma hates how small her own voice sounds, but bits and pieces are starting to come back and she’s not sure this worked the way she thought it would. Something about this is wrong. There shouldn’t have been that noise or those feelings, a flash of magic Emma is certain wasn’t hers. Or Killian’s.

Killian.

She jumps at the knock on the door, a quick rap of knuckles that’s practically exuding impatience. Emma swallows, tapping her fingers against the pajama pants she’s inexplicably wearing. Oh. Oh.

They hadn’t gone back to the crime scene, but they’d gone back to the day. And Emma had woken up in her apartment wearing pajama pants with a snowflake pattern on them because Mary Margaret had bought them for her last Christmas. It was a very bad joke.

The knock is louder the second time.

Emma twists her wrist, magic crackling between her fingers as she jogs towards the door. He’s halfway to a third knock when she swings it open.

“Swan,” Killian mutters, a note of wonder in his voice and she belatedly realizes it might be the first time he’s seen inside her apartment. They’re not really friends.

“Hey.” It’s an absurd response, all things considered, but Emma’s brain is firing a mile a minute and her magic is moving even quicker and she’s not entirely prepared for the look on Killian’s face. His entire expression shifts down, lips falling and shoulders sagging.

She’s almost surprised there’s not some soft of blue aura around him, just to really drive the point home.

“Oh,” he nods. “Ok, I um--”

He moves to walk away, which really is almost more absurd than Emma’s hey, but then she waves her hand and he crashes into an invisible wall that wasn’t there two seconds before. Emma assumes that means she’s won.

“Don’t,” she says. “Don’t...don’t go. Please.” Killian turns around slowly, the heel of his hand rubbing his jaw. “Did you just magic a wall for me to run into?” “I wasn’t really thinking.” “Yuh huh.” “Were you...were you thinking? When you came over here?” “You’re doing a rather abysmal job of beating around the bush here, Swan.”

Emma scoffs, waving her hand again so no one else is injured by her invisible wall. In the past. They’re in the past. “That’s because I’m not entirely sure of the rules.” “I think we’ve broken right by all of those, don’t you?” “Look who’s beating around the bush now,” Emma accuses, reaching forward to stab a finger into his chest before she can reconsider it. His fingers curl around her elbow, another expression that she’s possibly hoarding or recording for posterity, and she can’t think when his tongue drags across his lips. “What exactly do you remember?” “About time traveling with you?” “Oh my God.” “Enough that I realized where we were when I woke up this morning. I’m going to go ahead and assume you remember too?” Emma nods. “That was…” “Horrendous?” “Yeah, something like that.” “Did you hear the screaming?” Emma asks, but one glance at Killian’s face is enough of an answer. “I didn’t expect that.” “Neither did I. And I don’t think it was time.” That catches her by surprise. “What? What was it then?” “I think it was the person who killed Graham.” Emma’s eyes widen, and she’s glad Killian is in front of her so she can rest her palm flat against his chest. “But that noise. That wasn’t--” “--We didn’t think it was human, love.”

“That didn’t sound like a witch,” Emma argues. “That sounded like...I don’t even know what. Every horrible thing in the world. That can’t be right.” “If you’ve got another suggestion, I’m all ears.” Emma scowls. She doesn’t have another suggestion. She’s got negative suggestions. “You want some coffee?” And, really, she shouldn’t be keeping track, but Killian’s face keeps doing things and responding to her and he hasn’t tried to move her hand away from him. So, she adds that expression to the list she’s only maybe kind of keeping and tries to smile like any of this is normal and Killian’s step is almost steady when he crosses the threshold.

He puts four spoonfuls of sugar in his coffee.

And they try to come up with a plan.

It’s a garbage plan. It’s a garbage, shit, terrible plan and Emma can’t help the whimper that falls out of her as soon as Killian’s phone goes off, David’s frantic voice on the other end because Graham’s dead and they’ve done all this before.

David only looks a little stunned when they show up at the crime scene together.

“What the…” he mumbles, shaking his head like it’s all a dream and Emma wishes it was.

She and Killian had left her apartment hours earlier, patrolling the twenty blocks around where Graham was found. There wasn’t anything. No clues. No nothing. Everything exactly where it was supposed to be.

And Graham looked even more pale in person than in the photos.

Emma turned on the spot, head colliding with the jut of Killian’s shoulder as he tried to tug her closer to his side.

David’s eyes were going to fall out of his head.

“What the hell is happening right now?” he demands. “How the hell did you get here so fast? How did both of you get here?” Killian ignores all three questions. “What’s your gut reaction to this?” “What?” “Your gut reaction, Nolan. Now!” David flinches at the acid in Killian’s voice, gaze flitting from his partner to Emma and back again. It reminds her of a pinball machine. “The coroner thinks it’s a heart attack,” David mumbles. “No outward signs of struggle and no witnesses and--” “--That’s not what I asked.” “What the hell are you getting at? You’re making it sound like you’re looking for something nefarious here.”

Killian sighs, letting his cheek rest on the top of Emma’s head. They’re not friends. They’re not friends. They’re time-travel partners. Who failed. Completely. And immediately.

David appears to be choking.

“You’ve got to tell me what’s going on with you two.”

Both Killian and Emma ignore that as well.

“There wasn’t anything, David?” she asks instead. “Nothing suspicious?” “Should there be?” “I don’t know.” “Sure you don’t.” Emma rolls her eyes, falling back on tried and true when nothing feels like that. Killian’s arm tightens around her shoulders. “What was Graham doing here?” Emma presses. “We’re not anywhere near his apartment.” “It’s a city, Em. People go out. Right?” She’s positive he doesn’t mean for that last question to sound as unsure as it does, but the world appears to be playing one long trick-or-treat joke on her and Emma can feel the tears on her cheeks. “Yeah, I guess,” she mutters.

