#it’s so in line with their current trajectory musically speaking | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

obstinaterixatrix · 2 years ago

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regarding women on the verge, sister was saying "I understand why it baffled critics" (which is legit what's written on wiki) (lol) because of how it was basically a farce and you don't see much like that nowadays (which I agree with) (also it makes sense considering it's based on a classic spanish movie kinda deal) and I think she's right BUT ALSO I think what makes it narratively weak is that there IS supposed to be a coherent thread, I think, where the rest of whatever the hell is going on can be as ridiculous as it wants, but as long as there's that coherent narrative thread it has a payoff. right? but the writing absolutely kind of whiffs it lmao. candela's subplot, lucia's subplot, carlos and marisa's subplot, paulina and ivan's subplot, NONE of it matters (some of it matters I'll contradict myself later) except for spectacle and entertainment and setting plot in motion for pepa's character arc, which is to break free from a toxic cycle and make a choice divorced from the whims of someone who won't care for her the way she needs and to prioritize what would be fulfilling to her, which would be her life with her future child. like, it's obvious that's the intention and that would make the show cohere. the eye of the storm, so to speak. however, 1) the scene where pepa meets carlos would have been a GREAT opportunity to highlight the motherhood aspect, and there's a great conversation where she tries to console carlos about his shit dad, but the energy is. extremely off. the show is entirely committed to Being Sexy, which permeates, especially since right before pepa enters, carlos is being Very Interested in candela. so the energy is Very Weird. 2) nothing's really set up during the rest of the musical that allows for this highlight or focus; the taxi driver acts as a narrator and his whole thing is woah! crazy place! it'll be a new day! which barely sets up pepa's whole thing; in fact, I feel like pepa's concierge contributes more to the themes in the two scenes she's significant in compared to the taxi driver who's Always There because the concierge talks about how what you want isn't always what you get but that can be a good thing, and when they're singing the song on the bench, that is setting pepa up for being able to say goodbye to ivan, then reinforcing her decision. it's about pepa focusing on the future that most aligns with her wants, needs, and reality. It's like... okay I feel like half the show thinks it's about 'woah! crazy shit's going on! gotta bounce back and be resilient and continue on!' but what actually makes it cohere is 'woah! crazy shit's going on! when you break free from the chaos and allow yourself to follow that path that will bring you fulfillment over illusory happiness, when you deal with your reality, you'll be able to continue forward in the best way for you (even when the crazy shit's still current and ongoing).' so what I mean by the other subplots don't matter, I mean 1) none of the other characters need to have that breakthrough, they can all keep going nuts, BUT 2) there has to be a continuing thread that highlights and reinforces pepa's overall character arc towards Reality and Fulfillment. anyway, I actually really like the lyrics, but there are a lot of moments some immediate repetitions really weaken it especially since one in particular gets brought back multiple times: "I don't want to know what is real what's solid as steel/realities haunt me" that is not strong enough to carry the real/reality repetition (but it does act as a foil to highlight the actual trajectory for pepa) oh did you know there's a 4k character limit per text block I didn't know that

there was another one that had move/moving pretty close but I forget what. there's also some lines that just feel too unintuitive, like how "wild winter breeze" just is not a phrase people naturally expect and it's not set up with other seasonal indicators so it's really hard to parse unless you're reading the lyrics. HOWEVER, I think the *meaning* of the music is really solid, and there are some really good lyrics and really solid songs; model behavior's really impressive of course, and I do like the descriptors used in lovesick. anyway, one of the reasons I really like invisible is because I actually love bossa nova but I like emotionally fraught lyrics and a lot of bossa nova I've heard tends to be more mild so I do really enjoy hearing lucia outline a 19 year long mental breakdown about her husband abandoning her. also yes she did many things wrong but honestly? she deserves to do whatever she wants. I don't think they even technically divorced

#talking abt musicals #long post

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truckreincarnation · 1 year ago

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The Harm of Daydreaming | Esmée Fournier | 2.4 | ATTN: Frank| RE: Theophania, Avery, Yuliya

Esmée’s breathe was becoming ragged, the more people tried to skirt around the topic the more she bit down on her own tongue. Injuries would fill her own mouth before she had the self-control to speak calmly, to face everyone’s idiotic ideals.

‘Least that’s what she thought, until Shin spoke his mind and Esmée could feel a weight on her shoulders be lifted, if only slightly.

Someone else was pissed at the idea. Someone else understood.

If it wasn’t for him, she knows right now her points would come out far less organised, and so she starts her spiel with a meagre mutter.

“Thank…Thank fuckin’ god. Thank you Shin. You’re right- And everyone else’s optimism is frankly pissing me off but I’ll keep to a pointed discussion right now.”

A huff. She didn’t have the energy to spare to keep her discussions kind.

“We’ve had accidents happen before with the last death, but placing the blame on Pear’s shoulders is a baseless theory. It’s just wishing that you don’t have to condemn someone.”

It was as she said to Harriet long ago, no matter what they’d be damning someone with this incentive. And if it wasn’t Perry who won a vote, it was someone else who’d crack. If everybody else was too much of a coward to tear someone apart, she needed to step up her game.

“First. The question of how someone could know what Shatterstone does is so easy.” A point at Theophania, “It’s literally on the label. On the empty shelf there’s an unattached label, it said something along the lines of Shatterstone: Warning this crystal is to be known to explode when damaged. Handle with extreme care.” A beat, “Next. The cuts on her hands, I thought we surmised it was from the fall-? A few of her injuries have very small splinters in them there is also dried blood on the branches of the trees in the Bound Garden. While not all of them maybe from this it at least started there. Then she held onto her wounds and walked the path we’ve all guessed.”

She crosses her arms over her chest.

“All it took was reading the label for shatterstone and anyone would know its dangerous properties, it was only a matter of time before someone used it against someone else. It isn’t exactly expertise, more of following instructions. With someone who was currently inflicted with violent intrusive thoughts and has been known to lack a filter while under anger, mix both and you’ve got a recipe for disaster. Regardless of if he did it as an accident or on purpose.”

Then, she points to Frank. She’ll be the one to start the aggression again within a trial, don’t test her. This time though, she has more motive than just to save her own skin, she was determined to track down Perry’s killer. So, she’ll be the one to throw accusations out with venom. She’ll fight with claws out if it means her scratch will finally cause someone to break. This wasn’t like how it was with Vivianna, this was pure malice.

“Gloves, out. Now. I wanna compare what I know of the explosion to their markings. If there’s any such tear in them, or even better, multiple tears at random trajectory. Additionally, you were working with metal. That’s what you said, right? What was it you were making? Don’t think of hiding anything if you wanna clear your name.”

No secrets here, cough it up.

“You were also quick to say you saw Perry around 8:20 PM. You’ve been known to dislike her- so what did your thoughts say about her? That if you had the chance to be rid of them, would she be your target? It’s subtle but that could very well have sown the seeds. I dunno why she’d ask you of all people calmly about where both me and Yules were.”

Then, some silence, before.

“Domain would play a part too. Right. Music right? You could easily have made a sound to cover up the shatterstone. It plays randomly- at least as far as we know, I know I’ve been gaining more control over my domain these past few days. So go on, Answer. Quickly, if you may.”

#Esmée #ch2 #trial2 #submission

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drew-mga2022mi5016 · 1 year ago

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Research | Personal Branding - Initial Realisations

This module has us think about who we are as people, what we want to do and how we want to represent ourselves. Who am I? What makes Drew (that's me), Drew?

First, I analyzed my current portfolio and art style to try and identify any strengths and weaknesses, a SWOT analysis if you will. As mentioned earlier, I plan on focusing on 2D animation and illustration and mixed media artwork for now, so my work mainly capitalizes on these aspects. I realised that my art has a certain flavour; sketchy, with a soft palette and somewhat simplistic art style, but still packed with details. In my work, I enjoy adding smaller intricate designs and easter eggs, one could think of it like an onion (admittedly, I stole this phrase from a friend of mine in our Visual Communication department who follows roughly the same work ethic as me. Sorry, Dulana). Furthermore, I am also fond of the process that goes into making art, so I've included process work from concept sketches to the roughs of all my pieces.

The most glaring weakness in my portfolio however, is a severe lack of work that I can tangibly showcase. Although a lame excuse, the reason for this is my investment of time in the degree programme, however this would change with this semester, as the focus is to find a decent internship.

With that done, I now come to the question of what makes me? Why would people want to work with me? Am I a person who is part of a larger machine, or am I the pilot? Am I even related to the machine? Maybe I'm just some painter on the side of the road? I see myself as a creative force of nature, so to speak. I do not think I could merely be one part of a larger project, I'm more like a spontaneous burst of energy on a whim. I do recognize that due to my activities in the Student Chamber at AOD and my previous position as Vice President that I do have a certain skillset that pertains to leadership, communication and consistency, however I feel that in the future I want to make things that are successful because of what they say, not because I made them. In other words, I do not want to chase fame.

At the end of the day, I want to be an independent creator, which is a difficult journey for sure. In order to get there, I need to learn the skill of selling people my ideas, which is essentially (dreadfully) marketing (what a BORE). I'll need to foster an entrepreneurial and narrative mindset for this. At the end of the day, it's simply a means to an end. I also asked the question of where I would proliferate myself, and to that I do not have a solid answer as of yet. Off the top of my head, the first and easiest thing that comes to mind is social media like YouTube, TikTok, Vimeo, Instagram, anywhere people interact. Furthermore, I would love to proliferate in real life as well, through some form of design campaign (AR perhaps?). These are merely initial speculations, so I will have to properly think about this and the feasibility of it as time passes.

Finally, I asked myself what my story was. What got me where I am now? Right now, nothing of note comes to mind. I studied English Literature at school, and on a whim, decided to drop out during my Advanced Level examinations and change gears to the arts. I had realised that the education system in schools are extremely flawed, and wanted a new, non conformational change of scene. I'd always been an artists (in a sense, I wrote novels and drew anime characters from time to time, and my mother and I have a string background in music) and I felt joining the Motion Graphics and Animation programme on campus would help me become a better storyteller. Somewhere along the line, I fell in love with the visual arts again and as of now, I'm on a trajectory to combine my love for literature and art going forward by creating books, graphic novels, short films, table top games (maybe?) and essentially creating my very own universe with all these interconnected characters and stories.

This made me realise that maybe to get where I need to go, an unconventional internship may benefit me here. As a creative, broadening my scope could possibly help me get where I need to be in the future. For example, an internship in finance could help me learn how to actually price my work, lots of creators ask the question "how do I price myself?" Art is hard to quantify as it is, but we need to do it in order to make money (I'm not saying I want to intern in finance, God no, but it illustrates what I'm trying to say about a different sort of internship). In my case, maybe I could look at places with strong connections to art and culture, or hone in on my strengths of music to learn how to create a multisensory experience through my work? I believe now, it's time for a bit of self reflection.

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chantsdemarins · 2 years ago

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❄️Frost Secrets from the other Son

Chapter 11

The Origin of Wolves

I am so thankful for anyone still reading my story, I don't know if I'll ever be able to explain how much this has meant to me to have you along for the ride. I can't believe this is almost over! Chapter 12 will be two parts because there is just so much happening at the end.

I am sorry this is late, my health and my work have been dragging me down. Please comment and reblog. I love your notes!!!

Chapter Summary: Loki wanders, but redeems himself by doing the right thing, not without a little help from Thor. Lillian goes into labor, but not before some epic intimacy brings these two back together.

Smut rating: 🔥10, Loki and Lillian find their frost giant groove...there could be some kinky stuff happening (based on what you feel is kink worthy...you tell me🥵)

Tags: (thank you if you are still around) 💚

@britishserpent

@lokisgoodgirl

@mischief2sarawr

@immersed-in-mischief

@lokisninerealms

@cakesandtom

@sheris532

@lulubelle814

@huntress-artemiss

@kaogasm

"One more round, just because," Lukas nestled his nose into Loki's neck, his breath rough against his skin. He placed a small glass of liquor near his arm, and for a few brief moments, touched Loki's shoulder, letting his fingers linger, before being whisked away by others. Loki had tucked himself out of view in an even darker corner of the already dimly lit tavern.

Loki was past the ability to utilize his better judgment, his arms barely propping himself up, head on a trajectory towards the table he was hunched over. He attempted to dismiss Lukas's attempts at seduction one last time, although accepting his offer to go to the tavern in the first place was likely the more significant mistake of the evening.

Ten fermented barley drinks guzzled at lightning speed later, there he was.

Earlier in the evening, around drink five, he was dancing, unlike last time when he was a heavyweight in Lukas's arms. The bawdy nature of tavern culture resulted in only a few essential garments remaining on his person.

His jacket, sweater, and boots were nowhere to be found. Nothing much was left on his body but his shirt and leather trousers. His sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a frill of white moving in a promenade of its own. It had been a scene. No one noticed when Loki's head finally slammed into the bar among the revelry.

Lukas was too involved in the lively festivities, speaking with other old friends. He continued chatting, unaware of his old lover's changed state of consciousness.

Nothing had happened between them, save the innuendo and occasional reminiscing, but it was enough distance away from Lillian that Loki felt like he was still in contact with the trajectory of his old self.

He could trace it when he drank ale with Lukas, even if Lukas was too forward for Loki's current circumstances. Every line almost crossed caused slight shivers down his spine. Like a rabbit almost snared, dashing off at the last moment, heart racing.

So, when the heavy tavern doors swung wide open, letting in the chill of the night smoke from the cooking outside and one big brother- Loki didn't hear. He remained unconscious, head folded in his arms, face down.

"Loki Odinson, where are you?" Thor yelled across the raucous groups of Asgardian folk, not affecting their merry-making very much.

The occasional woman looked up and over at Thor with enticement and trepidation. Both royals didn't usually show up in taverns together. At the same time, it was usually just the dark, brooding one, not the jolly muscular one…

"I know you are here! Show yourself!"

Thor continued to bellow. This time the music stopped. One guest, a somewhat quirky older man with a pipe, pulled on Thor's arm and pointed to the passed-out man hidden away in the recesses of the room.

"Aye, isn't that there him, Prince Thor? He's been celebrating something with that blonde gent," the old man said as he trotted off to his business.

Lukas stood, watching his mouth gaping. His appearance could use some tidying up to make the correct impression for the more formal rule follower of the family, now staring right at him.

