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astaroth1357 · 4 years ago

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An MC Who Treats The Brothers Like a Kindergarten Teacher

Okay, so I know I still have requests. I will get back to them right after this, but I just saw a post that gave me this idea and I had had had to get it out!! Requests will be back after this! Thank you MRS. Green Apple (my favorite band ever) and their song Present for this fun little romp of mine. 🤭

Lucifer

He is so conflicted on this it makes him wish he drank more…

On the one hand, he HATES how patronizing they can be… but even he can't deny how much progress they’ve made in his brothers. Mammon especially.

They're all actually studying more, cleaning up after themselves, doing their chores, and being polite… it's… admittedly he having an existential crisis...

This is what he's been missing this whole time?? Sticker charts?! And come on, they're all on the Student Council for Hell's sake! How could the most powerful beings in the Devildom be won over so easily by the same tactics used on human schoolchildren!?! Have some dignity!!

For the first month he just watched them whip his brothers into shape in barely concealed horror. It was so surreal...

But at about the time the MC managed to get Mammon and Levi to stop fighting and apologize for being mean to each other, he threw in the towel. Whether he liked them or not, he conceded that the human was a blessing in disguise and left most of the discipline to them from then on.

He's never been more productive in his life and he can actually get a night or two of good sleep with no interruptions... He's taken the MC out to lunch on multiple occasions and is still trying to talk Diavolo into letting them make this a permanent arrangement. They may actually get his brothers to become well-behaved demons yet...!

Mammon

Okay so, don't get it twisted. He doesn't need their stickers, or their love, or their approval, or all that positive reinforcement or anything! He's just playing along with them okay?? Okay?!

He scoffed at the whole thing at first because, look, he's no child. He's a grown-ass demon! What were little stickers of Devildom currency supposed to do for him??

But when they told him a completed chart would earn him a shopping spree outta their pocket… Well now they were talking.

He just did it at first for the big prize, but every time he finished a task the MC would be sure to notice how hard he worked and tell him he did a good job or compliment him somehow and… well… he doesn't get that a lot...

After a while he kind of forgot about filling out the chart because he would be excited to run to them and tell them what good thing he did next. Turns out this boy was starving for any kind of approval. 😖

The first time he actually finished his chart they told him how proud they were and he almost cried... Almost. He ain't that soft, okay??

Though he does mess up still, he probably makes the most progress of the House, much to everyone's disbelief. He's also super protective of his stickers and HATES when they're taken away so none of y'all better drag him into your problems, ya hear??

Leviathan

He feels like this normie is weird even for human standards… Why do they keep offering him stickers…?

Well… They are Ruri-chan themed so he's not complaining that much.

He's not even sure where they got them from… He thought he had a pulse on every bit of merch that comes out for his favorite characters so they must had those custom ordered and that's dedication.

They told him that they'd get him a new game for every finished chart, which was nice but not necessary, he kind of just liked getting more little pictures of Ruri-chan like the collector he is. 😌

After a while, the MC started subtly theming his tasks more toward getting out of his room and being more productive... In baby steps, of course.

He'd be scared, but they were always there to praise him any time he tried. With a little bit of time, he actually started getting more confident! I mean, not a lot but hey. It's improvement.

The human even managed to get Mammon to pay him back a little bit of the money he’s owed! Well, it was literally just one night's paycheck from Hell's Kitchen but it was still more than he's seen in three centuries so he'll take it! He goes to them whenever he needs to butter up Mammon now... They’re an excellent go-between.

Satan

Ah… So the MC is well-versed in psychological manipulation… Well he refuses to fall for it.

They could offer him all the stickers they wanted, he’s going to just fall in line like his brothers! He didn't need any psychological training from them, even as the youngest he’s centuries older than they are!

But wait… are those stickers cat themed…? And is that one in a little cowboy hat??

… Touché human. He'll play nice once or twice but he doesn't need their cute stickers!

A part of him got a lot of joy out of watching Lucifer finally admit that this living nursery rhyme of a being was better at controlling his brothers than he was… Talk about a slice of humble pie, he even got it all on camera… 😏

But his brother wasn't wrong... The House has never been cleaner and everyone's grades were up, even his own. As odd as it was to say, bringing the human to the Devildom seemed to have produced a net positive all around. 🤷‍♀️

And after he discovered that the MC convinced Lucifer to let him volunteer at a human world animal shelter each time he completed a chart… Move over, Beel. He's going to finish the most charts in the House now. Just you wait.

Asmodeus

Oh honey, he knows a thing or two about punishment and reward systems. It's going to take some pretty nice prizes for him to play this game...

Which is why his stickers get followed up by kisses.

For each new sticker, he gets to pick a spot to kiss them or for them to kiss him (though they don't let him get too pervy with it)

Finish the dishes? Get a kiss on the hand. Two hour of studying? There's one for the cheek. And so on.

The others get jealous of his deal pretty quickly and start asking for kisses too but he'll throw a fit if he ever finds out. The human's kisses are HIS prize so everyone else will just have to live with it! 😠

Asmo, drama-hog that he is, is also the biggest snitch in the House. He loooves telling the MC about when his brothers mess up and should lose stickers, Mammon especially because it make him sooo pissed.

He's also in a betting war with Satan over how many days it’ll take Belphie to actually get up and do his chores for a change... The current wager is two weeks or more.

Beelzebub

Thought it was a little weird that the human seemed so obsessed with praising him and calling him a good boy but whatever.

(Little did he know they were subtly using him like a role model of everybody else but that's neither here nor there 🤷‍♀️)

He doesn't mind the sticker thing because he gets them so easily. The theme seems to be: be responsible, helpful, and not a jerk which he passes with flying colors so it’s really not a challenge for him.

It was only after they told him that they'd take him out to Hell's Kitchen with each completed chart that he really got serious about it...

If you think normal Beel is sweet, actually trying to be sweet Beel is practically an angel all over again. He even stopped stealing food from other people's plates when the MC told him he could lose stickers for it… (which means that Levi can start eating breakfast for a change, at least. 🤷‍♀️)

He's long since completed five charts and is well into his sixth. It doesn't matter what it is, if food is on the line then Beel will knock it out of the park every time. If Lucifer wasn't funding their sticker project, then he honestly would have bankrupted the MC a long time ago… 😅… 😟… 😥...

Belphegor

What the-? Did he leave his brothers for a few months and they all formed a cult or something?? Why is everyone suddenly so obsessed with stickers???

He doesn't understand the appeal at all... Do chores around the house and get a prize? What kind of game were they trying to play here?? No thanks. He'll pass.

Belphie proved pretty hard to motivate, even with prizes, so the MC had to try a different tactic…

If there's anything that can motivate Belphie, it's the promise of good sleep and cuddles. But if they made it too difficult to get and he'd just sleep by himself in pouty defiance...

So they told him that he needs to get at least two or three stickers every few days or they'll stop cuddling completely until he does.

He didn't think they were serious at first… but any time he'd try to get his arms around them, they'd sidestep or slip out of the way like they had a sixth sense or something! What kind of superhuman reflexes do you need to keep up with human anklebiters???

It took a week for him to finally relent and join the freaky sticker cult that makes up the rest of his family... He remains self-aware enough to always point out how fucking bizarre it all is... but hey. He's too lazy to do much about it, so who cares right? 🤷‍♀️

Check out my Masterlist for more!