Her eyes dart back towards Graham, though, medics and the coroner and she can dimly make out the crinkle of a body bag unfolding. Killian's mumbling in her ear, quiet promises and assurances that don’t make any sense at all, particularly with David glowering at both of them.

“There wasn’t anything, Swan,” Killian says, not for the first time that day.

“That is impossible.” He chuckles against her hair. “Yeah, that seems to be the theme.”

“We didn’t do anything. We didn’t change a single thing.” “What?” David shouts, drawing the attention of several uniform officers. He waves them off, shifting on his feet and one of the streetlights above them flickers.

“Don’t do that,” Killian warns. His fingers are moving now, tiny semi circles on Emma’s shoulder that seem as natural as the breathing she desperately needs to do.

“I’m not doing anything. Why did you get here so fast?” “We were in the area.” “We?” Killian glares, turning Emma on the spot and resting both hands on her arms. She feels kind of dizzy. She assumes that’s a byproduct of time travel. It’s probably not.

It’s definitely not.

“Maybe we were wrong, love.” “You are lying to me,” Emma hisses. “Right to my face. You know this wasn’t a heart attack.” David curses again, stomping his foot for good measure. Emma doesn’t blink. Killian inhales sharply. “I don’t think we did it right, Swan,” he says, soft and cautious like speaking too loudly will make it real.

“Did what right?” “That noise. Whatever it was. It shouldn’t have been there. And I think it’s got something to do with us. And Graham.” Emma sighs, an agreement sitting on the tip of her tongue. She doesn’t say it. She’s far too busy crying.

Killian doesn’t flinch – again. Just lets her head crash into his chest and holds onto her, ignoring whatever sounds David is making as several different police officers try to get them to move. There’s a gurney working its way through the crime scene.

“C’mon, Swan,” Killian says. “I’ll make you some hot chocolate.”

She lets him direct her back towards her apartment, never asking how he knows about hot chocolate or the cinnamon she sprinkles on top. She sits in the corner of her couch, crying even after the tears stop falling.

And they don’t try to come up with another plan.

There’s not anything to say.

Something is wrong.

They just don’t know what.

Emma has no idea what time it is when her eyes start to flutter, but it must be close to midnight, Killian shifting slightly next to her. Her heart stutters. “Hey, hey,” she says sharply, grasping at the side of his jeans like he’s about to disappear. “Don’t...um, don’t go. Please.” He turns slowly, staring at her with an expression she’ll probably think about every time she wakes up and just before she goes to sleep.

He nods.

“Yeah, ok, Swan.”

She falls asleep easily, her head on Killian’s thigh and his fingers toying with the ends of her hair and it’s almost enough that Emma doesn’t hear the scream as soon as the clock in her kitchen ticks twelve.

Emma wakes with a start, eyes scanning the room and there’s no one there.

She blinks, the frustrating sense of familiarity tugging at the back of her brain. There shouldn’t be anyone there. She’s home. In her apartment. Where she lives. Alone.

It’s...she can’t remember what day it is.

The phone on her nightstand is already ringing, a flash of color and vibrations and Emma hates the little lurch her heart makes when she notices the name.

Killian Jones.

She nearly knocks the phone on the ground in an effort to pick it up, slamming it against her ear. “Hi,” she says, and it comes out like a sigh.

“Hi.” “What day is it?” “My phone claims it’s September 12th.” Emma drops her phone.

She yanks the blankets away from her legs, staring wide-eyed at the pajamas she’s wearing again. Or still. Or, maybe, again. Words get confusing when time travel is involved.

And Emma has never hated a joke Christmas gift more in her entire life.

“Fuck.”

He’s yelling her name into the phone, loud enough that it nearly makes Emma laugh because the whole thing is absurd and impossible and they probably should have discussed leaving the past more. Emma just assumed it would...happen.

Magically.

God.

“Swan?” “Yeah, yeah,” Emma mutters, nearly falling out of the bed as she gets her phone back to her ear. “Still here.” “So, uh, it appears we’ve done a few things wrong here, love.” “You can say that again.” “Was that a joke?” “Not an intentional one.” Killian hums, and Emma pinches the bridge of her nose, the threat of a headache pulsing behind her left eye. “Ok,” she continues. “So. What do we do? Are we sure it’s still September 12th?” “I really doubt my phone would lie to me. Or NY1.” “NY1 is incapable of lying. Did he read the newspapers?” “Same as they were yesterday.” “Holy shit.” “Those were my sentiments exactly.”

“What do we do?” Killian makes a noise, not quite words and something that sounds a hell of a lot like confusion. “Try to find something again? Maybe it’s a gift from the universe?” “That seems like an awfully chipper mindset.” “Ah, the power of positive thinking. Also I just watched the same news story about a school in Crown Heights that’s getting its first-ever playground for the second time in as many days and it’s done wonders to my mindset about the world.” Emma laughs, easy and normal. She imagines Killian smiles. “You want to come over and drink more of my coffee and come up with a plan that, this time, doesn’t suck?” “I thought you’d never ask, Swan.”

It takes a full week before Emma believes the plan is impossible.

The plan continues to suck. Or sucks even more and Emma is standing next to Killian at a crime scene she’s certain she can describe in minute detail at this point.

For the seventh straight day.