He felt a bit haggard. Silencing a belch with his hand, he walked briskly over to Thor and tried to quiet him.

"Thor, Thor, come now, no need to stop the entire party just to rouse your brother from his ale-induced slumber! Let us just go over there and tap him on the shoulder. You would appreciate the same consideration if you were with friends."

Thor quickly flashed his narrow blue eyes at Lukas, speaking calmly but just as loud as before.

"I will not lower my voice or go over there. He shall rise and make the walk of shame towards me. My brother has been hiding here on Asgard beneath our noses while his wife is about to enter labor!"

Lukas was stunned. More like devastated. Crestfallen immediately, his sharp inhale moved his entire chest.

"Wife?"

"Yes, wife, you amorist. Or did he conveniently not tell you?" Thor wasn't apt to tell lies, but he didn't want his brother's already tarnished reputation to get even more corroded. So, he continued.

"Or worse did he tell you, and you disregarded his state, refilling his cup at your pleasure!"

"There wasn't any of that kind of cup filling, Thor," Lukas sheepishly admitted.

Thor shook his golden locks, "that isn't what I meant! I meant literally, the cheap ale you both are consuming. I meant you aimed to get him inebriated."

Still, in shock at Loki's lack of explanation of the current pressing matters of his life, he moved his bangs to the side of his face and seemed too stunned to argue with the elder brother's curt summation of his intentions.

"Loki Odinson, I will say it one more time, and this time you better move, or you are going over my shoulder, and I will carry you out. YOUR SON IS BEING BORN AT THIS VERY SECOND."

Loki caught the words "son" and "born"; his eyes opened.

He briefly studied the location of his head to his body, noticing it was not upright, and there was a soft accumulation of drool on his arm and his cheek. Using his flouncy white sleeve to wipe his face, he slowed, roused, and sat up.

With both embarrassment and disdain, he looked at Thor standing in the ancient doorway.

"What…," he uttered, wiping his face further anxiously.

"Yes, brother, Lillian needs you. I only happened to know because Heimdall got a distress call from her. He sent me to find you!"

"You are to be a father imminently."

He was up now. He grabbed his cloak and boots, tripping over his feet as he hastily pulled them on while running towards the door. Before blowing past Thor, he stopped in his tracks, grabbed Thor's cloak collar with both hands, and leaned in close to his brother's bearded face.

"You are not off the hook for this embarrassment you've caused me."

Almost head-butting, his brother Thor leaned in closer to Loki, "you, my brother, have caused the embarrassment yourself by sneaking here and not telling your friend what was going on with you."

Loki made a huffing sound and dropped his brother's collar; straightening it up, he said, "Thor, this will not be the last you hear of this."

"Go to Lillian, you fool, sober up and be there for her."

Loki was now infuriated. He swung his arm in the direction of his brother's face. Thor ducked with his usual agility at his advantage. Loki missed him and hit his hand hard against the tavern wall.

Immediately in pain, Loki yelled out, "you colossal asshole!" His hand would need to be bandaged; a sheen of blood pooled at his knuckles, dripping down onto his leg.

Lukas came rushing to his side, only to have Loki rebuff and tell him to go away before slipping out the door.

"Heimdall, take me to Midgard, take me to Lillian!" he yelled louder than he probably ever had before in his life.

A few days after Loki left, Lillian received an exciting package on her doorstep. She wished for the days of emails or texts, but it seemed her life was currently a mixture of all forms of popular communication in the last 1,000 years.

The package contained information about giving birth to a Jötunn child, but it seemed to be written by someone who might know her situation more personally.

She sat down next to the fireplace and opened the package slowly, not wanting to uncover something dangerous. It could have been anything.

A long letter fell out of the wrapping. It described the precautions needed to be taken for a mixed realm birth. Specifically, it mentioned -a sexual/mating bond ritual was necessary for labor to begin officially. Lillian couldn't believe what she was reading.

According to the author, since she was now a frost giant, she must have sex with a frost giant to give birth!

She felt something like a flush cross her face as if her cold body could grow warm. She placed a hand on her cheek, and sure enough, a blush erupted. She hadn't thought of Loki's Jötunn form since the night in the cave, when she had taken him so wildly, affirming the beauty she saw in him.

Since Loki left, she also began to feel the beauty of her frost giant form. Having extra time she wasn't used to having, Lillian braided her lengthy hair and added feathers and other small animal bones around each delicate plait. She had augmented her wardrobe to include what seemed like Jötunn-style details, wrapping furs and silks around her. Her red eyes were piercing but also magnetizing, alluring.

Her tall body was even more potent than her human form. She felt like an athlete. Some days she didn't want to return to her human self. If it never happened, a part of her liked being Jötunn. It just wasn't compatible with Loki's ideology, his vision of himself in the realms, and what it would mean to live and love as his other self, but it was beginning to seem familiar to Lillian, not a monster-like.

She could sense deeper into the beliefs of the Jötunn and was swept away into the simplicity of faith, the way they believed in their realm, trusted it to hold their feelings and emotions safe for them suggested a relationship they would do anything to defend. Both stunning to behold and terrifying to understand.

She pictured Loki. Her desire was burning; whether this strange letter was correct, she couldn't risk it. She would take the advice given. It could also bring her closer to him, bridge the distance that felt unfathomable at this point, and bring him back to her.

The truth was she was very concerned. She knew that she might even be overdue at this point. Without the prenatal care she needed, she was guessing, and when Loki was there with her, he was thinking too much.

Her belly was big and very active. Even in her large form, her son was running out of space. It was time for him to arrive. It was time for them to figure out how to be a family. Discover their son's identity and love him unconditionally no matter what. Even if Loki struggled to love her that way, they were almost to the finish line.

Lillian didn't know what part of the current light cycle Asgard was in. All she knew was it was nighttime on Earth. Where Loki might be at this moment was mysterious. She walked outside to the porch. The cabin was far away from peering eyes, she still hoped. Since the letter was dropped off without her knowing, it was unclear if she had possibly been seen.

Lillian had not wanted to call out for Heimdall unless necessary, and she had reserved it only for a moment like this. The letter was a sign, the advice risky and strange, but using her intuition, it seemed fitting. What else did she have but her gut?

"Heimdall, if you can hear us, send Loki," she quietly spoke into the night air.

A light flashed across the sky like a comet. Maybe she had been heard.

She went back inside, still anxious about being seen, closed the curtains, and made herself more mugwort tea. Lillian looked down at her belly and said to her baby, "hey you, I need a latte soon, don't tell any grandiose healers, but this tea tastes like dirt."

Heimdall had heard her, but instead of answering himself, having to explain where her partner was because he knew exactly where he was, he sent a message to Thor.

"Find Loki, bring him to Midgard."

That was all it took; Thor immediately left the court dining hall where he and Sif were currently laughing and recounting the stories they had told hundreds of times. Sif looked startled at his sudden departure, not understanding what could take him from her company. His dinner plate of roasted chicken and yams was left behind to grow cold.

As Loki exited the tavern, Thor followed behind him, still talking with a raised voice.

"Not so fast, brother. We are going together, you can be mad at me all you want, but you can't do this alone."

"Thor, you cannot come with me, under no circumstances."

"So, you are now a healer? Can you do this on your own? Brother, you accuse me of being daft, but now you act as though you have this under control. Is the child not, um, is the child not, like you?" Thor stammered in his words, clumsy.

He knew he was on the precipice of Loki rejecting his presence so much that they may have a physical altercation.

"What does it matter if my son is Jötunn or Aesir?" Loki's words were like embers.

They had not spoken about this. Loki's "adoption" from Jötunnheim had not been discussed amongst the brothers in depth. He had been talking to their parents.

"Thor, you cannot come with me because Lillian is no longer human."

He had said it. The words a curse thrown into the evening air.

"Brother, what do you mean, not human?"

Loki was careful, but he also was outraged. Perhaps he was saying too much to the wrong person whose loyalty was never in question, tied to their father's crown.

"If you must know, she had to be turned to give birth to our son. She had to be turned into a frost giant."

Everything was all out now. The echoes of his sentiments whipped around the tavern's exterior and through the forested thicket, it was housed.

"Brother, what have you and Lillian done?"

With that statement, a flash of light descended between the siblings, leaving Thor standing in the tavern view, watching his brother's form disappear.

Loki ran to the cabin; his legs couldn't carry him fast enough to Lillian. At that very time, a heavy snowstorm had descended, and waves of snow covered the ground, nearly erasing his footprints instantly as he sprinted up the winding path. His boots, too slick for the ice, almost slide across the wooden porch, almost into the glass windowpane. He recovered his balance and opened the door, taking one of the deepest breaths of his life.

In all the questioning he had been doing of himself, his purpose, and his relationship with Lillian, his son's life was never something short of a miracle to Loki. Having never pictured himself as a father, the image of his son was a wonder to him. He knew he would meet him soon, saying prayers in his head for his health. Loki imagined all his years, all the men and women he had slept with. The passion, the entanglement. He always saw Thor getting married and having children, not himself. The gods seemed to finally have a different plan for him, one in which he discovered his family through his and his son's truth.

His son had made it here, almost.

All they had gone through was to ensure he would be born safely. All they had sacrificed already, especially their relationship. Or at least Lillian's sacrifice contributed to Loki's confusion, his feelings of disgust for frost giants, for himself.

Loki opened the door, and snow blew in with him. He was practically covered in icicles in the short distance he ran after being dropped off by the force of the Bifrost. It was ironic, and it made Lillian laugh. She got out of the chair she was sitting in and walked quickly over to Loki with one of the towels she had collected in the living room, trying to keep up with mundane tasks like the laundry. She wordlessly dried him off.

His eyes were closed, appreciating every touch of her hands on his face, shoulders, and torso. Even through his cloak, he could feel her fingers tracing his body; it filled him with electricity.

"You should be sitting down, Lillian," he said, grabbing her hands and ending the ecstasy that had been building.

"What are you doing drying me off when I should be attending to you!" Loki spoke loudly, his seemingly small hands around her face, parting her lengthy hair, cradling her jaw with the meaty parts of his palms, as he looked deeply into her eyes.

He then placed his hands lower and found her belly. The ironwood forest rendered his ability to use his siður to communicate with his son, so he was reduced to using his heart.

He could feel it beating in his chest for both his son and Lillian.

It was like they were never apart; she was never turned into a frost giant. As he slipped his hands under her shirt, feeling his son, his hands wandered upward, feeling her breasts so swollen with milk, nourishment for his child, the new prince of Asgard. He was incredibly turned on.

He felt turned on by her, herself, and her frost-giant form.

Lillian noticed his cock was hard in his pants, tightly straining against the leather. Loki removed his cloak and other garments until he was only left in his flouncy white blouse, billowy sleeves, and black painted nails. His ample cock proudly escaped from beneath the hem of the shirt.

He brushed his lips against hers, and she responded by kissing him passionately, even if Loki was on his tippy toes. She held his face in her hands and interlaced her hands through his silky black locks. Loki kissed her neck and took off her shirt. Looking at her breasts fully in front of him, not half hidden under clothes, was shocking. He was lost for words as he placed his lips on one of her sensitive nipples, nipping and coursing his tongue across the aroused skin.

"Loki, how did you know we needed to make love before the baby could be born?" Lillian said breathlessly.

Loki stopped kissing her for a moment and was stupefied.

"I didn't know. I felt such a strong attraction to you when I walked through the door, but Thor told me you were already in labor!

Confused, Loki searched her face for more answers.

'Loki, I received a strange letter on the doorstep, it suggested that I had to follow Jötunn's custom, and we must finally become mates. We must make love as our Jötunn selves. It prepares the child to be a part of his ancestors. I think it will make us married in the eyes of the Jötunn. I know it's crazy. I don't know who could have left the note. But it must be true, Loki seeing you like this, feeling you."

He might have wished to stop if going further meant that he would have to change into his Jötunn self, but he felt his inhibitions pass over him, a wave in the ocean hitting the shore and then pulled back. He didn't feel compelled to stop his ministrations towards Lillian, the woman he loved in this era, in this time of his long and complicated life.

"I feel very attracted to you at this moment Lillian," Loki whispered.

"It is like something is pulling me towards you. Maybe it is as simple as," he paused, continuing to kiss her lips, "being so away from you," his tongue plunging into her mouth.

She replied, "in my human body, I think I would not want much to do with you. I would be ready to have this baby. Sex would not be on my mind," Lillian's words just audible to Loki's senses.

"Your Jötunn body is different," he said, touching her body all over, and removing the last of her clothes.

"You need me to change into my frost giant body. You need my cock in that form. I know. I know I can feel it surging through my body. Something is happening to me too."

With that, Loki concentrated. He remembered the locket Lyra had given him. Rummaging around the thick oak drawers in the living room, he found it. He knew that inside would be something to help him. He opened the locket, and immediately, he felt his body begin to shift. It was not like before, not like in the cave. This was more of a volcanic feeling. He felt as if the planet was changing his form for him, it didn't hurt, but it also didn't feel pleasant.

When he opened his eyes, his body was transformed. He was in his Jötunn form and was even more filled with desire. He looked down at his cock, and it was truly magnificent. He had not noticed before in the cave, mainly because it was entirely in Lillian's mouth most of the time while he was in his frost giant form.

"Are you sure this is okay for the baby Lilly," he said, walking over to her and taking her into his arms with a swift swoop like a cotton ball.

"Yes, I am sure," she closed her eyes while she spoke, feeling ethereal and grounded simultaneously. She longed for him, not just his cock, not just the claiming of her with it. She longed for their shared acknowledgment of their passion for one another and their commitment to whatever mystery brought them together.

They tumbled to the bed in a lavish display. Neither of them acting like proper frost giants, their feelings not incorporated into the ecosystem but coursing through their bodies. Getting Lillian on top of Loki took some finagling, even as Jötunn making love when you are nine months pregnant is no easy task.

Once she was on him, it was a decadent pursuit for her heat to find his cock. The essence of his being once again inside her created an avalanche. She was euphoric as her muscular body moved in time with his upward thrusts. His right hand held her hips steady, and his other had her full breasts, squeezing, intensifying their passion. Loki's cock was being held by her tight heat, much tighter than he remembered. His every movement was like a moon orbiting a planet, a gravitational inevitability. He could not be inside her enough.