#obey me #obey me shall we date #shall-we-date-obey-me #obey me headcanons #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me belphegor #obey me beelzebub #obey me asmodeus #it just needed to happen #i have weird ideas sometimes

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scribblingfangirl · 4 years ago

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WRITTEN WORDS & WHISPERED WISHES | Julie and The Phantoms - Luke Patterson

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Author’s Note: I wrote this fic for an old fandom of mine and thought I could re-write/re-use it to finally get started on my JaTP bingo card (because my creativity and originality are nowhere to be found) - I hope you enjoy, yet I’m still sorry in advance? (song’s Poet by Bastille but slightly adapted by me)

word count: 1.9k

prompt: ‘Song Fic’ on my @jatpbingo bingo card

summary: It took several sleepless nights, days of throwing up and feeling bad and the pressure of cuddling with Luke to finally discover that you were pregnant.

warnings: teen pregnancy, character death, a very hastly scribbeled down fic idea (this was not beta read (or read over in general) so typos, inconsistent grammar and other faboulous little annoyances (if anyone loves to read my fanfics and would like to volunteer as my beta reader I’ll kiss your feet))

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It had been a few weeks since you, well... since you had seen another room rather than your classrooms and your own four walls. You even missed your kitchen and living room. But especially, you missed the boys' studio.

Today, however, has been a good day. You had managed to eat properly without feeling sick and were starting to catch up on some shortly due essays, papers and homework assignments, so you wouldn’t need to do them when feeling utterly sick again.

Luke had come to visit you (or tried to) a few times, needing to use his charm at your door, as you told your parents that you didn’t want him to see you. Your hair was a mess and unkempt, it pained you to stand for a long period of time (so you reduced the times you washed it to a minimum), your eyes had dark circles under them and you were exhausted even if you didn’t do anything the whole day long.

“I brought you food. I know that your fridge only knows like three meals”, he had said once quietly, putting the tray with the steaming meal on your bed, gesturing for you to move a little, so he could sit beside you.

“You mean to say that I and/or my parents only know three meals”, you had coughed laughing and refused to move. You didn’t want him to get sick too.

“No don’t,” you had muttered when he started to push you to the side, “I think I might have a bad bug and Sunset Curve can’t function without its lead vocalist and guitarist. And I can’t eat anyway.”

He had looked at you, confused and concerned. “Still? Alex told me you were able to keep your breakfast in, and I thought that meant you were on your way of improvement.”

“Some illnesses take longer to go away. I just didn’t want you to check on me because things like a normal cold or a little stomach bug can pass without unnecessary medications even if it takes longer.”

That had been two weeks ago. But today, when you were finally looking presentable again and were even able to open the door yourself, it wasn’t Luke that was visiting you.

“Oh… it’s you guys.”

“Geez, thanks Y/N. No need to kill us with all this kindness,” Reggie said laughing and sniffed, “Uh! Smells amazing. Pizza?” Without any hesitation or warning, he entered your house and vanished into the kitchen.

“Pizza? Wow, you must really be feeling better. I remember you throwing up on me a week ago when I tried to feed you chicken soup,” Alex smiled, hands in his pockets and not moving until you invited him in.

“Oh no,” hiding your face in your hands after you closed the door behind you both and groaned. “I’m so sorry about that. Again. Tell me how much the cleaning bill was and I-”

“Chill Y/N, relax. You’ve seen me at my worst and now I’ve seen you at your worst. Sure, I was still way more elegant and not as weak as you, but you just gave me a reason to finally get rid of those shoes.”

“No Alex! You loved those sneakers!” you said horrified.

“Just kidding. Give me 50 bucks and we’re even. Or, you know, better yet, come back to the studio and help us get rid of an overly clingy Luke. Now that you’re better, pleeeease, give him some cuddles!”

You giggled. “You know you have two perfectly fine arms to hug him with as well, right?”

“Yeah!” He said, raising his voice. “But not ALL the time. And I want to be appreciated for myself once too! Not just because I am the only one available to give hugs as an ‘emergency solution’!”

“You make it sound like you actually let us hug you dude, don’t lie,” Reggie muttered through a mouthful of Pizza, throwing himself on your couch.

Throwing Reggie a stink eye Alex turned to you again. “Anyway… You and I will go to the studio now. Yeah?”

“Well”, you stocked, not sure if you could talk to them about it. You had hoped for a few more days to think it over. “You know… It might actually not have been a bad bug, but rather a big bug that I caught.”

At their confused faces, you sighed. “I’m a few days, or even weeks... late”, you mumbled the last part so quietly, you weren’t even sure if they had heard you (if they even knew what you meant).

You were definitely not expecting Reggie to be the one to answer. “Do you want me to drive you to the hospital or do you just want a pregnancy test first?”

You didn’t know who of them had told Luke, or when, but after a few minutes of waiting in the hospital’s waiting room he came barreling in, beanie askew on his head and guitar case on his back. His searching eyes found yours in a haze and you could basically hear the question in his gaze ‘Are you?’. Silently you shook your head, averting your eyes.

Alex offered him his place beside you and Luke grabbed your hand while you waited. A few moments later your name was called and the nurse brought you and Luke to an empty room and told you to wait again. She came back a few minutes later and Luke moved to the side of the bed and held your hand again.

You didn’t feel the cold gel on your belly. Didn’t feel the way Luke was almost crushing your hand in his. Didn’t hear the words the nurse said. You only heard the faint heartbeat of your baby. You were pregnant.

Luke was beaming, looking at the screen where you could see the ultrasound of your baby, but he also looked at you with a little bit of fear in his eyes.

I can't say the words out loud So in a rhyme, I wrote you down Now you'll live through the ages I can feel your pulse in the pages

Even though you were only in your eighth week and not really showing yet, Luke wouldn’t allow you to wear anything else than his oversized hoodies, sweaters, pullovers and flannels (the ones that still had sleeves. And okay, fair enough, it might also have been because he absolutely loved to see you in his clothes.)

He was like an eagle watching over you, flying down as soon as you were doing or were going to do something he didn’t approve of. He even almost convinced his and your parents to move into your room so he could reach you faster in case of an emergency. (It was a clear no from both parents and he even got grounded for that idea - though later on, you learned from Alex that it was because he had said ‘Why not? It’s not like I can impregnate her again!’)

Of course, your parents weren’t happy about the situation, but they weren’t about to throw you out on the street. They both loved you and Luke (after all, they did fall for his charms one to many times), but they never really spoke the words out loud, never really talked about the fact that you two were going to be parents, a family at such a young age.

And Luke and you? While he was acting like an overprotective husband you both weren’t really talking about it either. You both were terrified about the fact that you were going to raise a child while Sunset Curve was trying to make it big, while you were still in High School and it still seemed more like a dream to you both, a dream from which neither of you wanted to wake up and face reality.

That’s why you started to write the letters. Or in Luke’s case - lyrics. Letters to future you’s, letters to your unborn child telling them about your adventures, your experiences and feelings. It was a way to tell yourself all the reasons why it was okay that you were going to be having sleepless nights filled with the cries of a baby, telling you that it was all going to be worth it.

And for the first time, while writing those letters and lyrics, it was as if both you could feel your baby.

Your body lies upon the sheets Of paper in words so sweet I can't say the words So I wrote you into my verse Now you'll live through the ages I can feel your pulse in the pages

Time went by fast. You remembered the first time you felt the little kick very well, as if it was yesterday, but at that time you still could somewhat see your feet and now you couldn’t even stand up anymore without somebody’s help.

School was weird, but you had the boys to help you through it.

You started to draw little babies beside your letters, trying to imagine the different looks it could have. Would it have your hair or Luke’s? His eyes and your nose? Your eyes and his smile?