David stormed away from them in a huff five minutes before – as soon as Killian growled walk away, Detective when David spotted his fingers wrapped around Emma’s – and no one’s paid them a second glance since. They’re standing stock still, a few inches of space between them, but Killian hasn’t tried to move his hand and Emma is gripping it like several metaphorical anchors.

She wonders why Graham looks so pale if it was a heart attack.

It wasn’t a heart attack.

“At what point do we just throw in the white flag?” Emma asks, not taking her eyes away from the coroner. His name is Victor. They learned that on the third day.

Killian turns towards her slowly, eyes frustratingly blue and decidedly distracting. His expression is unreadable. “Why would we do that?”

“There’s nothing here, Killian. We’ve searched every corner within fifty blocks. Nothing has changed. We haven’t done anything.” Emma’s voice cracks on the last word, an anger she’d been doing her best to avoid. And neither one of them have acknowledged the very real possibility that they may be stuck on September 12th for the rest of their lives.

They’ve got no escape plan.

She should have prepared better. She thought her magic would react better. Her magic, however, seems to be at the crux of Emma’s problems. It’s as if it’s developed its own rhythm in the last few days, a tide that’s coursing through every inch of her, warming her from the inside out and keeping her slightly off-kilter. It boils under her skin, a determination to do something because they haven’t talked about that noise either.

The noise that pounds in Emma’s memory and lingers on the edge of her consciousness every single night. At midnight. Every single night.

“Maybe there isn’t anything to do,” Killian whispers, and Emma doesn’t miss the defeat there.

“Hence my white flag joke.” “You’ve got a habit of making very poorly timed jokes, love.” “It’s a very misplaced defense mechanism. I think it drives Mary Margaret insane.” “I sincerely doubt that.” She doesn’t need the rush of feeling shooting down her arm to know he means it, the honestly in his voice strong enough to permanent damage to the space-time continuum. He nearly smiles when she meets his gaze.

“That was nice,” Emma mutters.

“It happens from time to time.” She nods, pulse fluttering and Killian’s eyebrows shift when he feels the change in her magic. “I don’t know what we’re missing. There’s got to be something. What did we do wrong?” “I don’t know.” “I”ll be honest and tell you that’s not the answer I was hoping for.”

He laughs, more than a little sarcastic, and for one absolutely, insane moment Emma is certain he’s going to kiss her. He stares at her like he’s about to, eyes tracing over her face and lingering for a moment on her lips, but then he blinks and it’s over and they’re still stuck in some weird Groundhog Day situation with no new clues and a terrifying shriek to end every day.

She probably wouldn’t have argued the kiss.

The corner has to ask them to move out of the way of the gurney.

God.

“I think we’ve got some time to figure it out, Swan.” “Was that a joke?” “Probably worse than yours, right?” “Decidedly.” Killian grins, not quite as exhausted as it’s been while they’ve been chasing ghosts and possible magic and Emma chews on her lip to remind herself that they’re not really friends. She can’t figure out why he agreed to help her.

She can’t figure out how he’s not furious she’s inadvertently trapped them in the past.

“Hot chocolate?” he asks, and Emma nods out of habit and want. Killian’s smile widens. “Good. I’ve got some theories about marshmallow to chocolate ratio I want to test out.”

They eventually decide that the optimum number of marshmallows in a coffee mug is seven, which seems kind of arbitrary, but Killian is quick to point out that it’s magical, Swan and Emma is willing to be charmed. So she doesn’t argue.

And she doesn’t say anything when, this time, he slides down next to her on the couch, pulling her flush against his chest with an arm around her waist and her hair in his eyes.

It’s comforting, safe and warm and a slew of positive adjectives that are probably as impossible as getting out of whatever loop they’re in because Emma’s breath catches as soon as her eyes close and the sound echoes off the walls of her apartment.

He finds her hide-a-key the next morning, letting himself into her apartment with a smile and coffee in hand. Emma blinks sixteen times at the sight.

“You’ve got to move that, Swan,” Killian says, groaning when he almost hands her his over-sugared coffee. “It took me almost no time to find.” “You’re a cop. And magic. You are literally made to find secret things.” “Made?” “Ask me that question again after I’ve finished the coffee.” Killian chuckles, dropping onto the edge of Emma’s bed. She watches him over the top of her coffee cup, a forced energy and certainty that should probably grate on her nerves more. She finds it kind of endearing.

Mostly because she’s kind of hoping he’s doing it for her.

She’s, like, seventy-five percent positive he’s doing it for her.

“What’s your deal?” Emma asks, and Killian arches an eyebrow.

“I saw that Crown Heights story again today.” “And?” “And I think we should take a day off from crime-fighting.” “What?” “I think you heard me the first time, love,’ he drawls, letting his hand rest on her outstretched leg. “And if we’re going to be stuck here for awhile, then we’ve got some time to...do other things.” “That’s insane.”

“No,” Killian shakes his head. “That’s practical.” “How you figure?” “You hear the noise last night?”

Emma nearly chokes on her coffee, Killian’s expression turning serious. “Yeah, I did,” she says. “It sounded worse, didn’t it?” “Like it was getting ripped apart. So I think we’ve got to change our approach, Swan. We’ve exhausted this avenue of the search, it’s time to find something different.” “By ignoring the search completely.” “Yes, exactly that. You ever been to Veselka?”

“The pierogi place?” “I think they have other things besides pierogies,” Killian argues, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth and it would be really nice to not spend an entire day thinking about death. “But the pierogies are supposed to be legendary. Or so the rumors say.” “You’ve never been there?”

The question lingers in the air around them, buoyed by mutual magic and possible hope and Emma burns her tongue when she all but gulps down the rest of her coffee. Killian shakes his head again.