When they finally orgasmed, they were at the center of the nine realms. Or traveled back in time before the creation of the universe. A stillness found both, so full and yet so quiet. They could feel their thoughts re-enter their minds.

The euphoria subsided, and they knew that labor would begin soon if all would go as they were told it would.

The snowstorm still bellowed outside, leaving meters and meters of snow surrounding the small cabin. If they wanted help from humans, they would be unlikely to get any. As for Thor assisting in the birth or any healers, even his mother, they both knew intuitively this was frost giant business, and they wanted to try and bring the baby into the world themselves, as scary as it seemed.

They lay in bed, both quiet, waiting for the baby to tell them what to do next. Loki held Lillian fiercely, his frost giant arms wrapped around her, Lillian's head tucked under his. He kissed her forehead and reveled in the last moments. He was still Loki, not yet a dad. He smiled as he nestled into Lillian's hair, his cerulean eyes dreaming. Then he knew. Lillian gently looked at him, turning to face him, but he already understood, he had become reattuned to Lilly and his son without his magic.

This was it.

On to Chapter 12

#loki fanfic #loki marvel #tom hiddleston #loki laufeyson #jotun loki #pregnancy #loki fluff #loki fandom #loki #thor #mcu #unplanned pregnancy #frost giant loki #avengers #loki fanfiction #loki odinson #loki smut #loki (marvel)#loki angst

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maxwell-grant · 3 years ago

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Downfall of a Dark Avenger Part 1: El Sombra

Having finished reading Al Ewing’s El Sombra trilogy and having had enough time to digest it, I’d like to talk about the trajectory of it’s titular protagonist, the character and series’s relationship with it’s influences. Relating to The Shadow and Zorro and general pulp archetypes, and also the way it incorporates Astro Boy’s Pluto into the mix. My interest in Pluto’s imagery led to me reading Naoki Urasawa’s Pluto, and I will go into the correlation between all of these seemingly random sources coming together.

But before we can talk about what El Sombra becomes, we must talk about what he is, and where he starts.

The very first chapter of El Sombra is dedicated to establishing the happy scenery of the village of Pasito, as a big wedding is drawing the entire town together, eager to see one of it’s greatest heroes marry his sweetheart. We get a great description of said hero Heraclio...and then the reveal that the character we’re gonna be following for the rest of the story is not Heraclio, but instead his loser brother Djego, a morose, slow-witted poet largely considered a joke by the village, currently being rejected and beaten by the love of his life, which is just about the 2nd worst thing that happens to him that day, followed by winged Nazis storming the village, murdering scores of men, women and children, killing Djego’s brother as he watches helplessly, and then said brother cursing Djego with his dying breath as Djego just barely escapes into the desert, with nothing but a sword and a wedding sash in hand. Djego is probably the last man in the village anyone could have possibly expected to become a hero (which may be part of why he ended the way he did).

Cut to 9 years later, Pasito has been transformed into a mechanized nightmare, a clockwork city of endless toiling and suffering ruled by Nazis, freely enacting their every dark whim on it’s population, revealed to be little more than just a large-scale experiment conducted by the Nazis to increase workforce enough to match Britain’s. After two agonizing chapters with little more than Nazi atrocities to occupy our time, we get our first look at the intrepid hero, Djego. And how does El Sombra introduce himself? Through laughter.

The laughter. Rich and strong, echoing around the square, freezing the milling workers in their tracks. An awful laugh - a terrible laugh of hope and joy and strength! A sound that had not been heard in the clockwork-town for nine years.

as the sound of laughter echoed across the town, the men shuddered and glanced at each other briefly, as though hearing the first sounds of an approaching storm.

The smile on the creature's face was powerful and confident and utterly unafraid. To Alexis, it seemed like the smile the devil might have in the deepest pits of Hell.

For the most part, El Sombra is heavily modeled after Zorro. He’s got Zorro’s swashbuckling fighting style, wields primarily a sword, his main outfit is styled partially after Douglas Fairbanks’s costume, he can be quite friendly and charming and peppers an “amigo” at every sentence. His name is the same as Diego’s minus one letter, his main enemies specifically consist of tyrants who rule over his town, and his mission of vengeance gradually turns him into a rebellious, inspirational figure for the city he strives to liberate. El Sombra is Zorro vs Nazis and it delivers on that.

But nothing is ever quite as it seems in this trilogy, and the first installment of El Sombra goes to great lenghts to establish that El Sombra is a long, long way from being the pure and heroic fantasy that Zorro embodies. He doesn’t live in a world where problems can be solved with guile, luck, good swordplay and a good smile. He doesn’t live in a world where he can show up, humble imperialists and get the people behind him. He lives in a world where the only recourse available to him, to even stand a chance, was nine years of an extended fugue state trip through the desert, ingesting hallucinogens, having his soul shattered and then repaired into something much, much darker. And it’s in those moments that we start to see why exactly his name is El Sombra.

There was something in his voice as cold and unyielding as a gravestone.

"Djego is dead, Father Santiago. He was useless and stupid and pathetic. And he died and left good flesh behind. So I took his place." The eyes behind the mask met Santiago's then, and the priest breathed in sharply. There was nothing of Djego in them. There was nothing human in them.

Something bigger had lodged there, something stronger and faster than a man, something with a laugh that could shake mountains and a spirit like hot iron and fire. Something better.

"I am his shadow. El Sombra."

Atop of his inhuman speed and agility and skill at combat and murder, Djego repeteadly demonstrates skills and traits that, not only did he not have prior, but he couldn’t have picked simply in his desert sojourn. He knows how to apply advanced first aid, he speaks German, in Gods of Manhattan he is able to get the drop on Blood-Spider with a textbook Shadow hypnotic trick, and for all of those, the only explanation he gives is a shrug and “I picked it up somewhere”. Djego had the same trip to the unknown that defined The Shadow and so many other pulp heroes, except Ewing never provides any explanation for El Sombra’s advanced skills other than what the character says. Because there is no explanation. El Sombra is bigger than that.

El Sombra has to be, because a mere man with training and skills and strength and inspirational heroism isn’t going to cut it against what he’s up to. His brother had all of those things, and he died in the first chapter. Like The Shadow, El Sombra has warped himself to address calamity upon mankind, and morphed into something bigger and darker than just another vigilante.

In that moment, El Sombra knew himself to be no longer a man. He was, instead, what the ticking clock had made of him. He was a monster.

In fact, with the devil imagery Ewing grants upon El Sombra at points, and the reocurring “itch in the back of the skull” prelude to crucial moments, you can pinpoint exactly the points where El Sombra’s character traits would later manifest in Immortal Hulk, with Ewing’s reinvention of the Hulk plumbing the darkest possible alternatives for said character by digging into the greater horror roots of the character. This will be more relevant when we get to Pluto though.

But to put it plainly, Djego may be Zorro in every aspect at his surface. He may desperately strive to be Zorro, and it may be his Zorro traits that allow him to truly save Pasito. But Djego is not Zorro. He is El Sombra, as illustrated most in the following sequence. The moment where he pulls the most Shadow-esque destruction of a Nazi ever since The Shadow convinced a Nazi general to gut himself with his own sword.

The chained man began to laugh. Softly at first, then louder, the sound rolling through the quiet, cold room like the skeletons of winter leaves in a chill and bitter wind. It was not a laugh of joy, or of hope, or of strength, or of anything associated with sunlight and clean air. It was a laugh that belonged in these dank and fetid conditions, a snide chuckle, a sneering, contemptuous snicker. A laugh like a thousand beetles marching across a sheet of glass.

It was a sound that would have been sickeningly familiar to anyone who had once been a guest of the Palace Of Beautiful Thoughts. The old man started back, looking at the features of his chained captive, breathing in sharply as the handsome face of the terrorist became foreign and strange, warped by the noise emanating from it. He recognised the sound too, recognised the dry, hollow chuckle. And it chilled him.

The chained man turned his head, as though on aged bones, and smiled, a dry and sinister grin. And then he spoke. And the voice that came from his throat did not belong to El Sombra at all.

The chained man spoke with Master Minus' voice.

The chained man's smile froze him in his tracks. It promised terrible cruelty, a mephistophilean love of manipulation, and the eyes sparkled with fire from the depths of Hell itself. The old man sucked in another breath scented with sickly yellow and looked desperately away, to find himself staring once again at the mirror, at the face that was surely not his own...

The old man, who suddenly felt neither old nor a man, raised his hands, fingertips touching the aged, wrinkled face with the unfamiliar eyes. Could he fool himself that his fingertips travelled across soft, worn flesh, lined with years of service? Or was he feeling sterile plastic, soft, loose latex? He shuddered, the motion travelling up his spine, his hands shivering and twitching as he tugged ...

"Take off the mask."

... and the old, wrinkled, false face was torn away, coming off in long strips, pulled away bit by bit to reveal another face underneath. His eyes were wide, unblinking, unable to close as he stared at the face underneath, the face that had been there all the time.

Behind him, the thin beetle-voice spoke once more.

And this is what it said:

"APRIL FOOL! Quién es el hombre? Quién es el hombre? I'm the hombre! I'm the hombre! Now all I need are some pants."

El Sombra grinned down from the vertical rack at Master Minus, slumped on his knees in front of the blood spattered mirror, staring without eyelids at the remains of his face. He had succeeded in tearing all of the flesh from it, and all that remained were a few scraps of muscle clinging to a crimson, bloodstained skull, with two grotesque eyeballs gazing mercilessly at their own reflection. El Sombra smiled and did the voice, again while he made another attempt to work his left hand free of the shackle that held it in place.

"Creatures of the night... what music... they make... I vant to suck your blooood... yeah, you keep looking, amigo. Intense shame boosted by mind-warping drugs, hey? That's very original, I wouldn't know what that's like at all... ah, these bastard cuffs!" He was babbling, a result of the endorphin rush from the intense pain and the thrill of victory.

The yellow mist coursing through his veins - the mist Master Minus relied on so heavily - had been counterbalanced by the Trichocereus Validus already in his system, the desert cactus that had destroyed and rebuilt his mind. But while El Sombra was in a stronger position than the torturer realised, Master Minus was weaker than he knew, far too used to the easy victories the mist brought him, not realising that his own exposure to it made him ripe for psychological attack. The old man had spent years claiming that he was immune to the yellow mist, but nobody had ever been in a position to test that claim - until now.

In the end, El Sombra is able to drive the Nazis out of Pasito, and he’s succeded in ultimately inspiring the population to rally against them, eventually winning not because of said darkness granting him power, but by turning said darkness into a tool of good. The true victories of El Sombra are not in the violence, but in selfless heroism, in actions big and small. And in the end, He’s given even the opportunity of a happy ending, to settle down in the town he’s wanted so long to rescue. And if this were the story of Djego, the poet turned hero of his hometown, that’s where it would end.

But this is not Djego’s story. It’s the story of a man who’s destroyed himself to be rebuilt as an avenging force of nature. Someone who’s subsumed as much of his humanity as he could, who now can see and done things much beyond the scope of ordinary man, and now must pay the price of said terrible gifts. Who will pay much, much bigger prices for them in the future. It’s the story of El Sombra, and it’s only just begun:

It was too bad about Djego. El Sombra regretted little, but he regretted denying Djego that one small chance at happiness. But it couldn't be helped.

Until Adolf Hitler was dead, El Sombra could never rest

The man walked west, towards the sinking sun.

#replies tag #pulp heroes #al ewing #el sombra #the shadow

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onestowatch · 3 years ago

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Lowertown Is Growing Up [First Look + Q&A]

Photo: Shamshawan Scott

Olivia Osby and Avsha Weinberg always knew they wanted to make music. The difficult part came when the inevitable questions of how and with who would arise. At least that was the case until a chance encounter in a high school math class in suburban Atlanta, which would eventually serve as the birthplace for Lowertown. Now, a few odd years later Olivia and Avsha find themselves signed to Dirty Hit, home to the likes of The 1975 and beabadoobee, and aiming to make their most ambitious project to date.

“The Gaping Mouth,” a sprawling confessional that blends soft-spoken lyricism bordering on avant-garde poetry and experimental indie rock instrumentation, arrives as the first taste of that ambition. The titular single from their forthcoming EP, set to release September 16, feels like a daring call to arms, a single firework shot in the dark, impossible to ignore and indistinguishable. Most notably of all, it feels like a noted maturation for the duo, a step forward into new, uncharted territory.

On the new single, Osby ponders on the object of her affection, or rather attention, repeatedly uttering the lines “You are the iris in my eye” until they no longer seem to be coming from her, taking on the weight of a mantra spoken outside herself. It’s only one such instance of the duo’s newfound stream-of-conscious lyrical approach, which sees them ruminating on the fallacy of growing up and the associated fantasies that come with it. All of this is complemented by the duo’s fearless instrumentation and production flourishes, which call to mind everything from experimental ‘90s indie rock to the sonic detours that permeated Sufjan Steven’s early works.

We had the chance to speak to Lowertown via e-mail about the difficulties of shifting from “teenagerdom” to adulthood, the advantages of having a french fry fork and their bold new musical direction.

You two originally met in a high school math class. How did the discussion of music first get brought up and how did it lead to forming Lowertown?

Avsha: Olivia was a new student at the school, and I was shy, so we had sat next to each other for some time before we really had any conversation. After some months, I would look at the music Olivia would listen to over her shoulder and make small excited comments or jokes. That’s how our friendship began, through comments about Olivia’s love of emo music or my insufferable judgment on some new music I had heard. It took a year for us to start thinking about doing music together. The eventual forming of Lowertown happened on a beach in Ottawa, where I was again making a judgment on some new song I had found and decided to show Olivia some of my demos. That was where we decided to work together. Those demos and others eventually formed our first record Friends

Were there ever any thoughts about pursuing music before that fateful meeting?

Olivia: I’d always hoped to be able to do music professionally, but it had always seemed like it was so far away from being possible. I always knew that even if my solo music did not work out as a career, I wanted to work in the music field. Whether that was becoming a manager for other musicians or becoming a booking agent, I knew for a long time I wanted to be surrounded by music no matter what I ended up doing.

A: I had spent almost my entire life hoping to be a musician. I started playing classical piano at age four, and up until two years ago, was planning on going to a conservatory and becoming a concert pianist. As my taste expanded, I taught myself guitar, drums, bass, and production, all with the hopes of continuing professionally. Growing up, I was exposed to many different artists and genres, and I always wanted to give people what the music that I grew up with gave to me. The demos that I had recorded in middle school were the ones I showed Olivia and the ones that led to us knowing that we had to start a band.