And then you started to write your letters and lyrics around the baby, making it look like it was cradled by your warm words, hoping that whenever you wouldn’t be able to hold your child, it would be able to read your letters and feel the love, because you surely did.

How could you have known that in just a few weeks these lyrics would be the only words your child would ever ‘hear’ from their father?

I have read you with these eyes I've read you with these eyes I have held you in these hands

You had never seen your parents looking so fragile and broken like the night they came into your room to tell you the boys died.

And then, the next thing you knew was that your son was born. The doctors and nurses said that it was the stress, the emotional overload of being told that your friends, your loves, the father of your child died that caused your water to break.

That’s why it was Bobby and not Luke that was by your side that night and held your hand. It was Bobby, the normally strong and grumpy teenager, that was smiling like a little kid that just got told it would get to eat as much candy as it wanted.

His eyes were glistening with tears as the nurse handed him the little bundle of joy and he started to sway him - Luke - slowly back and forth, knowing that you were too tired to hold him at the moment.

“He is beautiful”, you murmured as he took a seat beside you, his gaze still fixed on his nephew, because obviously, he would be Uncle Bobby (though not for a very long time), “Just like his father.”

You didn’t hear Bobby’s answer as you fell asleep and dreamed of Luke, tucking you in and kissing your forehead before he dedicated himself entirely to the new tiny human in his arms, singing a sweet lullaby.

“We have written you down. Now you will live forever and all the world will hear you and you will live forever. In eyes not yet created, on tongues that are not born, in ears not yet listening. I have written you down, now you will live forever and Sunset Curve will sing about you.”

#luke patterson x reader #julie and the phantoms x reader #jatp #julie and the phantoms #luke patterson #luke patterson imagine #luke patterson one shot #luke patterson oneshot #julie and the phantoms imagine #julie and the phantoms oneshot #julie and the phantoms one shot #jatp imagine #jatp one shot #jatp oneshot #my writing #viascribbles

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cherryjuicegf · 4 years ago

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breathless

Five breaths and a sigh. (ao3)

The fire cackles. The night is calm, as calm as a summer night could be, with all the liveliness that seems to rule nature in such a season, when the leaves of the trees wake up and rustle in the light breeze, when the cicadas hold their competitions of who will sing better in a melody that will spill inside the forest, invisible, making it feel as if the stars themselves have come closer to earth to sing.

It’s hot. Not unbearably. It’s the warmth of the wind that shuffles your hair and tickles your nose as if whispering I’m here, feel me, I’m here.

I’m here.

Jaskier fixes his eyes on his notebook, on his fingers clutching the pen. Breathless.

One would say it was the hotness of the air that deprived him of breath. He is the one. He would very much like to say that. Of course, it’s summer, humidity clings on your lungs, sucks thirstily the oxygen supposed for you. So he wouldn’t be wrong to say that. Not wrong. Just lying.

A pair of amber eyes is trailing his face, his shoulders, his hands. He dares not to meet those eyes. He feels them, clutching at his shirt, dragging him closer and closer, only that he’s still there, a fire burning between him and his breath, the same fire burning his cheeks, his throat, his lungs. He feels those eyes devouring the whole of him, greedily and yet, he has them spitting him back out. It’s okay, really. You need to breathe out to take another breath.

But he still holds his.

His pen falters on the sheet. He lifts his head abruptly as if to prove something to himself. Of course he was looking at you. Of course he had no reason to. He’s not you. His eyes rest on the figure across him near the fire, undisturbed, cleaning a blade. No sign of previous staring at his direction. Only some strands of hair, swinging wildly over the blade.

Jaskier stares. And lets out a breath.

Geralt holds his.

ii.

Geralt opens his eyes for the tenth time that night, once again to find the ceiling staring back at him in the darkness of the room. He swallows. He should be able to sleep, he found no reason not to. He’d been craving a soft bed for weeks. The hunt had been a success. He’d been met with dozens of grateful eyes, dozens of relieved smiles. Two tankards of good ale that made his feet go numb. He was tired. All was there. So he finds no reason to be awake.

Only that he does.

He does tonight the same as he did so many other nights, the same as he refused to acknowledge even the barest hint of the burning desire that made his heart thump and his mind dizzy. Not the same as he realizes that this time, he is already on his side when the thoughts come in.

He’d never felt that warm before, he thinks. It’s the kind of warmth that makes your hair stand in content and leaves you hazy, as if bewitched by a magic potion. It’s the kind of warmth that has Geralt stare at the bare back turned at him, moving in steady breaths, as if it’s the most precious of silks.

He finds the reason. He finds it and grips it, cradles it as if he hasn’t found it a thousand times before.

The pillow smells of lavender. Lavender and wildflowers. The sheets too. The silk too. He sucks the scent, as though it’s the only way he’s going to keep breathing. Gulps it, lets it burn his nostrils, his lungs, even if it’s a bit strong, even if it Jaskier indulged himself for once with the soap, even if Geralt had held his breath in displeasure when he first smelled it.

Now he takes a deep breath. He thinks, quickly as if his own thoughts are chasing him, and raises his hand, and as he embraces Jaskier’s waist, oh so gently, he inhales the scent, buries his nose in soft hair, closes his eyes, and Jaskier stirs. And Geralt does not release the breath. He thinks, if lavender and wildflowers are the scent he takes to his grave, if Jaskier is the scent he takes to his grave, then so be it.

But Jaskier returns to quiet. And Geralt thinks for a moment, then gently tightens his embrace. And breathes out.

iii.

A bloody cloth is thrown on the floor, beside a bucket of blood red water. The last tears fall on the bed sheets.

He’d been lucky, Geralt said. He could be dead now. Jaskier thought he heard his voice quivering for a moment. But probably it was his imagination. Don’t move now, he said.

He doesn’t even consider of moving his shoulder at this state and definitely not while Geralt is prickling his skin with a needle, the stitches reaching his left collarbone, leaving him weeping however grateful he didn’t lose a hand or worse. He’d have to avoid playing the lute for two weeks or so now.

The needle prickles once more and he takes a deep breath he doesn’t release. It’s the pain, obviously, stitches are not a lighthearted process. It’s not only that, although he struggles hard to refuse to acknowledge it. But it’s also Geralt’s fingers cradling his neck, holding him steady, tracing his skin, whispering words directed at him, like a lullaby not supposed to be heard.

Almost done. Don’t cry. We’re almost done.

Jaskier sniffs and feels his insides wailing from the lack of oxygen. From the way Geralt’s fingers curl for a moment on his neck, tremble, before cutting the thread and Geralt looks up, nods in affirmation. And slowly, almost unwillingly, stroking as if on silk, his fingers abandon feverish skin.

And Jaskier, his lashes dropping in exhaustion, exhales heavily.

iv.

Oh. That’s close. That’s too close.

Geralt swallows as Jaskier spreads over him on the chair like the tide splashing between rocks, his voice echoing in his ears like the fierce wind of the coast. Jaskier laughs, and nudges him, and sings, and drinks, and drinks. And he’s drunk.

Geralt could leave. He really could. He doesn’t even know why he had been sitting there all this time in the first place. If he thought about it, there’d been nothing keeping him on this damn table, surrounded by stinking drunkards and the smell of burnt sausages along with cheap ale. Because the ale is cheap and if someone tries to convince him otherwise, he will swear to the gods he doesn’t even believe.

So he doesn’t know why he’s still sitting.