“Not once. But I’ve got a deep appreciation of Polish food.”

Emma scoffs, still charmed. Consistently. For the past week. Despite the lingering scent of death. “I really like the idea of a mass quantity of potatoes stuffed into some kind of pasta thing.”

“It’s a date then.” “Is this you picking me up?” “Something like that.” Killian stands up, offering a hand and another smile, or possibly the same smile, and Emma’s going to let him move her hide-a-key. “Get showered and we’ll go. A whole day of doing things we’ve never done.” “You’re very optimistic.” He doesn’t answer, but Emma thinks she hears him say something like that again as she turns on the water and they order every single pierogi option Veselka offers. The waitress looks at them like they’re insane.

They honestly might be.

Oh hey, there’s a second chapter. It’s also on Ao3.

#cs ff #captain swan #captain swan ff #captain swan fic #cs #i am just a bitter old doctor who fan #who is constantly like I COULD WRITE TIME TRAVEL #so here is some time travel #with kissing

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iliadd · 2 years ago

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@ms-collective made this for you bae 😍

here is a list of mitski songs (+2 japanese breakfast +1 little big league songs) that remind me of kaeya (&why) in order of album going from latest to earliest+ unofficial discography and others

1. working for the knife (mitski, laurel hell) : the third verse has such strong kaeya vibes its insane. it starts with (i used to think i’d be done by 20 / now at 29 the road ahead appears the same / maybe by 30 i’ll see a way to change), this could be representative of kaeya desiring to change his ways and live a truthful life, but not being able to find a way to change as time passes. next, (i always thought the choice was mine / and i was right, i just chose wrong), in reference to kaeya, mona talks about the ‘choice he will have to make’ however, the choice im alluding to has already been made, this is the choice to continue ‘spying’ for kheanriah (?), and later, the choice to come clean to diluc. this could also imply that the choice has already been made for him. (i start the day lying and end with the truth / i’m dying to the knife) i think this lyric could be related to his drinking habit; it seems like kaeya drinks for ‘forget’ and that could relate to these lyrics as being his ‘come down’ from the cheerful attitude that he portrays; it could be acceptance that behind closed doors, he is not the same person. he starts the day believing that he is loved and happy, and ends it accepting that he is, ultimately, alone.

2. the only heartbreaker (mitski, laurel hell) : this song is about the acceptance that the singer (kaeya in this case) is the ‘bad guy’ and will always be that due to the outstanding ‘good’ of their partner/the people around them. the lyrics i want to focus on are the echos from the bridge, (i apologize, you forgive me) repeat over and over again as a mantra. in reference to kaeya i think that this could be kaeya pleading internally with the world to forgive him and wash him of his sins. it could also be kaeya wishing for a different reality where diluc forgave him rather than pushing him away (literally).

3. lonesome love (mitski, be the cowboy) : not really the entire vibe of this song, but very specifically the last line. (why am i lonely?) kaeya is surrounded by people who he is friendly with and who are friendly with him and people that love him and praise him, and yet he is still so alone. why is that?

4. remember my name (mitski, be the cowboy) : i did not previously associate kaeya with this song until you mentioned it, but the lyrics (just how many stars will i need to hang around me / to finally call it heaven) fit with kaeya a lot. i think they go with this idea that kaeya sees everyone around as ‘good’ or as ‘stars’ and he continues to be around them in hopes that by association, he will also be ‘good’ and will finally get away from his sins. (i struggled so hard to put my thoughts into words oh my god)

5. nobody (mitski, be the cowboy) : hes lonely, feels unlovable, feels unwanted and has been abandoned as both a child and a teenager/young adult. (and big and small again and still nobody wants me *clap clap*)

6. thursday girl (mitski, puberty 2) : this song is about begging someone to save you from yourself and your bad coping mechanisms. kaeya obviously suffers from alcoholism, and i don’t think kaeya is begging to be saved from that, rather, i think kaeya wishes someone to save him from his spiraling thoughts where he continues to drown in guilt, anger, unworthiness, and loneliness.

7. crack baby (mitski, puberty 2) : (crack baby you don’t know what you want / but you know that you had it once, and you know that you want it back). he wants to go back to the past! where everything was good and he was happy! i don’t know if the past he wants to return to is his childhood in mondstadt with crepus and diluc or back in kheanriah (?) with his biological family but it doesn’t matter. kaeya wants, needs to return to a time when things were good in order to be happy, and he cannot do so and so he will dwell heavily on the past and continue to suffer through the aftermath.

8. first love/late spring (mitski, bury me at makeout creek) : kaeya ghostwrote this song oh my god. (i was so young when i behaved 25 / yet now i’ve found i’ve grown into a tall child / and i don’t want to go home yet / let me walk to the top of the big night sky / please hurry leave me / i can’t breathe / please don’t say you love me). lets break this down into kaeya terms. 1. (i was so young when i behaved 25 / yet now i’ve found i’ve grown into a tall child) kaeya went through a lot at a very young age, and as a result of that he matured very quickly. except no he didnt. kaeya did not mature quickly; he still kept a childish perspective on everything, causing him to mature further and realize that, he is still, mentally, a child. 2. (i don’t want to go home yet / let me walk to the top of the big night sky) i think this could relate to kaeya wanting to spend as much time with the people he cares about as he can, because he does not want to feel alone. he doesn’t want them to leave him so he extends their time together as much as possible, and gives them unrealistic ideas of things to do together to fill that time and elongate their time. 3. (please hurry leave me / i can’t breath / please don’t say you love me) due to the abandonment in his childhood and the fight with diluc, kaeya believes he is unlovable, and his incapable of truly accepting love from others, he cannot handle it. from his perspective, he is not worthy of being loved. not only that, but kaeya believes himself to be ‘evil’ to others ‘good’, so in his eyes, anyone willing to love him is inherently ‘good’ and he will push them away to try to ‘keep them pure’ as he believes he will taint them.