What was it like signing to Dirty Hit?

A: The process of signing was definitely a difficult one as we had begun talking with the label only a few months before COVID, and as we were narrowing down on the decision to sign, it became incredibly difficult to see a scenario where we would be able to meet anybody on the label. We ended up having many, many FaceTime and Zoom conversations, wherein we were able to talk in-depth with the team and get a good sense of the label. These conversations were really great, and it was a great signifier of the relationship to come as we have had a really great relationship with the label. Although the signing process was tumultuous, we were able to grasp that the relationship between Dirty Hit and their artists was a familial one, and that made us incredibly excited to work together.

If you could have one thing in the world at this very moment, what would it be?

O: A good night’s sleep. I have terrible insomnia and can’t remember the last time I had one.

A: A french fry fork. I’m pretty exhausted with how messy eating french fries is.

Has the past year affected how your approach music at all?

A: In the past, I knew that the more I worked, the better I became, but this year has shown me that the times that you choose to completely leave some things alone are just as important as the times that you focus all your energy on them. I was completely drained of inspiration and motivation until I was able to sit and do absolutely nothing. The lack of music helped me realize that there was a lot about myself that I wasn’t thinking about. I was able to learn more about myself and have new sources of inspiration and thought.

O: For sure. This year has given me an excessive amount of time to get better at playing music in general since I’ve been on my own so much. It has also given me too much time to sit and think by myself, which can be beneficial for music but also pretty detrimental at the same time. I’ve ended up feeling like my old sound and writing process was really stale, since I had been writing songs the same way for years. I’ve ended up experimenting a lot with new sounds and approaches to songwriting, which has been extremely refreshing and I feel like it’s brought out some of my best work. I used to put way less emphasis on instrumentation, but now that I’ve progressed a lot musically, I’ve written a lot of instrumentation that I’m very proud of and that has ended up developing into Lowertown work. I also learned a lot about production over this past year which has been extremely inspiring and helpful for my solo work.

How did you approach the songwriting on “The Gaping Mouth?” The lyricism and experimental instrumentation are honestly breathtaking.

A: When composing the instrumentals, I wanted to write a song that was very expressive and unique but that worked entirely on feeling rather than a traditional verse and chorus song. I wanted to write the piece with points that I knew the guitars would push Olivia’s voice to the forefront and points that raised the energy around Olivia’s words. Olivia’s lyrics are so personal, and she always has so much to say, so I wanted the whole song to ebb and flow together with the identical, and occasionally reciprocal, emotion and intimacy.

O: Avsha sent me this beautiful guitar piece one day and it immediately connected with me, and I stayed up all night working on it. I recorded a demo take of the vocals, just singing/talking over the song where it felt right and natural. That first take I took at home at four in the morning actually ended up being used in the final song because it felt so emotive and raw. The first vocal take had an unmatched authenticity that we couldn’t capture again in the studio no matter how many takes we tried. Our producer Catherine ended up falling in love with it as well and did not want to try to replicate something that was already amazing as it was.

There’s a real sense of maturation present not just in the delivery of the single but in the lyrics, “Being stupid and being 15 / Being older and think I know who I am and what I want… / The way I stay the same and I never change.” Is growing up or rather the idea of growing up a central theme to the music you’re currently working on?

O: I had just graduated high school when we were writing this new project, and I was feeling extremely anxious about the trajectory of my life. I kept thinking about if I was doing all that I should be doing at this age and how much had I really changed since the beginning of high school. I felt like a lot of mannerisms and detrimental ways of thinking that had plagued me when I was 14-15 were still incredibly present in my life, and it felt pathetic to think that I had not made much progress on some of my biggest shortcomings since I had first become a teenager. I feel like at 18/19, you’re not quite an adult, but you’re no longer just a teenager. You begin to shoulder real responsibility and have a lot of agency over your life. It’s quite terrifying being the one who has the power to make important personal decisions. If you screw up, it’s on you and no one else. The transition from high school where you have assignments to turn in every day and tests and a crazy amount of structure (you wake up and go to bed the same time every weekday) to making music and creating with a self-made schedule can be extremely jarring. I’m still grappling with that transition, as my workflow can sometimes trail into six in the morning which sometimes becomes a problem.

“The Gaping Mouth” is the eponymous single from your forthcoming EP. What can people expect from your new EP?

O: It’s gonna be leveled up from anything we’ve dropped before! This is our first project recorded in a studio setting as well as working in-person with a producer. We’ve matured since our last project as musicians and we’ve simply grown more into adults. A lot of this was written when we were 18 and when we’d just turned 19, and a lot of things happened at that point in our lives to write about. Our producer Catherine really helped push me to my full potential while working together. There are some louder songs mixed with some instrumentally dense and beautiful songs. There’s a good amount of experimentation as well in this project that I’m excited for everyone to hear.

A: We’ve focused so much on our songwriting and composition; I think people will be able to hear how we’ve matured. I think this EP reflects our need to always change our sound and grow it. It’s exciting because I think it’s really fresh and still has our musical roots sewn into the core.

And what’s one thing you hope people take away from this next stage of your music?

A: I hope people are able to see the world and the story that we want to create with our music. I hope people can see that our sound will always be maturing and that our music can be surprising and exciting.

O: I feel like our fan base has grown alongside us. Lowertown has been a project since we were 16 and it feels like it has already come so far, which is so amazing and I’m really thankful for everything that’s happened thus far. I hope our music can continue to authentically capture each stage of life Avsha and I live through while making music together. This record was written fresh after graduating high school, so I hope those who are grappling with the jarring transition from teenagerdom to adulthood can find some solace in the feelings expressed in this record.

What is your go-to fast food order?

O: We’re both pescatarian so sometimes finding easy fast food can be annoying. I’m a big burrito person so I’ll always get a bean burrito with a ton of veggies.

A: A universal choice for me in any fast food place would be an extra large order of fries, or however many is the most they offer, and a large Diet Coke. There were points during this year where every day of the week was punctuated with an absurd amount of McDonald’s fries and hot sauce.

Who are your Ones To Watch?

O: Pretty Sick , Horse Jumper of Love, N0v3l

A: Uboa, OOIOO, Donzii

#lowertown #interview #the gaping mouth #indie #indie rock

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bubblesandgutz · 4 years ago

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Every Record I Own - Day 646: METZ Atlas Vending

This is another album highlight of 2020.

I’d love to talk about METZ from a personal angle... crossing Western Canada with them while on what would wind up being the final tour for These Arms Are Snakes back in 2009, but I’m gonna save that for when I get around to talking about their debut album. So instead, I’m just gonna share the bio I wrote for their album Atlas Vending last year.

“Change is inevitable if you’re lucky,” says guitarist/vocalist Alex Edkins while talking about Atlas Vending, the fourth full-length album by Toronto’s METZ. “Our goal is to remain in flux, to grow in a natural and gradual way. We’ve always been wary to not overthink or intellectualize the music we love but also not satisfied until we’ve accomplished something that pushes us forward.” The music made by Edkins and his compatriots Hayden Menzies (drums) and Chris Slorach (bass) has always been a little difficult to pin down. Their earliest recordings contained nods to the teeming energy of early ‘90s DIY hardcore, the aggravated angularities of This Heat, and the noisy riffing of AmRep’s quintessential guitar manglers, but there was never a moment where METZ sounded like they were paying tribute to the heroes of their youth. If anything, the sonic trajectory of their albums captured the journey of a band shedding influences and digging deeper into their fundamental core—steady propulsive drums, chest-thumping bass lines, bloody-fingered guitar riffs, the howling angst of our fading innocence. With Atlas Vending, METZ not only continues to push their music into new territories of dynamics, crooked melodies, and sweat-drenched rhythms, they explore the theme of growing up and maturing within a format typically suspended in youth.

Covering seemingly disparate themes such as paternity, crushing social anxiety, addiction, isolation, media-induced paranoia, and the restless urge to leave everything behind, each of Atlas Vending’s ten songs offer a snapshot of today's modern condition and together form a musical and narrative whole. Album opener “Pulse” is a completely unnerving exercise in reductionist tension, with verses providing little more than a lone discordant chord, a hammering kick drum, and the occasional punctuation of a diving bass note. From there METZ launches into “Blind Youth Industrial Park,” an absolute scorcher of paranoid dissonance and malicious force centered on a chromatic descending riff and a merciless four-to-the-floor drum battery.

The album hits its stride with “No Ceiling”—a minute-and-a-half rager that comes about as close to containing a pop hook as anything METZ has ever written. Though it’s still saturated with in-the-red distortion, this truncated anthem about discovering love and purpose provides the rare counterpoint to the band’s grievous compositions. But there’s no yielding to complacency on Atlas Vending, and the mercurial nature of love and romance is expertly captured in the alternately brutal verses and beguiling choruses of “Hail Taxi.” If METZ’s current mission is to mirror the inevitable struggles of adulthood, they’ve successfully managed to tap into the conflicted relationship between rebellion and revelry with the song’s tactics of offsetting their signature bombast with anthemic melodic resolutions.

The song sequencing follows a cradle-to-grave trajectory, spanning from primitive origins through increasingly nuanced and turbulent peaks and valleys all the way to the climactic closer, “A Boat to Drown In.” The lyrics speak to this arc as well, with the songs addressing life’s struggles all the way through to death, as Edkins snarls “crashed through the pearly gates and opened up my eyes, I can see it now” before the band launches into the album’s cascading outro.

While past METZ albums thrived on an abrasive relentlessness, the trio embarked on Atlas Vending with the goal to make a more patient and honest record—something that invited repeated listens rather than a few exhilarating bludgeonings. It’s as if the band realized they were in it for the long haul, and their music could serve as a constant as they navigated life’s trials and tribulations. The result is a record that sounds massive, articulate, and earnest. Bolstered by the co-production of Ben Greenberg (Uniform) and the engineering and mixing skills of Seth Manchester (Daughters, Lingua Ignota, The Body) at Machines with Magnets in Pawtucket, Rhode Island, METZ deliver the most dynamic, dimensional, and compelling work of their career.

#METZ #everyrecordiown

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felicia-cat-hardy · 3 years ago

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Olivia Rodrigo's Music Style: Pop-Punk Rockers Who Influenced Her

Olivia Rodrigo’s debut album Sour comes out on May 21, and by now, you certainly know that the 18-year-old singer-songwriter counts the queen of vulnerable love-lorn melodies, Taylor Swift, as one of her most prominent influences. But after topping the charts for eight weeks with “drivers license,” it looks like Rodrigo is rearing into the rock lane, giving us the teenage angst and pop-punk petulance we deserve with the fiery “good 4 u” and impressive live performances.

Trust us, we know we don’t have to compare and contrast every female singer that’s ever made music that isn’t strictly pop, but why not salute the plaid-wearing, Doc Martens-donning foremothers of pop-punk, because as the Saturday Night Live skit on that very topic clarifies, yes she’s wearing her influences on her sleeve, “but it’s also pure Olivia, man.”

Plus, as Rodrigo shared in an interview with The Face on the sound of her upcoming album, “I feel like music is becoming increasingly genreless. I suppose I’m considered a pop artist, but I’ve never felt like one. This album is full of stuff that I like, which is so diverse. There are elements of alternative rock in there, alt-pop, some country, and definitely a lot of folk. I think anyone can find something they like hidden in one of the songs.”

So if you, like us, need something to hold you over while you wait for Rodrigo’s debut, here are 7 pop-punk rock purveyors to press play on.

1. Hayley Williams

It’s hard to think of anyone more capable of creating pure unadulterated pop-punk ballads with unparalleled vocals than Hayley Williams of Paramore, or as she was referred to by NPR, “The 21st Century's Pop-Punk Prophet.” However, with her latest single “good 4 u” Rodrigo is giving her a run for her money. In the track, Rodrigo shows off her vocal versatility, oscillating from singing to talking over electric guitars and a staccato bass line, much like Williams in Paramore’s “Misery Business.” In fact, this mashup of both tracks makes the reference and reverence to Paramore clear, plus it’s an absolute banger.

Williams put emotional fragility, powerhouse vocals, and punk rock authenticity front and center at a time when female-fronted bands were few and far between, giving a generation of young women, like Rodrigo not only someone to emulate but something to look up to.

2. Avril Lavigne

The week Olivia Rodrigo was born in 2003, Avril Lavigne was in the Top 10 with “I’m With You,” according to Rolling Stone. Coincidence? We think not. If that doesn’t tie the influenced to the influencer, just look at Lavigne’s legacy as one of the first songwriters of complicated relationship-themed pop-punk hits, like in her chant-along track “Girlfriend,” the formidable “Sk8er Boi,” and of course, the direct embodiment of that sentiment, “Complicated.” Rodrigo has not only been embodying Avril’s angsty sing-along-worthy lyrics but also replicating her wardrobe, recently rocking combat boots and a plaid corset with matching wide-leg pants (pictured above) and a chain belt you’d find at the checkout counter of any Hot Topic in the early aughts during her Saturday Night Live debut.

So, would the lyrics “It’s like we never even happened Baby / what the f*ck is up with that” in Rodrigo’s “good 4 u” exist without Lavigne singing “And hell yeah, I’m the motherf*cking princess” in “Girlfriend” first? Lucky for us, we’ll never have to find out.

3. Fefe Dobson

Fefe Dobson, is rarely mentioned in the pop-punk canon, but the singer made her mark as one of the few Black pop-punk singers of the early aughts, creating space for artists like Rodrigo who don’t fit into the predominately white male makeup of the genre.

Dobson was just 17 when she entered the pop-punk scene with tracks like “Everything” and “Take Me Away” on her debut album, one that saw her leaning into the same teenage love sentiments of falling hard and questioning it all we see in tracks like “drivers license.” Speaking to Nylon, Dobson discussed how much the scene has changed and made space for diverse artists: “I definitely think there’s no such thing as genre these days. When I was coming out in 2003, I remember people saying to my manager, like “Do you really think this Black girl’s going to do this rock-pop stuff and this is going to work?” I don‘t think that would be even said today. I think that’s a big difference.”