Except for the warmth Jaskier’s eyes radiate as they fix on him, even now, even hazy and drunk. Except for the soft puffs of breath on his neck as Jaskier hides his face and laughs, and his lips touch exposed skin, and Geralt damns himself for taking off his armor. He dares close his eyes, just for a moment. Thinks of how soft these lips are, how he craves to feel them until the end of his days. He opens his eyes. He’s a fool.

He picks Jaskier up and stands, heading straight to the stairs. Ignores the bard’s wriggling in his arms and the slurred mutters that he supposes are something close to put me down, you absolute brute. He enters the rooms, closes the door. All but throws Jaskier on the bed, steadying him before he falls forward.

Only that he does, and as he kneels to take of his boots, suddenly his lips are too close. Geralt’s breath hitches. Stops.

Geralt is a man of honour. And also desperate with feelings. Jaskier is not.

It’s nothing. A brush of lips. A taste of tongues. Cheap ale that Geralt now finds he’d willingly tone out the rest of his senses to taste once more. A soft moan, but it can’t be him, he’s not breathing. And then Jaskier’s head bumps limp on his shoulder, and he hears silent snoring.

He closes his eyes. And breathes shakily.

We could head to the coast. Get away for a while.

Silence. Not even a hum. Not even a batter of lashes. Not even a look.

Jaskier waits. He waits as if he doesn’t know the only thing he’s going to hear is the voices of the dwarves in the distance and the howling of the wind whipping against the mountain slopes, against his heart. One more chance.

Life is short and silent. He never wanted his life to be silent. Filled it with unending songs, elaborate words, heartfelt verses that sounded as if the pounding of his heart echoed in each rhyme. A great name he loved to hear pouring from others’ lips. Yet the silent void walking beside him at all times was too silent to fill the last part of his heart, the one he dared not let splutter further than a few songs. And that void, oh it was unbearable now.

Composing your next song?

No, I’m just. Just trying to find out what pleases me.

He stares. Takes a deep, torturous breath, as if the answer is the only thing his lungs depend on. And waits. That was it. The furthest point. And look where it’d gotten him.

Not even a hum. But it’s okay, Jaskier thinks. He needs time. Maybe he’ll think about it. Maybe he can hope. That’s what he thinks, and stands up. Decisions take time, he knows.

He could laugh at himself.

He does. Later, when Geralt enters another’s tent. When he has his answer.

He laughs. And releases the breath.

vi.

His grip is tight. He knows it’s tight because even he feels his fingers going numb after a while. Or it could be the lack of oxygen. He didn’t dare to guess.

He swims and kicks and even with one hand he manages to reach light, away from the waterfall, he manages to get his head out, grab a tree branch as if trying to hold the last string of life from breaking. He manages to pull himself out, his hand never releasing, and he pulls Jaskier along from under the water. He drags them out and, still holding on, he slumps on soft grass. Tries to catch his breath.

Only that the hand in his is limp. Has been all this time.

And suddenly, he forgets how to breathe.

“Jaskier.” He drags himself beside the bard lying motionless on the ground and nudges him hard. “Jaskier!”

His hand twitches but doesn’t release. He leans his head on Jaskier’s chest, searches for the sound of his heart. Hears none. Freezes. “Fuck.”

He kneels properly and if he’s feared death before, now it rose like a dark wave above him, ready to swallow him whole. He put his hands on the bard’s chest, pressed hard. Persistent. Then takes his head in his hands, cradles it like it’s fragile, opens his mouth and breathes in. Presses again. Then breathes. Even if he himself is out of breath.

His hands are trembling.

“No, no, no. Jaskier.” Presses and breathes.

Come back. Breathe. Not yet.

Jaskier is beautiful, he thinks, and his vision blurs as he breathes in once more, desperately, and it’s different, so different from that one time, now Jaskier tastes of water and bitterness, now he smells of death. Come back. Please. Please.

Presses and breathes.

Please don’t get away without me.

A wet gasp. Water runs down Jaskier’s lips and he opens his eyes wide, coughing and coughing and gasping as his body doubles in effort. And Geralt sobs.

Hands hover blindly on the air. “G-Geralt…” Geralt catches them, holds him and Jaskier raises his head, breathless in all his breathing and looks at him, touches him. Geralt leans into the touch. I’m here, feel me. “I’m here, Jaskier.” I’m here.

Jaskier feels rough, trembling hands cupping his face his neck, moving wet hair away from his eyes. Looks into amber eyes and Geralt could swear he goes a little limp in his arms. His heart is almost thumping out of his chest.

Geralt is a man of honour. Still. His lips brush on Jaskier’s and he hears a soft moan. So he kisses him. Deep and possessive and desperate and sweet, he kisses him until they’re out of breath, stealing the oxygen from each other’s lungs and laughing and clingling on each other is if it’s the last branch of life. And then they separate, inches apart. Sparkling blue eyes. Geralt smiles. “I love you.”

Jaskier shivers, closes his eyes. “Say it again.” Say it to fill the void.

“I love you, I love you, I love you.” Geralt trails his lips on cold skin, down Jaskier’s neck, smelling him in, thristily, touching, whispering, devouring. I love you, I love you, I love you.

And Jaskier laughs and cries and kisses back and gazes, oh so lovingly. “I love you too, Geralt. Too much.”

Geralt realizes then he doesn’t have to hold his breath anymore. And heaves a deep sigh.

#the witcher #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #geralt x jaskier #fic recs #chrysa writes #my fanfics

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flowercrown-bard · 4 years ago

Text

To give without knowing (14/?)

word count: 5k

Read on AO3

previous / next / masterpost

Content warnings: fear of someone dying/drowning, guilt

One more time. Just one more time did Geralt allow himself to shout Jaskier’s name with fear filling his senses.

The broken name was a hope, a plea, a desperate confession.

It wasn’t enough.

So Geralt locked his fears away in his mind. A cold numbness overcame him, calming his body and steadying his hands. He rolled Jaskier onto his side. A slow trickle of water flowed out of his mouth. Not enough.

Geralt hit his back. He pressed onto his stomach. Did everything he could think of to get Jaskier to reject the water from his body.

A shadow ran towards them. Essi. She fell to her knees beside Jaskier. Geralt didn’t look at her, unwilling to let his eyes leave Jaskier for even a second, but he still could feel her. Anxiousness rolled off of her in waves, hitting Geralt and almost drowning him in what he couldn’t allow himself to feel. He smelt salt that didn’t come from the sea.

He turned Jaskier again, putting his ear against his lips. He needed to hear his breath.

But it was too loud. Everything was too fucking loud and he couldn’t hear what was most important.

The waves kept roaring and the wind kept rustling the leaves and Essi kept shouting Jaskier’s name as if she was a siren and her voice alone could lure Jaskier back to the land of the living.

She didn’t allow herself just one time. She kept calling out for Jaskier, kept telling him that Geralt was here, that he would save him.

Geralt tried to shut out her ramblings, tried to focus on Jaskier’s breathing that must be there. Yet, this he couldn’t shake. Her unwavering certainty that Geralt could save him.

Geralt wished he was filled by the same conviction.

But Jaskier remained unnaturally still, no matter what Geralt did. He let himself get pushed around like a lifeless puppet whose strings had been cut.

Geralt pulled back to look at Jaskier’s pale face. No change.

The fear that Geralt had tried so hard to repress returned with full might, crashing into him and taking his breath away.

He didn't think. There was nothing left to do. Nothing but –

He surged forward and pressed his lips against Jaskier's. They were cold and unmoving.

Again and again Geralt forced his breath into Jaskier's lungs. For endless moments he felt nothing but the crushing fear that this wouldn't be enough. That it was already too late.