9. jobless monday (mitski, bury me at makeout creek) : once again, not the whole song& it’s vibe, just one lyric. (oh i miss when we first met / he didn’t know me yet) due to being abandoned by the people who were supposed to love him unconditionally, kaeya believes that he is unlovable and anyone who knows him and truly sees who he is inside will leave him. he keeps people an arms length away from who he truly is, because he fears that people will see the sins that plauge him and will leave him once again.

10. drunk walk home (mitski, bury my at makeout creek) : (for i’m starting to learn i may never be free) kaeya will never be free from his ‘sins’ ; he cannot gain freedom in his own mind from his guilt or loneliness no matter what he does. on another note, he will never be free from his past no matter how far he runs away from it.

11. i will (mitski, bury me at makeout creek) : (stay with me / hold my hand / theres no need / to be brave) abandonment issues ? the fuck ???

12.. shame (mitski, retired from sad new career in business) : HE GHOSTWROTE THIS SONG TOO. (i never was very good / i haven’t been so good) back to my point previously, kaeya believes that he is not good/not a good person, and due to him having lied for so long, he has ‘never been good’. (they’re right outside the door and they don’t know) relates to kaeya being so close to the ragnvindr family and having them know so much about him, while also having a metaphorical ‘door’ keeping them from the truth of who he really is. (and i don’t need anything other than you) this line has romantic connotations but im going to interpret ‘you’ as unconditional, true, personal love and acceptance, which is the only thing kaeya truly needs to feel connected to another person and stop feeling lonely.

13. humpty (mitski, retired from sad new career in business) : from the first verse; (i broke our belongings / they’re all on the floor), in reference to kaeya, i interpret this whole song being his feelings on how his relationship with diluc is now broken. kaeya, views it as wholly his fault (which its not), hence, this song being used to describe him and not diluc. (and i’m sorry for taking / but i just keep wanting more, more, more) i think of this as kaeya mentally apologizing to both diluc and crepus for taking their love and kindness despite lying to them and hurting them.

14. real men (mitski, lush) : he’s trans. (oh i’m gonna be a real man)

15. door (mitski, lush) : (a hopeless, a violence / i named it / love) kaeya has been hurt most by the people closest to him, the people that love him. love, truth, these are his evils, his sins and his violences found in the dark; he still finds these emotions in his heart, but they are now bitter with betrayal and anger.

16. cop car (mitski, the turning soundtrack [unoffical discography]) : (i don’t think about the past / it’s always there anyway) kaeya is plagued by his negative experiences in the past, leading him to run from it and hide it, despite it being a part of him. this entire song has vibes of letting your anger control you, and while that doesn’t reflect kaeya, i think that lyric does.

17. the baddy man (mitski, this is where we fall [unofficial discography]) : (sneaking and a’ schemin just to see what he could find) while this song could be interpreted as a metaphor for intrusive thoughts, i think its a fun little jig about sneaking around and lying which is like kaeya’s whole Thing so. he’s a funky sneaky little guy. (what those dead men say they do / will never be the absolute truth).

18. rugged country (japanese breakfast, psycopomp) : (the hope's the one that haunts you / and the home's the rope that's wrapped 'round your neck / and it will be the noose that hangs you) in this situation the ‘hope’ would reference kaeya being called the ‘last hope of kheanriah’ which successfully haunts him for the rest of his life as he has pressure to fill this role and carry out his ‘mission’. due to that accolade, kaeya has strong ties to his homeland, causing him much pain and suffering in his life, and yet, kheanriah will always be his homeland, he cannot change that. it holds him firm and strong. lastly, ‘the noose’ could be the decision he is prophesied to make, mondstadt or kheanriah, i think that no matter what nation he chooses to side with, he’s a dead man, so his homeland will end up killing him in the end, regardless of his choice.

19. 12 steps (japanese breakfast, soft sounds from another planet) : (it was easy to leave / you’d finally seen me) back to kaeya’s abandonment issues, this lyric is similar to my analysis from jobless monday ; kaeya ultimately believes that if anyone sees who he truly is, they will leave him, due to him finally opening up fully to someone (diluc) and then being abandoned; so he will continue to lie and push people away and be lonely due to his fear of being left behind.

20. sucker (little big league, tropical jinx) : (i hate it / i hate it when you leave the house / i’m a dog / i’m a wife / i’m a dog / i’m nothing) abandonment issues pt??? + feeling as if you’re nothing without the people around you (in kaeya’s case, diluc, crepus, etc.)

sorry this isnt in meme format. if you read all the way down here… thanks babe ily. hope you liked it? if you agree/disagree let me know, we can have friendly discourse, if you have any songs that remind you of characters tell me them, and song recs tell me, uhm yeah.

i hope the kaeya stans get this

#genshin impact #kaeya alberich #ragbros #mitski #song analysis #character analysis #character soundtrack #? is that the right thing #idk #@/ms-collective tell me your thoughts on this #i started doing this and i just couldnt stop #im insane idk

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angeltriestoblog · 4 years ago

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Unnecessary life update

I have officially made it to the halfway point of this quarter. And I don’t mean to sound morbid but I didn’t expect to at all!

It’s just that I’ve recently learned that chronic sleep deprivation actually does lead to premature death and I’ve slept at three in the morning everyday since I started online schooling. (Though actual scientific evidence has always been available on the Internet, I found it easier to believe that this was a hoax.) But concerning as it may be, the past two weeks have been so demanding of my time and energy, resting didn’t seem like an option.

ii.