4. Gwen Stefani

Is it dramatic to say that without the anthemic, feminist, pop-punk rock track “Just A Girl” released way back in 1995, none of the new school punk-pop girls would be making visceral “girls to the front” vulnerable hits right now? Maybe, but it’s hard to say. With her pension for performance, fashion, candid lyricism, and devil-may-care attitude, Gwen Stefani has not only made space for herself but artists who want to replicate that same energy.

Rodrigo has never shied away from her love of No Doubt’s leading lady. On multiple occasions she’s discussed finding Stefani’s fearless ability to share personal stories and details about her innermost thoughts and desires as inspiring (and if that’s not punk rock, what is?). In an interview with Elle, it was even revealed that Stefani’s portrait was tapped to Rodrigo’s bedroom wall in a sort of shrine, dedicated to songwriters she admires. In a full-circle moment, Stefani wrote about Rodrigo for Time magazine’s 2021 TIME100 Next list, sharing, that “by pouring her heart out with so much courage and total command of her talent, Olivia made magic.” We agree.

5. Lindsay Lohan

There can be a lot said about the ins and outs, ups and downs, of Lindsay Lohan’s career. However, the platinum-certified album Speak was unquestionably a success for the then-Disney-star-turned-pop-singer who was one of the first stars of the channel to make that career pivot. She never toured for the Billboard charting album, but she did make the path from Disney star to pop-punk artists seem viable.

Rodrigo, who currently stars in the meta High School Musical: The Musical: The Series, discussed embracing her Disney start with Interview Magazine, sharing, “It’s been something I’ve given a lot of thought to, that Disney-girl archetype. I feel like there’s such a clear trajectory for what that is, and there’s so many amazing artists who have done it before me. I did grow up on Disney Channel. I am sort of this goody two-shoes. And I think shying away from that would do my art an injustice too. I just try to be as real as I possibly can.”

6. Liz Phair

Liz Phair’s fourth studio album was a masterclass in how to write a pop-punk romantic ballad while adding expletives to the climax of the track, like in her hit single “Why Can’t I?” It’s easy to see that same strategy playing out as Rodrigo sings, “I still f*cking love you, baby” in “drivers license.” Phair’s eponymous album also features the self-love ballad “Extraordinary,” which embraces her light and dark sides, something we’ve seen in Rodrigo’s first few singles and are sure to see in her debut. At the time of the album’s release, Phair was critically panned for selling out with Pitchfork claiming she’d reduced herself to “teen-pop.” But, as well all know nearly two decades on, there’s no truth to teen-pop being reductive, and Phair’s self-titled album has stood the test of time.

7. Ashlee Simpson

Back in 2004, Ashlee Simpson released her debut album Autobiography, an intimate pop-punk telling of her life. She also documented the entire process of creating the album on her series The Ashlee Simpson Show, something that was unprecedented at the time, but something current stars like Rodrigo who are used to being on camera and giving fans behind-the-scene looks at their creative process are now used to doing.

Simpson also deserves credit for pushing the boundaries of what was “allowed” for pop stars at the time, going her own way by dying her blonde hair black, and pushing back on her label who wanted her to make bubblegum pop. She ushered in an era of sad girl teen pop ballads with tracks like “Pieces Of Me” that artists like Rodrigo are still emulating today.

Olivia Rodrigo

We’ve got to end this story with Rodrigo herself, setting a bedroom on fire in “good 4 u,” and subsequently igniting another phase of her ever-evolving career. She’s got a sound all her own, and we can’t wait to see where she takes it to next. We know she’s here to stay.

Olivia Rodrigo’s debut album SOUR is due out May 21 via Geffen Records.

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norabrice1701 · 4 years ago

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Too Good to be True

An “Inception” fanfic

Pairing: Arthur x Eames

Summary: It’s just like heaven, being here with you. Arthur’s like an angel, too good to be true.

Rating: T for couple of f-bombs, sensuality, hints of knife play, and so much domestic dream husbands fluff

A/N: This came about because it’s the 10th anniversary of “Inception”, and...the world just needs more love right now. So, here’s a small contribution.

Eames is so fucking lucky.

Even after all these years, he still doesn’t know why. Maybe after years of conning and forging, the universe decided to be gracious. Maybe after years of transient living, the stars aligned for a permanent home. Maybe it just took a chance meeting on a chance job, and another seven years for him to crash-land into just the right man.

The right man who has currently filled their flat with 60′s jazzy lounge tunes. The right man who sips idly from a wine glass as he stirs a pot on the stove. The right man who still - these years later - dresses immaculately with sinful, lethal beauty.

His Arthur. His darling.

It strikes Eames at the oddest times. After nine years married, he thought he would get over these little moments, stop questioning the life that had inexplicably become his - but, alas.

Today wasn’t even anything remarkable. Just a Thursday. He’d parted from Arthur in the morning, as usual, with a farewell kiss and best wishes for the day. Arthur had meetings with clients, and Eames had his marks to study. Ever since they went into business for themselves, operating in various shades of grey – nothing so hot as to require the international upheaval of their pre-Inception days, but nothing so dull as a straight 9-to-5 – work had been steady and lucrative. It proved a truth that Eames had known since that first fateful job – they were a dream team awake or asleep.

And now, now he’s home to a most welcome sight. Arthur’s hips sway to the rhythm of some Julie London number that begs a proper dance as he sets the spoon back in the rest. The kitchen smells heavenly, and Eames can’t stop staring. He hasn’t even made it fully into the kitchen yet, struck as he is.

With disbelief. With the realization that for fuck’s sake. How had anything in his life made him remotely deserving of this?

Arthur has to know he’s there. Sure, the younger man will be forty this year, but only a fool would mistake the greying at his temples as any sign of senility. That gorgeous, frightening tactical mind had lost none of its razor-sharp edge, and Eames intimately knew the body concealed beneath the tailored suit had lost none of its lithe, capable grace.

“You’re being awfully quiet.” Arthur turns from the stove, the frown line between his eyes winking into view. “You okay?”

“Can I not just stare at such a perfect angel in my kitchen?”

Arthur arches an elegant brow, staring back as if Eames had grown two heads. “What is it this time, hm? Another Lisbon? Another Monte Carlo?”

Oh, Monte Carlo. How grand that had been. A honeymoon suite – actually for their honeymoon; premier seats for the Monaco Grand Prix; tuxedoed nights at the high stakes tables; lazy days in a luxurious bed. And that gorgeous diamond bracelet Eames had lifted with every intent of reworking into cufflinks and button studs for his new husband that ended up belonging to the Duchess of Suffolk.

Such a lovely woman, really.

Eames’ face pinches with mock objection. “You wound me, darling. Is that really your first thought when you think of Monte Carlo?”

The lift of Arthur’s lips speaks to a smile he isn’t invested in suppressing. A sign of his trust and love if Eames had ever known one. “It did nearly land my newly-minted husband in prison.”

“And I never doubted you for a minute.”

Soft beeping issues from the oven, and Arthur turns to tend to the task at hand – but not before he shoots Eames a look that clearly indicates the conversation is far from over. Well. It may not be over, but Eames has other ideas for its trajectory.

It’s a lovely sight as Arthur bends over to pull a roasting pan from the oven. The food in the pan is even more welcome as Eames’ stomach gives a low growl. It’s nothing fancy, only roast chicken - he’s supposed to watch his cholesterol - but Arthur handles it with practiced skill, setting it on the counter to rest.

Arthur sets about retrieving a cutting board and a chef’s knife, not bothering to glance back at Eames. “You still haven’t answered my question, you know.”

“I know.” Eames deposits his keys, phone and wallet on the end of the island, crossing around to his husband. The scrape of the chef’s knife against the sharpener punctuates the music as Eames wraps his arms around Arthur’s waist, pressing against the fine fabric of his waistcoat, breathing deep the scent of day-worn cologne and exertion on Arthur’s skin.

Arthur’s throaty chuckle is warm against his lips. “You’re a brave man to accost me while I’m armed.” The knife drags against the sharpener with intent.

Eames only hugs him tighter, skimming his lips against Arthur’s pulse. “You’re always armed, you just don’t want anyone to know. But you forget,” he nips gently, teasing a gasp from Arthur’s lips, “no one knows you like I do.”

Arthur turns his cheek into Eames’ nuzzling, muscles shifting to indicate a smile. “Maybe you haven’t done anything, after all. You’re not so handsy when you’re contrite.”

He chuckles against Arthur’s smooth skin. “Correct on all accounts, love.”

The knife schnicks against metal again and Eames presses closer, swaying to the alluring melody in the air. Arousal flares as Arthur’s hips fall into a matching rhythm. How mad would his point man get if he swept the slender man up in his arms and left the chicken to the empty kitchen?

Arthur turns his head back to the task at hand. “You’re going to make the pilaf burn.”

It proved a constant marvel that Arthur never fails to know his thoughts. “Then you shouldn’t tempt me with dessert before the main course.”

Arthur turns easily, swiftly in Eames’ embrace, knife bared, the sharp tip just kissing the underside of Eames’ jaw. His trousers fit uncomfortably tight now, and the wicked tilt of Arthur’s mouth leaves no doubt that he knows exactly what he’s done.

Eames gusts a heavy breath. “Darling, you play so unfair.”

“I’m not letting you ruin dinner again just because you have no self-restraint.” The knife presses a fraction deeper, drawing a delightful hiss. Arthur has always known how to stimulate the most pleasurable sensations. “Besides,” the knife falls away and Arthur leans close, tongue laving against the superficial divot, “wouldn’t you rather me kiss it better later? After all, anticipation is the greatest joy.”

Actually, Eames’ greatest joy was hearing Arthur say ‘yes’ to his proposal, to hearing his vows flow strong and steady, and taking his husband completely apart against the bedsheets. But yes...in this moment - staring deep into those perceptive brown eyes that had known him from day one, sharing the promise of the rest of their lives, with only a chicken and pilaf between them and a night of blissful passion. Well, Eames could give his husband that much.

He leans forward, placing a chaste peck to Arthur’s cheek. “Don’t let the pilaf burn now.”

Arthur gives a rueful shake of his head. “Just go pour a glass of wine.”

Eames pulls away, glancing back as he moves for the wet bar. “And you’ll fetch my slippers, too?”

He pays for the slippers comment after dinner when Arthur’s nails rake down his back. But Eames gives as good as he gets, branding Arthur’s skin with his teeth. Arthur has never sounded sweeter as Eames drives them both skyward, surrendering to all they give and take.

But he thinks that every time.

He knows he still will when Arthur turns sixty.

Perhaps, by then, they can go back to Monte Carlo.

#arthur x eames #arthur and eames #dream husbands #inception #fanfic #wannabe writer

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spectralstars · 4 years ago

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FAQ/Stuff to Know

This post will contain answers to questions I get often or expect to get often, and define some of the terms I use. It will be updated over time.

Disclaimer: The information I post to this blog is UPG, based on my own experiences. If I state something as fact on this blog regarding magic, that is because I treat it as fact within my practice, but I do not claim it as objective truth.

Magic

What is magic?

1) The art of utilizing all components of the Soul/being to effect change. 2) A sense of simultaneous power and wonder.

What kinds of magic do you do?

I do a lot of energy work: feeling and affecting my own energy, and reaching out to the energy of other people/places/things to do the same. When a need arises, or when I’m just feeling that magical itch, I create a working for that situation, or draw on a working I’ve created before. These workings can involves making and enchanting talismans, sigils, or chants; music or dance magic; full-blown rituals; just more focused energy work; etc. Divination, meditation, and shadow work are all also important facets of my practice.

How long have you been practicing?

My practice first started to resemble what it is today about 2 or 3 years ago.

Do you do witchcraft/chaos magic/[insert established term here]?

No. I take inspiration and information from many established open paths, but my practice is my own.

Energy Work

What is energy? What are energetic signatures?

Energy is a non-physical, qualityless substance. Just as physical reality is made up of physical matter (I’m ignoring dark matter here because that’s outside of my wheelhouse), parallel to it at all points exists an energetic reality. Unless I specify with terms like “physical/kinetic/potential energy,” assume that I’m speaking about non-physical energy and not energy in the physics sense. These two usages of the word “energy” are not interchangeable.

(Granted, the physical/non-physical distinction can be a bit reductive. Physical, mental, emotional, energetic, whatever other distinctions you make, etc, these things can absolutely effect each other, and debatably aren’t all that separate to begin with. That’s an integral part of the whole mechanism for magic.)

Energetic signatures are the sums of the different qualities that a given quantity of energy can have. Essentially, the vibe. This can include color, sound, emotion, texture, force, temperature, smell and taste, movement, etc. The details of a signature can vary from person to person in a “my red is your green” way—or more accurately “this feeling makes me think red, and makes you think green.”

Energetic signatures don’t behave physically the way energy often does, because they’re purely information. If I take energy from something, it now lacks that energy, but if I take its energetic signature, nothing has changed in that original something.

And yes, confusingly enough, energy can have an “energetic” or “sluggish” signature. There’s a difference between having lots of energy (again, in the magical sense) and having “high energy” (which would mean having lots of energy in the mundane sense).

What is the Fundamental?

The Fundamental is a layer of reality comprised of energy. In the Fundamental, physical distance is more fluid and all things are connected in some capacity. By moving one’s center of awareness, one can perceive and interact with the Fundamental.

What is embodiment/emulation?

Embodiment is one of my go-to energetic practices, one that I utilize and will probably mention often enough to warrant its own entry here. Embodiment means adapting an energetic signature other than my baseline, in such a way that it changes not only my energetic state, but my emotional, mental, and physical posture as a result. In some ways, it’s an “internalized glamour”; I’m affecting how others perceive by not only by energetic means, but by acting differently myself. I use this for everything from performing in front of audiences to calling in certain forces and archetypes to quick pick-me-ups throughout the day.

How do you read energy?

Honestly, it’s as simple as asking what the energy is like and taking what comes to you. Once you’re used to the process, you don’t have to ask anything consciously, you just kinda focus and observe. Getting information is the easy part; the harder part is getting accurate information and interpreting it well. That takes some familiarity with energy and your own intuition, and lots of practice.

Workings

What is a working?

I call spells workings out of a personal preference. If it’s magic and I set aside time for it, it’s a working.

How do you create a working?

I either start with the issue I’m doing the working for, and start thinking of ways I could achieve that symbolically, or I start with that itch to do a certain kind of magic, and start thinking of places in my life where I could apply it. Either way, the process involves a lot of looking around my place for things I could use (if I want to use objects in the first place), thinking about how to tie all those things and ideas together, and just following my head/heart/gut.