Still, he didn't stop. Wouldn't stop. Couldn't.

Until something shifted.

It was miniscule at first. Barely noticeable. A shudder so faint Geralt wouldn't have known about it if his entire being hadn't been focused on Jaskier.

He pulled back to take another deep breath, but before he could give it away, a jolt went through Jaskier's body. His eyes flew open, wide and panicked as water dripped out of his open mouth with each convulsion.

Immediately, Geralt grabbed him and turned him over again. He held Jaskier as he vomited water until it ended in rough coughs.

Finally, after what seemed like endless torments, Jaskier sucked in a deep breath without his lungs rattling from it.

Jaskier remained in his position, head hung low as he breathed in life. One of his hands was braced against Geralt, gripping him tightly, as if he still thought he was drowning. As if even the solid ground beneath his feet wasn't enough to assure him he was safe.

"Jaskier?" Geralt asked tentatively.

He wasn't sure why he said his name or what he wanted Jaskier to say. He only knew that every moment that he didn't hear Jaskier's voice was a moment still filled with terror.

He just needed to hear Jaskier speak. He needed to know he was going to be fully alright.

Jaskier turned to face him. Painfully slow at first and then letting himself fall onto his back with a relieved groan.

Yet, not once did his eyes leave Geralt's face. He didn't smile, but there was something in his expression that made Geralt's chest clench. Trust. The same certainty that Geralt wouldn't let him come to harm that Essi had expressed earlier.

It was trust Geralt didn't deserve. A lump formed in his throat, growing bigger and choking Geralt with every second that Jaskier looked at him as if there was no place he'd feel as safe as he did with Geralt.

"I'm sorry, Jaskier," he croaked out his voice breaking on the name.

Jaskier's brows knitted together, but he still remained so painfully silent. A hand reached towards Geralt's face and Geralt caught it before it could touch him. Jaskier shouldn't be the one to comfort him. Geralt shouldn't have even been here. If he hadn't, then Jaskier would still be dancing with Essi or maybe lying beneath the stars, forging verses and rhymes.

"I'm sorry," he repeated. "This is my fault."

Jaskier made a hoarse sound of protest but Geralt cut him off before he could give Geralt a defence he didn't deserve. "You flinched back when you saw me." His voice shouldn't sound so bitter, so defeated. "You fell because of me."

A crocked smile tugged at Jaskier's lips and there's an unexpected twinkle in his eyes. Geralt's heart skipped a beat. It wasn't as bright a smile as Jaskier had shown him before, but after having been gripped by the terror of thinking that he was never going to see Jaskier smile again, this was the most breath-taking sight Geralt could imagine.

Jaskier let out a small hum of agreement, not unlike the ones Geralt often used.

Geralt's insides twisted. So Jaskier agreed that this was Geralt's fault. Geralt should leave. Jaskier shouldn't have to endure Geralt's presence any longer.

But when Geralt let go of Jaskier's wrist to put distance between them, Jaskier snatched Geralt's hand right back.

Like before he held onto Geralt lightly but with determination. His smile was still in place.

"I guess," Jaskier said, voice hoarse, "you could say that I was falling for you."

Geralt stared at him, aghast. He wanted to growl at him, shout that this is not the time to joke, beg him never to joke about something like this. Tell him that he had been afraid he had lost Jaskier.

But Jaskier’s smile was cracked and shaken and the last thing he needed right now was Geralt yelling at him. Neither for getting too close to the edge, nor for trying to hide his hurt with humour.

Jaskier’s eyes were still rimmed with red and he looked as if he were to start crying again, if he wasn’t allowed to cover his shock with jokes.

So Geralt swallowed against the lump in his throat and cracked a thin smile of his own.

“Really? That’s the best pun you can come up with?” Geralt teased. He knew he couldn’t hide the strain in his voice from Jaskier, but still Jaskier’s smile grew wider; an expression looking painfully close to thankfulness that shouldn’t be aimed at Geralt.

“Well, I was going to say something about you taking my breath away, but you did the opposite of that, didn’t you?”

Geralt’s breath hitched. It hadn’t been – he had merely pressed his mouth against Jaskier’s out of necessity. The gods knew Geralt hadn’t been able to think of anything but saving Jaskier’s life in that moment. It had been the closest Geralt would ever come to know the feeling of Jaskier’s lips on his in a kiss and Geralt didn’t remember a damn thing about it save for the memory of unbridled fear. It was better that he didn’t remember what Jaskier’s lips tasted like. Had it been anything other than Geralt doing what he could to save him, Jaskier wouldn’t have wanted it.

Jaskier must have noticed Geralt stiffening, for his face fell a little.

“Geralt?” he asked in a small voice and gave his hand a little tug. “Can we go home?”

Home. Calling it that was ridiculous. There was nothing coming even close to ‘home’ with the small inn room they had rented. Yet Jaskier insisted on calling every place they went to together ‘home’.

It almost made Geralt believe that he could have such a thing with Jaskier.

“Yeah,” Geralt rasped. “I’ll get you back home.”

He hesitated. He didn’t know how badly Jaskier’s foot hurt. It could have been just the short sharp shock of stepping on it wrongly that had made Jaskier’s face twist in pain or it could be something much worse and longer-lasting.

Jaskier looked so small lying on the ground, so fragile. Geralt didn’t want to make him walk back. He wanted to cradle him and carry him in his arms, close enough to feel Jaskier’s heart beating strongly and his breath caressing Geralt, proof that he was alive.

But was he allowed to hold Jaskier like that? Would Jaskier even want him to touch him like that after Geralt had been the one who was to blame for this?

The decision of what to do was taken away from him by Jaskier who slung his arms around his neck. It was as obvious a sign as Geralt was going to get.

Without further hesitation, he put one hand beneath Jaskier’s knees and the other behind his back, scooping him up as he stood.

He made to hasten back to the inn, when something touched his arm. He turned and almost cursed when he saw Essi standing there. With everything going on, he had all but forgotten that she was still there, that she too must have been worried sick about Jaskier.

She would want to stay with him as he recovered from the shock. She would ask Geralt to bring him to her room so that she could hold watch over him during the night.

But Essi only gave him an imploring look. “Take care of him.”

Geralt held her eyes for a long moment, making sure she saw the sincerity in them, before he inclined his head. “I always will.”

He didn’t wait for a reply, didn’t care what Essi would do next. With Jaskier in his arms, he all but ran back to the inn, careful not to jostle Jaskier too much. He was acutely aware of how Jaskier’s arms tightened around him, how he buried his face in the crook of Geralt’s neck to release a shuddering breath against his skin.

The touch burned and it took all of Geralt’s willpower not to tighten his hold as well. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever be able to let go again, if he allowed himself this.

After an eternity that still felt too fast, they reached their room.

Geralt brought Jaskier over to the bed to set him down on it gently. He didn’t want to. It was just wishful thinking that Jaskier fisted his hands into the back of Geralt’s shirt as if he didn’t want to let go either.

When Geralt finally gathered the strength to pull away, he could feel Jaskier shiver against him one last time.

“We need to get you out of those clothes,” Geralt said as calmly a he could.

It wasn’t cold yet, but it during the nights one could already feel that summer was about to pass. Jaskier’s clothes were wet and his cheeks were flushed from the cold the water must have settled into his bones.

He forced himself to focus on the task, to not let his mind stray as he carefully opened the buttons on Jaskier’s doublet and pushed it over his shoulders. Both of them were near silent as Geralt worked on getting Jaskier out of his clothes. The only sound was an occasional gasp of Jaskier’s when Geralt’s fingers accidentally brushed his skin while tugging his chemise free or sliding his trousers down his legs.