Much to the dismay of Freshman Angel, most organizations in Ateneo require an interview as part of the application process. I remember signing up for three departments in my home org back then: I sweated my way through one screening, completely flunked the other, and ghosted the last. I also applied to be part of our hosting pool and made a run for it at the last minute: despite having spent only two weeks on campus, I easily found a secret passageway leading to the nearest exit just so that I wouldn’t have to run into the officer in charge of my audition.

Given the unfortunate display of cowardice, it’s hard to believe that this year, I found myself on the other side. I conducted several ICs (rebranded to individual conversations) in an attempt to welcome freshmen, give them a picture of what awaits them in ACTM, and hopefully serve as one of their first friends, if I built enough rapport with them.

The week after, I had to conduct interviews and screen all hopefuls who wanted to make it into my department. I only spoke with 13 of them through a screen but I had to go through three times more application forms, interview footage, and assessments to determine who would make it to our final line-up. One night, I binge-watched the recordings of all the interviews I conducted in chronological order and I didn’t know if I found my waning energy levels depressing or funny. Toward the last few, I refused to turn on my camera because I had gotten a sudden allergy attack.

iii.

And as if the load I bear as an associate vice president in ACTM wasn’t heavy enough, I joined five other orgs last recruitment week. I wouldn’t go and call the quarantine a blessing because I’m not an asshole but these past few months have made me realize that I want to do and be so many things in life and I missed the opportunity to start on them earlier, since I spent the first few years of college hanging around with no end goal in mind. So in a fit of impulsiveness, I signed up for:

The Development Society of the Ateneo, where I will be working either as an advocacy or consultancy trainee under the research and development department (depends on how my interview this Thursday fares);

Ateneo Education Geared Towards Empowerment, where I will be gathering data from our partner communities to help the organization provide quality education given the online setting;

Ateneo Association of Communication Majors, where I will be under the research and development department yet again of MIRLab, their documentary production house;

Ateneo PEERS, where I will be part of a peer support program intended to help in my self-improvement, and that of others as well;

Project Kabuhayan, where I will be participating in initiatives geared towards empowering micro, small, and medium enterprises

I had general assemblies for most of them: had to ditch two for a midterm, and will be watching the recordings tomorrow. I didn’t even have to talk in any of them; simply watch the officers speak about their projects for the year then head on over to my designated breakout room. But the mere idea of being perceived by hundreds of Zoom call participants was already enough to drain my social battery.

iv.

To top it all off, my major tasks for all three subjects I’m taking this quarter were due last Friday. I had a group podcast for Philosophy class which we had to shoot twice on the busiest day of my week. I wanted nothing more than to get it over with, so when we wrapped up our first attempt, we were ready to let it go through some rushed post-production and submit it without giving it a second look. But I couldn’t stomach the thought of submitting subpar work when the task is supposed to be easy, given enough discipline.

Another group I was a part of had a marketing plan (you’ll never guess which subject it was for) that proposed the rebranding of Adidas Originals to cater to an older target market, or “the active ageing”, as we liked to call it. We only found out a couple of hours before the deadline that our professor was not accepting anything over 10 pages just when we had hit the 40-page mark. All of our well-researched, comprehensive parts had to be cut down significantly, which was the equivalent of flushing many sleepless nights down the drain.

And of course, I had a case study and midterm to accomplish for Law. The minute I received the message confirming the submission of my answers, I plopped down on my bed and napped. Later on that night, I released all the pent-up tension in me by going on my first ever e-numan. I never got the logic behind drinking alcohol in front of my computer: I always thought it was a sad attempt to replicate the bustling nightlife of Katip or the intimate energy of barkada chillnumans in condominiums. But I guess all I needed was the right company, and some sweet-tasting Novellino.

Anyway, before this turns into a full-on advert for a brand that isn’t even sponsoring this post, let me move on.

Reading that probably exhausted you. As the one who had to live through all that, I can tell you: it was even more hectic than you think. Before this pandemic was a thing, my schedule was clear-cut. I could tell the days of the week apart, and appreciate the endless possibility brought by Friday evenings. I could wake up at eight on Saturday morning, smile to myself because of how early it is, and go back to sleep without any feelings of guilt.

Now, the line that separates work and home has been completely obliterated. The Internet promotes that I have to be at the top of my game all the time. Every moment spent in rest and recreation is a moment wasted when there’s so much to do, always somewhere to be even if I’m technically not allowed to leave the comfort of my own home.

I would sometimes report to my friends that I threw my circadian rhythm out the window, which would be met with the same well-meaning outcries. “What the hell! Drop all your commitments! Pace yourself! Sleep early!”. I think they know by now that this often falls on deaf ears. Ironically, whenever I observe or hear of friends falling into the same patterns as me, I’m often one of the first to reprimand. I sentence them to early bedtime like a stressed suburban mother of two, and check in on them constantly to see if they’re doing alright. I tell them not to pressure themselves to perform at their very best, while working myself to the bone, writing this ~2,000 word essay at half past two in the morning.

But one conversation I had with one of my friends stood out. He told me how proud he was of me: that even if I’m so busy juggling so many things, it all pays off in the end because I’m genuinely happy and fulfilled. I get to see the fruits of my labor and share it with the world.

Which is so true. I honestly enjoy the success that comes from this hyperproductivity, and take pride in the output that I manage to churn out. I’m willing to give up hours of sleep if it means getting to do what will help me make my pipe dreams a reality, or create something that sets my soul on fire.I don’t mind going out of my comfort zone if it’s to talk to new people who have the potential of being some of my greatest friends in the future, or advocating for causes that I’m passionate about.