What is resonance?

Resonance is what makes a working work. It’s the quality of a successful magical endeavor, one that has a genuine impact. In my observations, it has three components: accordance, effort, and state. Accordance means you’re acting in line with your intention via correspondence, symbolism, and/or magical sympathy. Effort means what it sounds like, that you’re putting some genuine effort into your working. State means you’re mentally focused, energetically in tune, and overall just really feeling the magic, the power and the wonder, as you do the working. The most important part to each of these components is that you do them sincerely; there are no cop-outs or workarounds to what your gut says you gotta do.

Thoughts on curses?

I’m not anti-curse, but I’m grateful to have never felt a need to curse someone in my own life. The closest I’ll ordinarily get to cursing someone is “cursing” then with a positive quality that would completely derail their current plans and help them become better. But I acknowledge that that may not always be the right solution.

Divination

What kinds of divination do you use?

I mainly use different forms of cartomancy: tarot, Normal Tarot (not the same lol), Lenormand, playing cards, and a system of my own creation. I also use several non-Nordic “rune”/symbol sets, two of which I created and two of which I adapted from the work of Silvia Hartmann (whom, let it be known, I do have issues with). I plan to create a tool for using the Glide Oracle beyond just the mobile app. I do sometimes use tarot and Lenormand shufflemancy playlists, and I’ve started working with a system I made for a d100 spinner ring, but I prefer more hands-on systems over purely random ones, for reasons I go into below.

How does divination work/how do you do divination?

Divinatory instruments are an aid for the intuition, a jumping-off point and a guide for facilitating understanding when the mind needs something to go off of. The fact that I use magical means to make sure those jumping-off points are as accurate as possible doesn’t change the fact that that’s what they’re doing.

When I do a reading, the first thing I do is get in tune. With any entity I might want to communicate with, with whoever I’m doing the reading for, with my divination tool, with the matter at hand, etc. Mentally and energetically, I focus on and connect to each of these things. I then trust that my intuition can take all that information, and let me know when to stop shuffling/when to pull a rune so that I get the most helpful answer.

(Being able to move through the Fundamental and find different energies comes in handy in distance readings for that reason, by the way.)

Do you use divination to tell the future?

When I’m getting in tune with everything, it’s necessarily with how things are at the present. To the extent that the present determines the future, I can do readings for the future. But I always keep in mind that the trajectory for the future can change, and I absolutely believe in free will.

Spiritual Pragmatism and UPG

What is spiritual pragmatism?

So this is where that disclaimer comes in. I’m a spiritual pragmatist, which means when it comes to things that aren’t objectively provable, I base my beliefs on what’s most useful to me. That applies to my beliefs surrounding divinity, energy, etc. but also just general philosophical stances, like my belief in free will. This is not to imply that I don’t genuinely believe these things, because I do, only that I don’t care to try and prove the concrete “truthfulness” of them beyond that they make sense to me and have helped me in some way. It’s somewhat similar to chaos magick’s stance on belief, except 1) I’m not looking to change my beliefs at the drop of a hat or anything, and 2) usefulness isn’t limited to what makes the magic work. It could mean what makes me a more fulfilled or happier person, what helps me to feel like I belong and matter in the world, etc.

What about magic?

So magic is a grey area, since it’s so often based in these more unprovable things, but it’s also something I can, and generally try to, test. Still, I’ve gotten results in magic using my own understanding and systems, and other people have gotten results in magic with their own understandings and systems. So I acknowledge my magical framework for what it is: UPG, unverified personal gnosis. Things I know to be true in my own experience, but can’t necessarily vouch for outside of that.

By all means, try out what I have to say and see if it works for you. Gain experience with magic and then trust that experience, above what anyone else says about how magic is supposed to work.

Grab Bag

What’s your name?

Arri. For all intents and purposes.

Pronouns?

She/they.

Sun/Moon/Rising?

Taurus/Pisces/Aquarius.

MBTI? Enneagram?

I know I’m a 4w3 (either 479 or 471), and the tests online always say I’m an INFP, but I know enough about cognitive functions to know that those tests aren’t accurate to how MBTI works, and not enough to know what my actual type is.

Edit: This answer has changed; I now know myself to be a 1w9 (tritype 147, subtype probably sp/so).

What does “spectralstars” mean?

It’s a reference to my understanding of energetic signatures, which is similar to audio spectral analysis, where you don’t measure the frequency and amplitude as a single sound wave, you measure the amplitudes of the many sine waves of different frequencies that make up the sound. That warrants its own post. The stars bit is a reference to a Discord I’m in and also I just really like stars.

#faq #witchblr #witch #witchcraft #magic #practitioner

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morbid-n-macabre · 5 years ago

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Los Angeles, California in 2003-

Had you seen her while out and about, it would have been impossible not to notice Lana Clarkson. She was a statuesque blonde who stood at 6 foot tall, and drop dead gorgeous. But Lana was so much more than a pretty face; friends remember her as an intelligent woman with a wicked sense of humor. She had been outgoing, caring, friendly, and the life of the party wherever she went.

Though she'd been the leading lady in many B rated movies and played small roles in a handful of well known films, at 40 years of age Lana was still awaiting her big break. Due to this, the actress took on a job as a hostess at the famous House Of Blues nightclub on the Sunset Strip; her job had been to take good care of the VIP guests in a special area called The Foundation Room where LA's biggest celebrities were known frequent. Lana had not been working here too long, but it seemed to be a great fit for her; though she officially made only $9 an hour, celebrities tended to tip pretty well, and Lana had hoped to meet the right people while there.

In the very early hours of Monday, February 3nd of 2003, less than a hour before closing time, a celebrity by the name of Phil Spector walked into the club and attempted to enter the VIP area. Phil was an extremely wealthy music legend in his sixties, but Lana had absolutely no clue who the heck he was so she refused him entry. If that weren't bad enough, she accidentally misgendered Phil - Lana addressed the celebrity as "Ma'am"! Once the actress was informed of who exactly she had been interacting with, she apologized profusely and, as it was her job to cater to each VIP patron's slightest whim, that's exactly what she did. Sadly, as Lana was about to discover, Phil was much like a grenade who's pin had just been pulled - he was very soon to explode.

There's no denying that the musical genius had some serious demons. When he was only 8, Phil's daddy had committed suicide. As a teenager he was in a musical group called The Teddy Bears; Phil wrote a song called To Know Him Is To Love Him, the name of which had actually been taken from the epitaph engraved on his father's tombstone. By the age of 21 Phil was a millionaire; not only was he an accomplished song writer and musician himself, but he invented what is known as The Wall Of Sound. Phil had discovered a way to layer music, which sounded better on the radio than anything which had been discovered thus far. This was a really big deal, and Phil has been called one of the most influential music producers of all time! Since all of the biggest artists wanted to work with him, the producer became very egotistical; the older he grew the more eccentric, erratic, and violent his behavior became. He was well known for constantly packing heat, and he was absolutely not afraid to threaten someone by pointing a firearm at them - sometimes he even fired it! If this weren't bad enough, there have been a long line of women throughout the decades who claim to have been abused in various ways by Phil; several even swear to have been held captive for several days or longer in the music mogul's mansion! His ex has written a book about the hell on Earth she endured while under Phil's control. Of course Lana had no way of knowing any of this, she barely knew who Phil was.

At closing time, an intoxicated Phil needed help getting outside to his vehicle; the man was a good tipper, and the hostess was happy to oblige. Phil's limousine driver, Adriano De Souza, had been waiting outside the club. Phil insisted that Lana come back to his 33 room mansion known as The Pyrenees Castle for a nightcap. Lana declined this offer several times, but finally relented. Adriano later recalled that Lana had been adamant that she would come inside for just a quick drink, then the chauffer would drive her back. Sometime around 3 am on Monday morning Phil and Lana entered The Castle; the chauffer remained outside, awaiting the actress's promise of a prompt return.

Much of what occurred over the course of the next two hours is still up for debate, mostly we know what the driver has told us. At approximately 5 am Phil walked out of his home carrying a gun in his hands and stated, "I think I killed somebody". The chauffer called the police, with whom Phil refused to comply. He would not show his hands; a scuffle ensued, resulting in the suspect being tased and tackled to the ground.

A deceased Lana was found still seated in the white French provincial chair in the foyer, she'd taken a bullet from a .38-caliber Colt Cobra to the mouth; a firearm lay at the floor near her feet. It was obvious that Phil had attempted to clean up before notifying authorities. Blood was found on the staircase and multiple other areas, and in a bathroom near the foyer lay a cloth diaper drenched in the lady's blood.

The music mogul's account of what had transpired changed multiple times. Phil reportedly told police "I didn't mean to shoot her. It was an accident". After he'd sobered up a bit, Phil claimed to be an innocent man. He'd startled the actress as she'd been playing with the gun, and it had accidentally discharged.

Investigators did not believe Phil's story, and the autopsy agreed with them. The bullet had traveled in a slightly upward trajectory which had severed Lana's spine, and the recoil from the firearm sent several of the actress's front teeth flying to the floor. It was not a pretty death, but thankfully Lana did die instantaneously. The actress's tongue had been bruised, which the coroner stated had been from the gun forcibly entering her mouth - blunt force trauma. An acrylic fingernail from Lana's right hand was missing, had likely broken off during some sort of a struggle. There were bruises on her right arm and wrist, two of which have been described as significant. The lady's leopard print purse strap had been over her right shoulder at the time of death, which indicated that she'd soon intended to leave the premises, and the firearm was found on the floor near Lana's left foot though she'd been right handed.

Phil was arrested for second degree murder, but released on a one million dollar bond. While awaiting trial the music producer married a 26 year old deli waitress named Rachelle Short whom he would show off daily throughout the spectacle of a trial. After trying on a string of high profile attorneys, Phil finally settled on Mafia Boss John Gotti's lawyer, Bruce Cutler. The defense's stance was that Lana had discovered the firearm inside the millionaire's home and had committed suicide. The prosecution and the defense argued about both the gunshot residue and the blood spatter, with both calling experts to prove their point. The prosecution claimed that Lana had likely been grabbing for the gun while Phil was forcing it in her mouth, which would explain why there was so much GSR on her hands. Either way, a good washing can remove GSR from the skin, so Phil could not be eliminated as the killer based on that. The prosecution called a few of the women who had been victimized by Phil, some of which swore that the defendant had pulled a gun on them through the years. One witness, a former friend of the defendant named Dianne Ogden-Halder, claimed that Phil had attempted to rape her at gun point back in the 80's. She had been a guest at Phil's mansion when he'd abruptly changes from friendly to "demonic"; at this point Phil pulled out a gun and threatened to "blow her brains out". Dianne claimed that he refused to allow her to leave the home, and pressed said firearm against her forehead and cheek. Dianne claimed that she was shocked by Phil's behavior as it was unnecessary, had he been romantic with her that would've been fine. This is definitely worth mentioning as there had been sexual activity between Lana and Phil on the night of her death. There was DNA (saliva) which proved that Lana had performed fellatio on Phil, and Phil's DNA was discovered on Lana's breast. The defense called a witness to testify that Lana had been very depressed at the time of her death, and this may have been the tipping point. In the end, a couple of the jury members did have their doubts; after 12 days of deliberation a mistrial was declared.

18 months later, on October 29th of 2008, a second trial began. This trial was not the media circus which the first day been, and Phil did not have the same caliber of a defense. This time around the wealthy music mogul was found guilty of second degree murder and sentenced to 19 years to life; he is currently spending his days in the California Health Care Facility in Stockton. His health is rapidly declining, and it's said that he's not been physically capable of speaking since 2014. In 2016, after 10 years of marriage, Phil divorced his young wife. He stated that Rachelle was "bleeding him dry" with her excessive spending. She'd purchased very expensive jewellery, an airplane, a Ferrari and an Aston Martin. Rachelle had more than one plastic surgeries, bought her mama 2 nice houses, and at the time of he filed, she was in the process of getting herself a jet. All of this spending while Phil was supposed to live off the $300 a month that she placed on his books. The musician wants his daughter to control his money.

*While researching opinions, I've found that the belief of Phil's innocence is blamed largely on David Mamet's HBO movie starring Al Pacino, "Phil Spector". This movie paints the musician in a completely innocent light, but it is not a documentary. While it's a decent film, it's just not completely factual.