More than once, it made Geralt pull back and look up to Jaskier for permission to continue. Permission that Jaskier granted him time and time again with a small nod and the hint of a smile. Still, Geralt was more careful as he peeled the rest of the clothes off of Jaskier. There was no ignoring the way Jaskier’s heart was hammering or his breath was getting more shallow with every passing second that Geralt was too close to him.

When Geralt was finally done and the only thing covering Jaskier was a blanket, Geralt went over to his bags. The few seconds he needed to gather his own clothes wasn’t enough to distract him from the memory of how Jaskier’s skin had felt beneath his fingers. He could almost imagine that there had been a different reason for him to shiver under his touch.

But those were useless dreams that Geralt couldn’t get lost in. He needed to be awake to take care of Jaskier.

He handed Jaskier a set of his own clothes; a simple black shirt and trousers that were too big for him. He wasn’t sure what possessed him to do so – his mind kept supplying him with some excuse about how Jaskier’s own clothes were too tight for Jaskier to wear them comfortably right now and how they had more buttons to struggle with – but Jaskier didn’t seem to mind.

In fact, when his face appeared again after he pulled on the shirt, it was lit up and bright as if Geralt had given him a precious gift and not just this old shirt with the least amount of holes in it.

Jaskier’s smaller frame got swallowed by the shirt and his hands disappeared to the tip of his fingers in the sleeves.

Geralt stood next to the bed awkwardly, unsure what to do. Jaskier curled into himself and brought his hands up to his face, drawing in a deep breath that couldn’t have been very effective through the fabric of the sleeved, but evidently it helped Jaskier to lose some of his tension.

Geralt cleared his throat. When Jaskier’s eyes snapped up to him, Geralt’s chest grew tight.

“Your night is ruined.”

Geralt had meant for it to be an apology, but now as the words hung in the air, they served as a reminder to himself. Jaskier wasn’t here because he wanted to be. He wasn’t wearing Geralt’s clothes because he enjoyed it. He should have been dancing beneath the stars with Essi or have her run her fingers through his hair as they sat next to each other.

As much as the sight of Jaskier in their shared bed like this made Geralt feel warm and light-headed, he couldn’t let himself forget that for Jaskier this was a testament to how his night had been ruined by the very man who now pretended to be able to keep Jaskier safe.

Jaskier waved a hand through the air dismissively. “Nothing is ruined but my clothes. Guess I should have listened to you when you said not to go for a swim in my clothes.”

They both were well aware that the joke didn’t land, but Geralt still offered Jaskier an amused snort. At that, Jaskier visibly relaxed, though some of the tension in his expression still remained.

“And my reputation, of course,” Jaskier continued, sighing dramatically. “The world knew me as elegant and sophisticated – �� He shot Geralt a warning glare as if to dare him to negate that. “- and now I shall be known as clumsy. Oh the shame!”

Geralt almost opened his mouth, but he forced himself to merely grunt, swallowing back the words that tried to escape him. No matter how jokingly he would have said that Jaskier could hide away in shame from the world at Kaer Morhen, it would break something between them. Jaskier would laugh at the mere idea of coming to Geralt’s home with him when he could do so much better. Or worse, he would see through Geralt and recognise the invitation as what it was. He would tense up again and his nearly normal smile would drop.

No matter Jaskier’s reaction, Geralt wouldn’t be able to forget it. He would have to live with the brief moment in which he had dreamed that Jaskier could accept his invitation only to shut it down.

Whichever way it would go, this easy banter that Jaskier tried so hard to keep up to distract himself from what had happened would turn into something sour and serious that Geralt wasn’t ready for yet.

So Geralt lowered his head and sank to his knees beside the bed. He told himself he did this out of necessity and not because his resolve to keep quiet about that foolish dream he had would crumble if he looked into Jaskier’s face a second longer.

Without speaking, he tapped Jaskier’s ankle lightly. Jaskier didn’t need to hear words to understand Geralt. With a sound that was surely accompanied by a grimace, he sat up, letting his legs dangle over the edge of the bed.

As gently as he could, Geralt reached for Jaskier’s hurt ankle and inspected it, prodding it gently.

Jaskier stayed eerily quiet and his breath had stuttered for just a second as Geralt touched his leg. An unpleasant feeling spread through Geralt’s chest. It was wrong for Jaskier to be so quiet.

While Geralt began wrapping Jaskier’s foot to stabilise it, his mind was racing. Frantically, he searched for something to say that would get Jaskier talking again or at least distract him from the sharp pain that made him wince whenever Geralt pulled the bandage tighter. It must hurt him, for Jaskier’s hands flew to Geralt’s hair as if he wanted to pull him way. Instead he started playing with the still wet strands, untangling them gently.

Geralt swallowed and latched on to the first thing that came to mind. An embarrassingly belated reply to what Jaskier had said.

“A shame, yeah. I’d be surprised if anyone would fall for you now.”

It was a lie if Geralt’s ever told one. He knew better than anyone why people fell in love with Jaskier and he couldn’t for the life of him imagine anything that would be able to change that.

An uncomfortable and by now painfully familiar pang shot through his chest. People would keep falling in love with Jaskier, always. And Jaskier would keep falling in love with them. He would always keep on loving and giving, but never taking what Geralt could offer.

The thought stung, but even worse was Jaskier’s reaction.

Or rather, lack thereof. His silence continued and when Geralt risked a look at his face, his expression was unreadable, though thankfully not closed off as Geralt had feared.

“Well, of course you would say that.” Jaskier said with a half grin and nudged Geralt with his free foot. “You’re far too agile to fall for someone.”

Geralt couldn’t supress a snort. “Really? Another pun?”

Jaskier huffed and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I think I’ve earned the right to make some terrible puns.”

Geralt’s lips twitched. “Fair enough. But your logic is flawed.” He swallowed thickly, his heart hammering in his chest.

“Oh?” Jaskier raised an eyebrow and Geralt could have sworn that just for a second his heart beat a little faster too. “How so?”

“You are falling for people left and right despite being agile.” He ran his fingers over the make-shift bandage, pretending to be very busy making sure it will keep Jaskier’s foot from twisting. “Always dancing through crowds and skipping ahead like a little fox.”

Jaskier’s hand in Geralt’s hair stilled. For a moment Geralt feared that he had said too much, that somehow his poor attempt at being something resembling poetic would make Jaskier pull away. But then Jaskier tugged lightly at his hair, making Geralt look up.

What he found in Jaskier’s expression wasn’t contempt or ridicule. Instead his eyes were soft and his lips curved into a tentative yet radiant smile.

“Little fox?”

Geralt could feel heat rise in his neck and his tongue stumbled over an explanation that wouldn’t damn him further.

“You know. Lithe. Nimble. Clever.”

“You think I’m clever?”

Geralt huffed. “Not when you’re making horrible puns that don’t even make sense.”

Jaskier’s lips parted, letting a light laugh escape that made something warm and soft spread through Geralt’s chest. The corners of Jaskier’s eyes crinkled in mirth. “You know, foxes are also being known for being pretty.”

“I’m not going to justify that with a response,” Geralt said, though his lips stretched into a wider smile.

This felt natural. The strain in Jaskier’s voice had left him fully and he baited Geralt into bantering as if this was just a normal day. Thinking about it, it somewhat did resemble normalcy. It wasn’t unusual for one of them to get into danger and neither was it unusual for Jaskier to recover from the shock first – at least if it was Jaskier himself who had nearly gotten hurt. Geralt was never able to shake off the fear of Jaskier getting hurt.