In fact, I am so willing to prolong my period of working to welcome the new members of my department or create even more articles to talk about pressing cultural phenomena. It will be hard as hell while the sacrifice is still ongoing but I always know that it will lead to something greater and bigger than I am.

Besides, when I feel like I can no longer take it, I don’t think I’ll have it in me to force myself. It might not look like it but I am afraid of the serious health risks and will try to slot in more time for sleep if need be. But I have no plans of backing out of anything right now since I’m still on top of everything. Guess I’m fueled by a genuine desire to give/be/do as much as I can, while I still can.

Where did this post even go, honestly… This was supposed to be a simple life update, complete with a pop culture recommendation to supplement my experiences. I did not expect it to spiral the way it did so now I have no idea how to transition from one part to the next in a way that isn’t entirely awkward. Oh well.

I managed to preserve my sanity these past two weeks by listening to only one artist. Anyone who follows me on Spotify must think that their Friend Activity tab is glitching but the rumors are indeed true: I have been listening to chosen songs from The Boyz’ discography on a constant loop, like an actual zombie. Count on me to get into a new K-Pop group during the busiest week of the quarter as a coping mechanism.

I was an anti of this group when they first debuted because they are home to a former Produce 101 contestant whom I hated. (Still do, up to now. Don’t know how to reconcile my conflicting feelings.) So you could say I was heavily biased from the start and refused to give them a chance. Thankfully, one of my best friends recently converted after watching them on Road to Kingdom and sent me some of their performances to reel me in. Since I am a girl with a working brain and pair of eyes, I was easily impressed. When they came back recently with The Stealer, I officially fell and made no active efforts to get up.

If there are any Deobis reading, (1) congrats, you are a person of taste; (2) please be my friend. My current favorite songs other than their latest title track are No Air, I’m Your Boy, and Break Your Rules. I’ve also started most mornings with their Danger live stage. Who needs caffeine when you have acrobatic stunts and good-looking men?

I also have a lot of exciting things coming up, which I just felt the need to share:

I’m going to be a panelist at a talk for Developh, an organization I’m a part of which leverages technology for social good. This Friday, October 16th, I’ll be joining three brilliant go-getters from different fields to talk about my internship at makesense Philippines (which warrants another blog post) as well as my experience as a freelance writer.

I have a couple of published pieces in the pipeline right now that I absolutely cannot wait to share! I honestly think they’re some of my favorites. Over the past few weeks, I have written about Internet study communities, the Subtle Asian Dating Facebook group, and unpaid internships. I’ve also pitched a couple more to my bosses and they’ve given me the green light at the same time so yes, once again, I am running on tight deadlines.

I’ll be applying for internships once this quarter is over and I’m already considering a couple of start-ups as good prospects. I’m making my personalized CVs for each company and saving the contact details of the designated point people in a neat little Notion spread for easy access.

Feels weird to end this post with stay safe and healthy, and don’t forget to rest. Maybe I’ll just make that a note to self.

Love and light,

Angel

#angeltriestoblog #life updates

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passionate-reply · 4 years ago

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Great Albums is back! This week, we’ll take a look at one of the greatest electronic albums of all time, Kraftwerk’s The Man-Machine, and try to avoid getting sued by Ralf Huetter! Full transcript for the video can be found below the break. Enjoy!

Growing up, my main genre of choice was 80s synth-pop, and while the deep influence of Kraftwerk is as significant there as it is everywhere else in electronic music, I was one of those people who initially saw them as somewhat "intimidating." Today, moreso than ever, Kraftwerk are held up as one of those more high-brow or cerebral groups with a philosophy that transcends mere pop or dance music, which makes them seem respectable, a kind of “model minority” in the world of music outside rock. While I don’t buy into the judgmental quality of that sort of praise, which damns so many of Kraftwerk’s greatest fans and imitators, I did get the sense, as a child, that these hoity-toity Germans, working with primitive equipment way back in the 1970s, might not be what I was looking for in a new favourite band. That was before I heard The Man-Machine.

While it’s certainly true that Kraftwerk were a highly experimental band in their own time, they’re one of those acts whose ideas have deeply permeated contemporary music, to the point where their actual work is extremely approachable and listenable to today’s ears. Of all the fairly early electronic acts, who started making this kind of music before it began to become mainstream in the late 70s, Kraftwerk are almost certainly the ones people nowadays listen to for pleasure the most, and that’s no accident. While their earlier albums like Trans-Europe Express took more overt inspiration from classical music, The Man-Machine was their first great foray into the arena of pop, which I think is key to why it resonates with people. For evidence of that, look no further than the biggest mainstream hit of Kraftwerk’s career, “The Model.”

I think it’s easy to see why “The Model'' became a hit single. Sure, it may not have the most traditional pop song structure, let alone instrumentation, but unlike a lot of what Kraftwerk had done before, it’s got a lot of lyrics and a real sense of narrative. Plus, that narrative we get is about a person and not a machine--a good-looking person, in whom the narrator is sexually interested. It’s the perfect pop material. Of course, I would be remiss to mention that “The Model” didn’t achieve all of its success until the single was re-released in many markets in 1981, and in those few years, the idea of “synth-pop” advanced significantly in the charts and popular consciousness. By the time “The Model” was a hit, Kraftwerk admirers were already taking over: look no further than Gary Numan’s "Cars” or OMD’s "Enola Gay,” two synth-pop classics that, it must be said, are still about vehicles!