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0moni · 5 years ago

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from Fred Moten’s In The Break the following is something I typed up when confronted with the question of what exactly Fred Moten means by ‘improvisation of Enlightenment’. Hopefully someone gains some insight from it or is able to give their own insights in response: By the ‘Enlightenment’ Moten refers to the discursive / intellectual / epistemological / philosophical project / tradition that rose to prominence and secured its epistemic predominance during the 17th century to the 19th century onwards. We might then go on to posit, following Sylvia Wynter and by extension Foucault, that the discursive constitution and empirical institution of the dynamics of the colonizer/colonized relation on the islands of the Caribbean and the mainland of the Americas were coextensive with the aforementioned discursive-epistemological projects of the Enlightenment and the Renaissance. This history or line of continuity is by no means linear, certainly not as linear as some acolytes of decolonial theory may presuppose, but this provisional account of its provenance and development more or less broadly charts its contours. We might then go onto say that the Enlightenment takes as it’s axioms or presuppositions / foundational principles the following: (paraphrasing Denise Ferreira da Silva) the unity of the self-determined subject (the transparent I) assured by the faculties of reason and the categories of the understanding and Man’s uniquely suited capacity to directly intervene into the orders and organization of Nature through those aforementioned powers of Reason. Now this definition is by no means comprehensive and the means by which they got there (to Reason, that is) is by no means homogenous or reducible to what we’ve laid out here. It’s just a rough sketch of the Enlightenment to which Moten refers. When Moten speaks of ‘improvisation’, he takes as a point of departure that mode of artistic / intellectual practice that can be said to be the chief organizational principle of not only jazz but black aesthetic, cultural, and intellectual production at large: Improvisation. By way of Jacques Derrida, Cecil Taylor, Ralph Ellison, Sigmund Freud, and many, many others, over the course of his book In The Break he elaborated what one might tempted to call a ‘theory’ of improvisational practice, although such a ‘theory’ cannot and should not be said to belong to him or to anybody in particular, and in that indeterminacy it thereby belongs to both nobody and everybody, and describes that which we’re always already involved in or doingImprovisation entails the dissolution between the professedly clear cut distinctions between product and process, reading and distinction, playing and preparation: ‘the preparation is the playing, the trace of another organization; it starts like and away from a reading and ends like and beyond transcription but is neither homepage to indeterminacy nor objectifying rendering nor reduction to a narrow sense of “writing”’. In a later discussion on Shakespeare, Moten, discussing a Stephen Booth essay on Shakespeare, talks about how Shakespeare’s greatness derives from the fact that he exceeds calculation, and this insight, for the purpose of my current exposition, is the key to Moten’s further musings on the nature of language and the incommensurability (that is, the lack of necessary correspondence between) word and image: what makes Shakespeare’s sonnets great is not reducible to the component parts of the sonnet nor its reaggregation, that is, our reading of it. ‘The truth of the poem, it’s fidelity to its object, is revealed to us in our experience of the poem...for the myriad of effects contained in a given sonnet, it’s multiple facets, when added, collected in literary analysis, never add up to the sonnet itself.’ Its more than simply saying that the whole is the sum of its parts, the idea of the whole is undermined that it is not merely the sum of this parts, yet despite this when we experience the sonnet we take the experience as (an icon of) the whole. Derrida’s assertion that ‘Everything is in Shakespeare’ is then supplemented by Moten’s corollary that ‘Shakespeare is improvisation’: ‘Shakespeare is ensemble, ensemble referring net of the generative—divides, dividing, and abundant—totality out of which (Shakespeare or post—Shakespearean) subjectivity appears’. And so finally we arrive at what the ‘improvisation of Enlightenment’ means. We must view Moten as situated at this discursive and epistemological nexus where Derrida’s critique of the metaphysics of presence and valorization of writing, the structural linguistic Saussurean orientation vis a vis language as differential structure, the psychoanalytic onto-existential drama between the Subject and the prison house of language (that is, the incommensurability or irretrievability of the two), and the Wittgensteinian inexpressibility of language without extralinguistic effects converge. The ‘novelty’ of the black radical intellectual, cultural, and artistic tradition derives from this improvisatory thrust, this radical (dis-)orientation: ‘what occurs in the new black music it the sixties...is the emergence of an art and thinking in which emotion and structure, preparation and spontaneity, individual and collectivity can no longer be understood in opposition to each other. Rather the art itself resists any interpretation in which these elements are opposed, resists and designation, even those of artists themselves, that depends on such oppositions’. Improvisation, according to Moten, is where (following Derrida) the ‘naive’ and ‘idiomatic’ converge. To improvise is to ‘come unprepared, unarmed; but you don’t come with nothing. You’ve got to bring something that adorns you even if it doesn’t arm you. Just a very small phrase, the noise of a phrase if it is one, just the spirit of some phrasing, the soft racket of a small accompaniment.’ Derrida, in an interview Moten cites and thinks about/through/with, vies for an ‘idiomatic’ writing that always eludes his capture, ‘idiomatic’ meaning a ‘property you cannot appropriate, something that marks you without belonging to you’. Not a ‘style’ of writing but ‘an intersection of singularities, of manners of living, voices, writing, of what you carry with you, what you can never leave behind’. In a later disavowal of improvisation by Derrida in another interview where he’s discussing psychoanalysis, Moten asserts that this disavowal ‘bears the trace, and even the hope, of improvisation’. Derrida is doomed to err from the ‘well formed question’ as he hears ‘the call of the sound of Algeria’, sees the trajectory after the question of the detour and hopes for a synthesis (a conclusion) that ‘mutes the improvisational quality’ immanent to his philosophical tradition. Derrida, and by extension the one who ‘writes’ and philosophy at large, is always already forced back to that which is its unconscious, that is, improvisation. Put another way: ‘This unconscious, or more precisely, this thing of darkness that philosophy has seemed incapable of acknowledging as its own, is improvisation.’ And ‘what one receives as a result of indirect interminable returning to what one already do had is a language of feeling’ that is, as Cecil Taylor demonstrates, a ‘personal feeling’ that is always politico-historical in character. Cecil Taylor insists on improvising because that improvisation is an expression of a feeling, his singularity, that cannot be counterposed arbitrarily to the facilities of cognition nor Reason because Cecil Taylor’s playing is never without epistemological grounding, and furthermore, that feeling is always already engendered or catalyzed by political-historical circumstances. And so this is not just a question of juxtaposing representational models between two ostensibly discreet intellectual / philosophical traditions (e.g the black radical tradition vs western philosophical tradition). Remember, Moten locates improvisation as philosophy’s unconscious, which renders any notion of origin, temporal succession, linear causality, and telos inoperative. And so hopefully we’ve sketched out some elaboration of what an ‘improvisation of Enlightenment’ might consist of or look like or entail. In concrete terms, it might begin with an apprehension of the conceptual or intellectual inventory of the western philosophical tradition, but it doesn’t stop there: it also consists of a derridean ‘overturning’, that is, the ‘reading’ practice(s) that has come to characterize or constitute that which is colloquially referred to as ‘deconstruction’. But we see that Moten’s method is not reducible to deconstruction: while not historically materialist in form / content (that’s not the aim or subject of this particular essay), we also see that Moten’s method is not exactly incompatible with concrete historical analysis: remember, Cecil Taylor’s artistic practice, his performance, his improvisation, functions as political-historical response; His practice is analogous, in this way, to this deconstructive practice of ‘reading against the grain’. It is, again, following Derrida, a practice of trace, but it is also profoundly sedimented in the organizational principles and procedures constitutive of the black radical tradition. In locating improvisation as philosophy’s unconscious, Moten situates himself in an avowedly black radical intellectual tradition that takes as its point of departure the question of essence and ground, or more specifically, the ‘essence’ of the Negro (following Nahum Chandler, and by extension, Du Bois, Fanon and Wynter). In a word: the problem of the Negro as a problem for thought, Blackness as Western Philosophy’s perennially unthought.

#fred moten #jacques derrida #cecil taylor #in the break #afropessimism #sylvia wynter #philosophy #deconstruction #shakespeare #ralph ellison #nahum dimitri chandler #w.e.b du bois #saidiya hartman #franz fanon #michel foucault #wittgenstein #hortense spillers #enlightenment

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leoasters-blog · 5 years ago

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henlo my peaches !! i’m zy (she/her/hers), i’m an unrepentant aquarius, i’m actually moving back to dtla in like a month lol, and i’m super excited to be here !! i’ll be playing my bby boy leo, who’s kind of a loser a sweet summer child. pls treat him kindly !! or not LMAO. i’ve included a bit about him below the jump to help ur muse decide which they’d prefer. that said, my inbox/d*scord is always open, and if u drop a lil ol’ like on this i’ll hop in urs !!

* ☆ ·˚ 「 ryan potter. cismale. he/him. 」 — oh, you mean leo aster, the twenty two year-old translator? they’ve been around the fold for seven months. i know they’re a sagittarius and when i see them, i can’t help but think of scuffed converse tapping on concrete, clacking joysticks, & a steaming drink in a chipped mug. but you’ll get to make your own judgement soon!

background

hailing from tokyo, japan, leo was born to a prominent businessman and the manager of an international hotel chain. he lived an incredibly privileged life, but with that privilege came a stringent set of expectations that covered basically every aspect of leo’s life, from his future to his hobbies to his friends. leo’s life was planned to follow a tidy trajectory: he’d succeed academically, attend a prestigious university, then return to take over his father’s business.

leo was an incredibly fortunate kid, for innumerable reasons. he never wanted for anything (physically, at least), and was given the best of the best - with the expectation that he would reflect his means, of course. but he also never really had a childhood. his parents treated him more like a successor than a son, to put it generously. there was no love in leo’s childhood home; his mother spent most of her time traveling to the various resort properties she managed, and his father, in his loneliness, found refuge in another woman. they were, for all intents and purposes, a farce of a family. but that was all leo knew.

but it isn’t until college that the plot begins to thicken. leo attended the university of southern california, and man. america was an eye opener for him.

for the first time, he was able to explore life beyond his parents’ domineering control. he could try out new interests - like the video games his freshman year roommate was really into - and speak to new people - like people who pursued higher-risk occupations for the love, not the money. leo fell in love with writing poetry, and had the opportunity to do the stupid things that his parents disapproved of - like writing dumb raps, for one. he kissed people. he found something like a family. this really strained his relationship with his parents, a complication exacerbated by certain developments back home: namely, increased pressure caused by the rollout of an ambitious expansion plan for the company.

leo graduated college with one conviction: fuck the trajectory. leo’s life in america was the first thing he actually built for himself (kinda, mostly, if u ignore the fact that his family bankrolled his education LMAO) and he wasn’t ready to give it up. he’d been given a taste of freedom, and he wasn’t gonna let it go.

now

leo’s been,, making it work, surprisingly. his parents have threatened to cut him off if he doesn’t return to japan at the end of the year, but joke’s on them - his current job, translating japanese video games into english for a fairly prolific studio, sponsors his visa and pays him well enough to survive in los angeles, albeit much more frugally than he’s used to. he knows that he’s being humored, that they’re waiting for him to live out his rebellious phase and go home. but he knows for a fact that he’d rather exist in a perpetual cycle of existential doubt than return to the misery that’s his life in japan.

seriously, his entire post-grad life has been dedicated to “finding himself,” usually through increasingly ridiculous hobbies. some highlights have included photography (not terrible), glassblowing (absolutely disastrous), dj-ing (the less said, the better), yoga (surprisingly successful), and pottery (consistently lopsided, but not altogether hideous). the one thing he always comes back to, though, is spoken word and rap - the latter of which he releases online to a small but actually existent following.

his deposit for his room in the fold was the first purchase he made on his own!! he appreciates the social nature of co-living. it’s interesting, because leo is one of the most outgoing residents of the complex, but also one of the most notoriously private. he’s made it a point to share very little about his personal life and history, deflecting any genuine attempts to get to know him with some well-timed hijinks.

etc.

leo’s birth name is uotani ryousei. leo is the americanized pronunciation of his childhood nickname, ryou, and aster is his mother’s maiden name. he started going by leo when he moved to the states for college, and started using aster when he decided to pursue full financial independence.

leo’s rap name is leo astra, bc he thinks he’s witty. i hc his vc as rich brian,, so,, yea lmao.

his mbti is entp and his alignment is chaotic good!

he is somewhat allergic to cats but loves them regardless.

he’s decidedly a night owl. his favorite place to think is the roof at night.

canonically has ryan potter’s long hair. it’s an attempt to look his age. does it work?? u be the judge !! lmfao

wc / potential plots

a confidant - someone who leo’s told his story to. maybe they’re a good friend, but maybe it’s someone who stumbled on leo smoking on the roof at ass o’ clock in the morning, more pensive than they’ve ever seen him, and who wrangled the full story out of him.

kitchen confidential - the unfortunate soul who’s run into leo attempting to set the building on fire cook. maybe they’re a good cook doing their civic duty and teaching the poor boy to not burn down the complex, or maybe they’re equally inept and figure that two heads will be better than one. either way, they’re gonna cook together !!!!

eternal rival - someone to assist leo in commandeering the second floor tv to play smash for hours with.

other ppl in the music scene?? particularly in the rnb/hip hop sphere, extra brownie points if they regularly go to events like brownies and lemonade or 143!!

lovers?? ex-lovers??? honestly if u’ve hooked up with leo i guarantee there’s a 99.99998% he still has a lil bit of a puppy crush on u.

co-commuters?? leo works in santa monica but lives in dtla like a Fewl so if ur muse also takes the expo line every day they probably Suffer Together

college friends!! - these people are leo’s rock, and the first family he’s ever truly known. bffls they 100% have matching engraved flasks.

dfs;adkfjg;sh coming up with wcs is Difficult let’s just plot collaboratively !!!

das it ily sorry this was A Lot ty for reading this far lol

#foldintro #✧ HEADCANON //

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fancymuffinparty · 7 years ago

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Subtlety

Rating: T

Pairing: Todoroki Shouto/Momo Yaoyorozu

Summary: For Day Four of BnHA Ship Love Week 2018! Prompt: New Experiences/Kisses

In which Todoroki and Momo keep doing coupley things without realizing it. Until, BAM! They do. (Awesome summary, amirite?)

Word Count: 3258 (buckle up)

A/N: Here’s my second contribution for this event and for this ship! :O I’d like to think this pair would realize their feelings for one another over time, in the subtlest of ways. Anyway, enjoy this fluff!

Todoroki’s in her room again, but they’re merely studying for an upcoming exam, as usual.

There’s classical music streaming from the small speakers at her desk, the soft instrumentals accompanying their academic obligations. Momo casts a cursory glance his way, noticing his pen is about to run out of ink.

She doesn’t say anything, only uses her quirk to create a new one for replacement. She hands it over to him, earning a look of surprise that morphs into gratitude.

“Thanks,” Todoroki says, accepting the pen before moving on to the next equation on his worksheet. The room becomes quiet again, save for the music on a recurring loop.

It’s pleasant. More importantly, it’s a testament to how comfortable they find themselves with one another. There’s no need to fill in the silent gaps with conversation.

Momo definitely prefers it this way. When they’re not exchanging answers or discussing their respective assignments, she gratifies her inquisitive nature and steals furtive glimpses of Todoroki while his head is seemingly buried in schoolwork. She admires the way his hair dangles above his forehead, how it reveals more of his scar than anyone else might be comfortable wearing openly. She imagines what it would feel like to brush her fingers through his hair, what it would feel like to trace the surface of his scar ever so lightly.

Todoroki catches her looking at him, suddenly tilting his head up to meet her gaze. Neither say anything, but the understanding is there. Subtle, but there.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Momo finds herself in U.A.’s infirmary after a particularly strenuous day of training.

She sits up from the small cot, legs dangling over the edge, and massages the bandage over her left arm. Minor nicks and scrapes are speckled along the area in question, but the worst damage incurred was a burn sustained from one of Bakugo’s explosive strikes. Although the mishap had been unintentional, she decides it’s in her best interest to keep about a mile’s distance between them during drills.

After examining the condition of her current bandages, she deduces they need replacement. With her quirk, she produces fresh bandaging material and momentarily sets it aside upon completion. She peels off the old ones, a grimace etched on her face when the singed skin underneath is exposed.