Though Geralt still couldn’t banish the images of Jaskier disappearing beneath the water from his mind, Jaskier already looked as if he was comfortable as could be, right here with Geralt. And as if had completely forgotten about Essi.

Geralt shouldn’t feel a relieved satisfaction at that, but he never claimed to be a good man. Despite the brief moment of understanding he had had for her, he couldn’t deny that having Jaskier laugh at something he had said, of having him relax and forget his worries and fears in Geralt’s presence, filled Geralt with a sense of rightness.

“Fine. Be like that.” Jaskier tilted his head to the side and gave a long exaggerated sigh. “I’ll take what I can get. And calling me a fox is definitely an improvement to comparing me to a fish.” His smile turned into a grin and he nudged Geralt one more playfully. “I am a little foxy, wouldn’t you say?”

“You couldn’t pay me to say such a thing.”

“What would you call me instead then?” Jaskier challenged.

Geralt opened his mouth, a sarcastic retort already at the tip of his tongue, but Jaskier chose that moment to lean forward, his elbows on his knees and his face far too close to Geralt’s. Close enough to see every nuance in his eyes. Close enough that Geralt had to gather all his strength not to let his eyes dart down to his lips. Close enough that Geralt forgot how to breathe or utter any words.

He knew Jaskier was just joking around. All this talk of falling in love meant nothing. It was just Jaskier seizing the opportunity to make terrible jokes. After all, those were the ones that normally got the biggest laugh – or groan – out of the both of them. He didn’t really care what Geralt thought of his appearance. If he did, he wouldn’t wear his doublets open uncaringly around Geralt or let him see him in the morning with messy hair and pillow creases on his face. More often than not, Jaskier complained about Geralt having no sense of beauty and every time Geralt would reply that he had no need for pretty things.

In this moment, Geralt was far too close to have his resolve snap. He knew witchers shouldn’t want beautiful things. He shouldn’t want to press his face into Jaskier’s messy hair every morning for the rest of his life. He shouldn’t want his freely given touches. He shouldn’t want Jaskier’s words spoken in trust, in playfulness, in the knowledge that he didn’t need to pretend in front of Geralt.

He shouldn’t want any of that and so much more. Witchers weren’t allowed to keep beautiful things either way.

But with Jaskier so close, Geralt wanted more than anything to try. He wanted to tell Jaskier that to Geralt he was the most beautiful person, messy hair or not. But Geralt was no poet. He wasn’t like Essi or the countless other people who knew what gemstone or flower to compare Jaskier’s eyes to. They would know how to put into words what Jaskier’s smile made them feel or express how Jaskier took their breath away whenever he left a crowd and dropped the mask of performance, becoming wholly himself.

All Geralt could give Jaskier was a stilted compliment that would probably come out wrong. Nothing Geralt could say would be good enough for Jaskier.

So he did the only thing that he could. He turned the no doubt vulnerably open expression on his face into something teasing and safe.

“I’d say that you probably need your beauty sleep now.”

Jaskier let out a mock-offended gasp. “The audacity!” His shoulders shook with a short laugh. “You’re lucky I like you or you wouldn’t get away with such an insult.”

Geralt’s stomach did a swoop and breath got stuck in his throat.

“Not an insult,” he said roughly.

Jaskier’s lips twitched. “Sure sounded like one.” His tone made it clear that he had taken no offence and was just trying to rile Geralt up. It was a relief that lifted a pressing weight off Geralt’s chest.

“It’s…care.” He said awkwardly, quietly enough to hope that Jaskier hadn’t heard it. The struck expression on Jaskier’s face that slowly morphed into a soft and precious thing proved his hope useless. “It’s late. You need some rest.”

Miraculously, Jaskier didn’t protest. He just gave a small nod and ran his hand through Geralt’s hair one last time before lying back down. Geralt’s hands hovered over his leg, poised to help him, should he accidentally jostle his ankle too much.

“Goodnight, Jaskier,” he whispered as he pulled the blanket up to Jaskier’s chin.

For a moment Geralt remained standing awkwardly by the bedside, not sure what he should do, if his presence was wanted or if maybe he should try to find Essi instead to keep Jaskier company, as much as that thought twisted his insides.

The decision was made for him when Jaskier’s hand snatched him by the wrist, tugging him towards the bed lightly but insistently.

“Stay with me?”

The plea was barely audible, but the urgency in Jaskier’s voice rang in Geralt’s ears like thunder.

Without hesitating any longer, he peeled himself out of his own wet clothes before slipping under the covers next to Jaskier, keeping enough distance between them that he wouldn’t accidentally cage Jaskier in and make him feel trapped.

Naturally, it didn’t take long for Jaskier to roll over until he was pressed into Geralt who slung his arms around him as if he was protecting him from the dark that was so similar to the one that had swallowed him and dragged him under not long ago.

Jaskier let out a sigh that tickled Geralt’s neck and Geralt pressed his nose into Jaskier’s hair. It was still a little wet and smelled like salt and fish and danger. It smelled like Jaskier falling off a cliff and of a pale hand grasping Geralt’s leg for safety.

Geralt tightened his arms around Jaskier. One of his hands wandered up until he was cradling his head protectively.

“I will stay,” he promised. “I got you. You’re safe.”

He wasn’t sure for whose benefit he whispered those words and he couldn’t be certain that he hadn’t imagined Jaskier’s mumbled “I know.”

But there was no denying the way Jaskier snuggled into him, pressing his face against Geralt’s neck and relaxing as if he was convinced that no threat could reach him for as long as he was being held like this. Just loud enough for Geralt to hear it, Jaskier added, “I’ll stay with you too. You’ve got me.”

Geralt didn’t know what to make of these sleep-clouded words that cradled his heart like a warm embrace. He didn’t ask what Jaskier had meant. For now, he let himself dream while lying wide awake.

It didn’t take long for Jaskier’s breaths to even out and his body to melt into Geralt’s as sleep embraced him.

Geralt stayed awake, listened to Jaskier’s heartbeat and rubbing circles into his back whenever his dreams seemed to shift into something ugly and dangerous. He couldn’t allow himself to sleep. Not when he had to watch over Jaskier. It wasn’t a fate that he minded.

Having Jaskier calm down time and time again by Geralt’s touch was yet another beautiful thing. Geralt might be selfish or a fool, but just for now, he let himself believe that he could keep this.

He pulled back, just slightly, just enough to be able to see Jaskier’s face. Careful, so as not to wake him, Geralt traced his features with his fingers. His cheekbones, the small crease between his brows that disappeared under with soft touch, his lips that moved beneath him. A sigh left Jaskier that sounded almost like his name.

Geralt froze, his heart racing in his chest. If his touch hadn’t been light enough, if Jaskier had woken and found Geralt touching him like that, Jaskier would know. As much as Geralt was used to hiding his feelings behind a blank mask during the day, he wasn’t sure he would be able to do so in the dead of night with Jaskier so close and the softness of his lips beneath his fingers.

But Jaskier didn’t stir, his eyes didn’t snap open and he didn’t pull away from Geralt.

It was a thought that made his chest ache, but for just a heartbeat – one foolish, reckless moment – Geralt thought that maybe it wouldn’t be too bad if Jaskier knew. Maybe there was a chance that Jaskier wouldn’t leave him after all, that he wouldn’t turn away from Geralt and shun him for daring to love Jaskier.