That aside, though, not everything on The Man-Machine sounds like “The Model”--in fact, it’s surrounded by tracks that have much more in common with Kraftwerk’s earlier LPs. Literally surrounded, in the track listing. I think that adds to this album’s appeal as an ideal entry point into their catalogue: it has some things that sound familiar, while also preparing you for what else you’ll encounter if you choose to probe deeper into the band. The Man-Machine has the least homogeneous profile of any Kraftwerk album. While most of their other classic albums are highly cohesive “song cycles” that almost blend into one long song when you listen to them in full, The Man-Machine doesn’t really have those repeated melodies and motifs that tie its tracks together. While many people, especially fans of psychedelic and progressive rock, really like those cohesive albums, I think this change is a welcome one. It gives the individual tracks a bit more room to breathe and express distinctive identities, and makes the album feel a bit more pop, even if the material itself isn’t always all that poppy. *The Man-Machine* actually only has six individual tracks; they range in length from the three-minute pop stylings of “The Model” to the urban sprawl of “Neon Lights,” which luxuriates in an almost nine-minute runtime.

Given that the average track length is around six minutes, I’m almost tempted to think of The Man-Machine as six tiny Kraftwerk albums, or at least, musical ideas that could have been expanded into full LPs in another universe. “Neon Lights” and “Spacelab” feel dreamy and easy-going, with floating melodies that draw from the “cosmic music” scene, one of the many emergent styles that began as something uniquely German and spread throughout the world--in this case, becoming an important forerunner to ambient electronic music through acts like Tangerine Dream. Meanwhile, the hard, tick-tocking rhythms of “Metropolis” and the title track point to the newfound focus on rhythm and the so-called motorik beat that made the music of Neu! so compelling.

The Man-Machine can serve not only as an introduction to Kraftwerk, but also as a sort of crash course in this entire period of electronic music, showcasing some of the most distinctive and influential features of the German scene, as well as the shape of synth-pop to come. It’s a complex and busy historical moment with huge ramifications for almost all of subsequent electronic music, and The Man-Machine really creates a microcosm of that whole environment. There’s also the fact that each side of the record has one track from each of my three broad groups, like an expertly-designed sushi platter or charcuterie board for us to sample from, and they both follow the same formula: a pop appetizer, a cosmic *entree,* and motorik for dessert.

*The Man-Machine* also has what is almost certainly the most iconic cover of any of Kraftwerk’s LPs. This is how lots of us still picture them in our minds, and it’s inspired tons of parodies and riffs over the years. I think all of that acclaim is deserved! Emil Schult’s graphic design for the album was heavily inspired by avant-garde Soviet artists of the 10s and 20s, chiefly El Lissitzky. These visual artists used their art to express their hope for a new world, defined by the promise of technology, and their literally revolutionary philosophy--so what could be a better match for Kraftwerk’s electronic revolution in music? Lissitzky used bright, primary colours, straight lines, and geometric shapes to convey the “built environment” of modern cities and man-made architecture, and you’ve got all the same sentiment on display here. The use of strong diagonals really draws the eye and lends this image a lot of continued visual interest. It’s also worth noting the extent to which Kraftwerk’s aesthetics inspired later electronic acts almost as powerfully as their sound. When you picture an electronic band, and get a mental image of stiff and stone-faced musicians behind synthesisers wearing shirts and ties, you can certainly thank Kraftwerk for that, as well.

I also love the title of The Man-Machine! The relationship between people and technology is one of, if not the, most central themes in Kraftwerk’s entire discography, which is full of references to anthropomorphic machines as well as mechanically-mediated humans. The particular choice of the phrase “man-machine,” as opposed to words like “android,” has a fun vintage flair to it, which matches the use of early 20th Century visual art quite nicely.

As might be expected from the album’s stylistic diversity, *The Man-Machine* would prove to be something of a transition point in Kraftwerk’s career. Their 1981 follow-up, Computer World, would return to the song cycle format, but with increasing emphasis on ideas from the pop sphere, championed by percussionist Karl Bartos. By the time of the last classic-lineup Kraftwerk LP, 1986’s Electric Cafe, they had not only amped up the pop, but also incorporated influence from the electronic dance music of the time. Ultimately, Bartos would leave the group, chiefly due to discontent with his treatment by founding members Ralf Huetter and Florian Schneider-Esleben, and their persistent lack of musical productivity.

On a somewhat lighter note, my personal favourite track on this album is its opener, “The Robots.” Per my typology from earlier, I classified this as a pop-oriented song, and it certainly is an approachable one that’s proven to be quite popular. But it’s got just enough more experimental touches to keep things quite interesting. From an ominous, dissonant intro, a slightly more pop form, hinting at a verse/chorus structure, soon emerges and contrasts. I love the groove of the rhythm and percussion here, as well as the very heavy vocoder, rich in texture and certainly a Kraftwerk staple.

While the lyrics can be read as sort of light and silly, I like to think that the robots in question might also be dangerous. The track “Metropolis” seems to reference the seminal 1927 silent film of the same name, which is famous for its portrayal of an evil, mechanical doppelganger. Likewise, the choice to translate the lyrics of the song’s interlude into Russian is likely inspired by another great work of art from this era: the stage play R.U.R.--Rossum’s Universal Robots. Written by Karel Čapek in 1922, it’s the progenitor of the “robot revolution” trope in science fiction, the source of the word “robot” for autonomous machines in almost every human language, and one of the first entries in the illustrious career of an author who helped make Czech a true literary language. While the titular robots take time to assure us that they’re programmed to do what we humans want, should we really trust them...?

#music #kraftwerk #great albums

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