The burn will require some time to heal, and unfortunately, there’s no specific time frame she can assign to the process. It’s not as painful as before, however, but she presumes the mark will remain visible for at least a week. Collateral damage. Could’ve been worse, though. At least she still has full functionality of her arm.

Before Momo can swap the old bandages for the new ones, the door to the infirmary suddenly opens, and in walks Todoroki, so casual but not at all intrusive. It’s weird. It’s like she has this sixth sense that can detect whenever he’s about to show up.

Or maybe Todoroki just has peculiar timing.

“Hey,” he says softly, situating himself across from her on the opposing cot. “How are you holding up?” He’s a little awkward in his approach, but Momo’s grown accustomed to his occasional eccentricities.

“Better,” she replies. Her voice is tight, the pitch too high. “I was just about to replace these.” She nods at the bandages, averting her gaze because a part of her doesn’t want him to worry. Her hands are about to reach for the material, but she’s stopped.

Todoroki moves himself over, sitting right next to her. He scoots in a little closer, almost asking her permission in the quiet expression he conveys. When Momo makes no objection, he takes the bandages and instructs her to lift her arm.

“Here,” he says. “I can do that for you.”

His hands are gentle yet concise, applying pressure where it’s needed while heeding any potential tenderness and sensitivity. Todoroki’s still working on the task at hand when he speaks again.

“You shouldn’t be so reckless, Yaoyorozu.” It’s more of a demand than a suggestion.

Momo frowns. Technically, she wasn’t the one being reckless. Bakugo and the virtue of self-control have yet to merge together in wholesome unification, and she certainly hadn’t meant to stand anywhere near the crossfire. But she knows Todoroki is merely voicing his concern for her safety in the only way he knows how.

She doesn’t respond until after he’s finished wrapping her arm.

“I’ll be sure to exercise more caution in the future,” she pledges, eyes absentmindedly darting towards his right hand. She’s quick to procure an idea. “Now, help me make an ice-pack.”

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The school festival is bustling with crowds, various clusters of students and faculty alike scattered about in proliferating volumes.

Todoroki and Momo gather with a group of fellow classmates, but for reasons beyond basic rationale they stick together. The thought of how close they’re standing next to each other, or even the fact that they’re both wearing blue button-down shirts like it had somehow been telepathically coordinated, never once crosses either of their minds.

After brief deliberation, the group comes to a consensus and convene at a shaved ice stand; the perfect treat for such a warm, sunny day. The line is dauntingly long, and it doesn’t help that Kaminari and Kirishima both take forever and a day to order. On the bright side, Todoroki and Momo are able to bide their time with idle chit-chat.

It’s Izuku’s turn when Momo makes a curious inquiry.

“What are your plans for the summer, Todoroki-san?” she asks. She tries not to sound so overtly proper, but it’s practically force of habit.

Todoroki won’t comment on his affinity for her formal tendencies this time. He’s done so in the past on numerous occasions and each time Momo merely attempts to play it off, a heated blush adorning her face.

Instead, he tilts his head in thought, and replies with the single most important thing on his agenda. “Visit my mother. As often as I can.”

He reverses the question after Izuku’s finished making his purchase. Ochaco’s next in line.

“What about you? You and your family going on vacation somewhere?”

Momo nods. Except, she’s unable to recall whether the destination was France or Italy. In spite of her memory glitch, she opts against sharing that small piece of slightly bourgeois information with him. “Yes, but only for about a week.”

And after that? Well, aside from training, possible internships, studying-

“We should make plans to meet up,” Todoroki proposes amid her contemplation. They’re not looking at each other. It’s almost as though he’s simply talking out loud. Awkward.

Momo fails to suppress the slight trembling of her knees, but she’s able to feign at least some semblance of a composed demeanor. “We should,” she agrees with a feeble nod. “Although with both of our busy schedules, it might be hard to coordinate something.”

Todoroki smirks. Often times, Momo’s Type-A personality gives off the impression that she’s uptight and over-analyzes everything.

He finds it endearing. One of the things he admires most about her.

“We’ll figure something out,” he assures her.

His words offer some consolation but before Momo can say anything more, Ochaco steps aside from the stand and they’re up next in line.

Having stood in line for what felt like an eternity, both know exactly what they want. They go for the same flavor, strawberry, and regroup with everyone else after paying for their respective treats.

While the others are devouring their shaved ice like it’s the end of the world, Momo takes her time and savors every last morsel. She considers herself lucky that Todoroki’s nearby. One of the perks of having him around on this particular occasion is that she can ask him to hold her shaved ice (if perhaps she needs to look for something in her bag or use the restroom) and it’ll stay nice and cold.

By the time both have finished snacking, the realization that the group has abruptly dismantled comes a tad delayed. Midoriya, Ochaco, and Iida had mentioned something earlier about balloon darts, while Kaminari, Jirou, and Kirishima are presumably on the hunt for more food stands.

That leaves Todoroki and Momo alone, once again, in a sea of U.A. students. They contemplate where to go from there.

Momo shares the first thing that comes to mind. “The origami stall seemed promising…”

Todoroki concurs. “We can check it out.”

The only problem is that the origami stall is on the other side of the festival grounds, and the crowd surrounding them has swelled into a massive mob that seemingly barricades any sort of clear path. But Todoroki is confident in his abilities to navigate through the swarm of people.

Momo, on the other hand, would definitely appreciate some guidance.

She doesn’t necessarily ask, nor does Todoroki make an assumption based on her hesitant bearing.

Instead, he wordlessly offers her his hand, nonchalant and obliging. Momo blinks a couple times in acquiescence, accepting the gesture as the perfect solution. She grasps his hand, and he begins hauling them off, piloting through the crowd with resolve. Every now and then, he looks back at her to ensure she’s keeping up just fine, all the while mindful of which turns to take and which ones to avoid.

Successfully following a trajectory devoid of any dead-ends, they eventually make it to the origami stall, unscathed.

They stay by one another’s side for the rest of the day. Neither seem to notice that their hands are still entwined. Neither seem too keen on letting go.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

“I think we’re going to need more tickets for this one.”

Todoroki counts each ticket, one by one, discovering five more are needed in order for two people to be permitted admission aboard the Ferris wheel.

It’s a cool evening. Twilight has beckoned the stars. Summer vacation ends in less than a week, and therefore Momo had been more than willing to accept his invitation to this ‘End of Summer’ festival on the outskirts of the city. It’s nothing like the school festival, and although the crowds are significantly larger, the food and game stalls are far superior. Not to mention the fact that there’s classic rides- including the ever so popular Ferris wheel.

It’s Momo’s all-time favorite.

They’ve only been waiting for a few minutes, but the news of their shortage indicates they’ll have to go purchase more tickets, thus losing their place in line.

Momo doesn’t mind. “Okay, let’s buy more from the automated ticketing machine.” She shivers a bit after a sudden gust of wind blows past them.

“Are you cold?” Todoroki puts the previous subject on hold to address this far more pressing matter.

“It’s a little chilly, but I’ll be fine,” Momo replies. Before she can revert the discussion back to the insufficient funds in tickets, Todoroki has already shed his jacket.

He drapes it over her, ensuring she’s encircled in its warmth. “You can borrow it for the night.”

“But what about you…?” Momo’s voice trails off, slightly flustered by the gesture. It feels so nice…

Todoroki peers down at his left side. “I got it covered,” he says, not expanding any further than that. He doesn’t exactly need to. “You stay in line and save our spot,” he continues. “I’ll get the rest of the tickets.”

Momo nods in compliance, sliding her arms into the sleeves of his jacket. She watches as he disappears into the crowd, his temporary absence allowing for her to be alone with her inner musings.

She shoves both hands into the pockets of his jacket, startled when her right hand makes contact with a small electronic device. Curious, she pulls it out, eyeing it with intrigue. It’s Todoroki’s phone. Momo stares at it for a few seconds before tapping on the screen. It’s locked- requires a four-digit passcode to access its contents.

She taps her chin in thought. Perhaps she shouldn’t be so nosy, but with the opportunity staring her right in the face, it’s hard not to engage. It’ll help pass the time, she reasons. Her first guess is only logical. His birthday. January 11th… so…

1101

Incorrect

She tries his sister’s birthday, but the result is the same.

Incorrect

After rounding up the usual suspects, Momo briefly ponders a ridiculous suggestion.

Should I try my birthday? she quips internally.

In spite of her doubts, she thumbs over the numbers once more and enters in her own birthdate. September 23rd.

2309

It works.

Momo’s jaw drops like a heavy weight and her eyes widen to their maximum circumference.

She shuts the phone off and repeats her actions, thinking there’s no way it would actually work twice. There’s no way…

When the numbers corresponding with her birthdate work again, she feels her stomach drop.

She’s unsure if she can comprehend the flood of emotions raging throughout her head. Confused. Humored. Flattered. Embarrassed- it’s a mixture of everything all at once.

How long has it been this way? And… More importantly… Why??

If it’s for the same reason his birthday is the passcode for her own phone, then it’s obvious she’s been oblivious to what’s been going on between them.

But Momo immediately snaps out of her inner turmoil/heartfelt realization when she spots Todoroki in the blur of figures ahead, weaving his way back to meet her in the line. She shoves his phone back into the jacket’s pocket and forces a smile, hoping her demeanor doesn’t reflect so much as an ounce of the tension straining her throat.

Todoroki assumes his position at her side, appearing much too laidback for her liking. “We’re good to go,” he tells her, holding up the acquisition of his reconnaissance. “Looks like we moved up a couple spots.”

Momo nods, trying her hardest not to look him in the eye. “Yeah,” she replies quietly. She clears her throat and speaks up, intent on cherishing the mood. “We’ll be up with the next group.”

The Ferris wheel makes several more rotations before coming to a slow stop. Once all of the previous passengers have vacated their respective gondolas, Todoroki and Momo step forward, handing over the amassed tickets in exchange for entrance. The ride operator gives them the go-ahead, pointing out a vacant gondola. The duo wastes no time heeding his instructions and hop on in, sitting side by side.

The wheel has yet to turn and Momo can already hear her heart drum in her ears, thumping wildly against her chest. She’d never felt this nervous before around Todoroki. Perhaps she’d felt a bit intimidated by him in the past before she’d really gotten to know him on a more personal level, but never has she felt so on edge. Never has her heart swelled up in such a manner. Never has her stomach felt as though it’d been turned inside out.

These are clearly symptoms of a-

“Yaoyorozu?” Todoroki’s voice breaks her faltering concentration. His question emerges as the Ferris wheel begins to make its first rotation, tilting at a slow and steady pace. It’s clear that he senses something from her. “You’re not afraid of heights, are you?”

Only then does Momo make eye contact again, albeit reluctantly. For one thing, she doesn’t want him to worry about her while she’d merely been lost in her trivial reveries. “N-no,” she mumbles, steeling herself in the confines of his warm jacket. “I mean, heights don’t bother me. The view is the best part.”

What exactly does he detect in her apprehension? Why does the look on his face seem to convey he finds her response dissatisfying?

If he is troubled by her evasiveness, he shows no indication of calling her out on it. Rather, he waits until their gondola is well above the crowd to be both comfortably out of earshot and to make a revelation of sorts.

“This is kinda nice, isn’t it?” he begins, unintentionally amplifying Momo’s anxiety.

She feels as though she’s internally combusting.

In spite of the chaotic mess that riles her mind, Momo proceeds with, “What is?”

“Being up here,” Todoroki answers. “You were right. The view is amazing.”

Momo should be enjoying the view- but that depends on which view is being addressed in this scenario. Their gondola cranks higher and higher still, offering captivating sights of the city skyline in the distance and the stars twinkling above. They’ve almost reached the highest point but she finds herself wanting only to look at him. All she can think about is how close they are, how their hands are almost touching, how she suddenly feels like she’s suffocating.

No, Momo thinks. I was wrong.

Turns out the view isn’t the best part.

It’s sharing this experience with Todoroki.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Is it normal to develop feelings for a close friend?

Todoroki mulls over the thought as he walks Momo home one particularly chilly winter evening, simultaneously hoping there’s some sort of self-help guidebook he can examine for research purposes.

How to Deal With Feelings You Have For A Friend… For Dummies.

He’s probably walked down this same sidewalk with her more times than he can count, but somehow it seems as though the scene’s been perfectly set to test a certain theory.

Momo’s talking about something; he’s not entirely sure what though. He only pays attention to fragments of the lopsided conversation. It’s difficult to keep up with what she’s going on about when his mind is centered on how lovely she looks with rosy cheeks and calm half-lidded eyes. Todoroki’s clandestine observation eventually narrows on her lips. Now he’s really curious.

Her lips are a fair shade of pink, and they move in such fascinating patterns that align seamlessly with every syllable of every word that projects from the silky tone of her voice.

He wonders what they feel like; if they’re as soft as they look.

The pair stops just outside the gate to her home, and Momo carries on with the usual ‘goodbyes’ in formulated fashion. But before the words bidding him farewell can leave her mouth, Todoroki leans in and presses a small kiss to her lips.

It surprises her. Catches her off guard. Leaves her utterly stunned.

Todoroki slowly pulls away to see her reaction, unfathomable warmth swelling in his chest. He’s confident his little experiment has produced positive results; revels in the sight of her flushed face and glossy eyes. Still, he decides he must repeat the procedure for greater validity.

Strictly for the sake of his theory.

“How was that?” he asks, brushing over her cheek with his thumb.

Momo’s lips quiver. “I… I don’t know…” she stutters, already tipping her head in preparation for another kiss. “I think we need to do it again.”

To make a well-informed decision, of course.

Todoroki half-smiles, slipping his hands to her waist as she loops her arms around his neck.

The second kiss is slower, deeper. They take their time adjusting with innocent strokes and tentative motions. They’re clearly inexperienced with such intimate gestures, but neither have any qualms exploring these untouched waters together. They pull away in unison only to catch their breaths.

Where to go from here? Who knows. The sensible solution would probably consist of having a completely open and honest discussion about where they stand in this relationship; if they’re more than just friends.

But that can wait for now, as evidenced by the eager expressions they share with one another.

Both are perfectly fine resuming the kiss.

#bnhashippingweek #bnhashiploveweek #todomomo #day four prompt: new experiences/kisses #i enjoyed writing these snippets of fluff #these two are adorable #lowkey unsure how this one came to me #but here we are!#momo's birthday is todoroki's passcode for his phone js #mywriting #bnha

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