Geralt swallowed thickly and he couldn’t tear his eyes from Jaskier’s face, from how utterly trusting he was to let Geralt hold him in the night.

Geralt didn’t think about it. He was simply filled by one certainty: Having seen Jaskier almost die today, having him seek comfort in Geralt, it was impossible to go as much as another day without having said it at least once.

Perhaps the only reason why Geralt was able to gather his courage or be overmanned by his folly, was because Jaskier was sound asleep and wouldn’t be able to hear a word he said.

It didn’t matter.

Geralt caressed the soft skin of Jaskier’s cheeks and leaned in until his lips were right next to Jaskier’s ears.

The night was his only witness as he shared his secret in a whisper.

“I love you.”

---

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dhwty-writes · 4 years ago

Note

Dialogue prompt: “you feel so deeply for everyone, let someone feel deeply for you.”

Thank you, lovely person, for this wonderful prompt! I’m sorry this took a while, it got very long. I also just realised as I was uploading this, that the prompt isn’t exactly what you asked for. I hope you like it regardless!

Warnings: None, except for utter dumbassery on these two idiots’ parts

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The room at their inn was infuriatingly quiet, the silence only broken by the scratch of Jaskier's quill. It drove Geralt mad. It drove him mad and yet he could do nothing but stare at the ceiling above the bed.

Not because of the obvious reasons. Not because it was annoying or too loud or anything.

No, it drove him mad, because he lacked the words to fill the silence. Two dozen times Geralt opened his mouth to say something, two dozen times he closed it again.

Then he sat up with a start. "What would you like to do this evening?" he blurted out.

The maddening scratching stopped for a moment, accompanied by a weary sigh. "Gee, Geralt, what kind of question is that?"

"Hmm." Yeah, what kind of question was that? A stupid one, that's what.

"I don't know, sleep?” The scratching started again. “I'm tired." Jaskier yawned to prove his point.

Geralt ground his teeth and turned onto his other side. He had just wanted to do something nice for his bard. But now the opportunity had passed, now he had to work up the courage again. He fell asleep, still ruminating how utterly stupid he had been.

The thing was, doing something nice for another person wasn't necessarily Geralt's forte. Melitele's tits, even being nice was not his forte! He was a witcher and witchers killed monsters. Niceties and manners had a very low priority in Kaer Morhen’s curriculum.

The other thing was, Jaskier deserved someone being nice to him. He couldn't quite say what it was, but the bard had grown on him over the years. First a slight annoyance and liability, then a reliable travel companion until he felt comfortable calling him his friend. Best friend, even. Which, given that he was his only friend, wasn’t very hard. And now—

Something had changed, something Geralt did not quite dare to name. All he knew was that whenever he looked at his bard, his cheeks and chest grew warm and his stomach and heart did funny things they weren't supposed to.

And that he wanted to do something nice for the bard.

A few weeks after the Question Incident, Geralt had finally worked up the courage to try once more. Given his previous experience, he had decided not to ask the bard again. That way at least, he didn’t run risk to ruin it with his incompetence with words again.

He did, however, hold the belief that words were the key to this tricky situation. Jaskier was a bard, a poet, a minstrel. He liked words. So, Geralt decided to by him a pretty book full of pretty words.

They had managed to arrive in town during market day, which was quite fortunate indeed. Books were pricey, and usually unattainable in the smaller towns. But here he was quick to succeed.

The book was almost comically tiny and abhorrently expensive, but the vendor assured him that it was all the rage in Cidaris at the moment. Even better than that, it was not written by hand, but rather by a very new invention called a ‘printing press’. Needless to say, Geralt was fascinated and excited to have found such a perfect gift for his bard. He slapped down a pouch of coins onto the counter and quickly returned to their inn.

The book was strategically placed onto the rickety desk in the corner and he forced himself to busy himself with his swords as he waited for his friend to return.

It did not take long until Jaskier burst into the room with the usual flurry of words and quickly discarded clothes. Normally, Geralt paid him no mind, but on that day, he was watching him like a hawk. That was how he was fortunate enough to witness the exact moment the bard spotted the book.

Jaskier froze mid-sentence and pointed at it: “What’s this?”

“’S for you,” Geralt mumbled. “I found it.”

He drew closer to the desk and flipped the cover open with two fingers, as far away from the folio as possible. And hissed. Jaskier actually hissed. “What is this?” he demanded again. “And what is it doing here, in our room?”

“A book,” he replied confused. “Poems, they said. ‘S good, they said.”

“Poems!” he exclaimed. “Those aren’t poems, Geralt, those are the uninspired rhymes by a talentless wastrel, who stole my verses! I hope you didn’t spend any money on it, I wouldn’t give a copper for any composition by Valdo Marx.”

Geralt looked at the sword in his lap. ‘Fuck.’

“I’m going to burn it,” Jaskier declared and Geralt leapt to his feet, shouting: “No!”

The rest of their stay in town was spent wrestling the book from his bard, so he couldn’t chuck it into the fireplace before Geralt had a chance to pawn it off again. Somehow, he felt even stupider than the last time.

~*~

Words were off the table, then, so he opted for a more direct-action approach. One of the many things he had learned about the bard in all those years, was that he enjoyed food. Good food, specifically.

They made camp, Geralt decided that Jaskier deserved a nice meal. He went off to hunt and forage, leaving the bard in charge of setting up the camp and caring for Roach. After his initial mistrust of his companion’s animal handling skills, Jaskier had quickly proven himself quite capable. At least more capable than looking for food in the wild.

When he returned an hour and a half later, he was quite proud with himself. He had managed to catch a fat rabbit and found a whole array of mushrooms and berries that would surely please the bard. They were brightly coloured, just as he was.

Smiling broadly and not-humming under his breath—they had talked about that, witchers didn't hum, definitely not—he set about preparing the meal while Jaskier went off to do the laundry in a nearby stream. Fair's fair, after all.

The sun had set and the stew was almost done, when he returned. "That smells—” He wrinkled his nose.

'Oh no,' Geralt thought, icy dread rushing through his veins. That wasn't good. One wasn't supposed to wrinkle their nose when smelling food. Besides, there was nothing to wrinkle one's nose about. The stew smelled delicious.

However, he appeared to have done a grievous mistake, for the displeased expression on Jaskier’s face did not fade. "Geralt," he said warily, "what are you doing?"

"Cooking," he replied, pointing at the pot simmering over the fire. This time, at least, it was Jaskier asking the stupid questions. "Mushrooms and rabbit."

"Mushrooms," Jaskier repeated and pointed at a few leftovers. "Those mushrooms?"

"Hmm." He did not like where this was going.

"Oh, Geralt," Jaskier's face fell, an absolutely revolting expression of compassion and bemusement. "Those are poisonous!"

Geralt stared at him. Stared back at the stew. Back at him. The stew. "Fuck."

~*~

Alright, so what Geralt needed was a fool-proof plan. A witcher-proof plan, rather. I plan he could absolutely not muck up, no matter how hard he tried. It took him a month and a half to come up with one.

Then, he decided it was best to put such delicate matters into someone else’s hands. Hooves, rather.

“Geralt,” Jaskier complained loudly as the heat bore down on them relentlessly. “Please, have some mercy on me. I can’t. I just can’t anymore.” This had been going on for hours. “How long’s it been, Geralt? How long’s it been since we had a rest? Since the sweat dripping from my brow wasn’t watering dried weeds on the road side? Since I had but a sip of water?”

He cast his eyes upwards. “About four hours since you took a morning bath in that stream,” he replied matter-of-factly. “And you’d have something to drink, had you not insisted on upending your water over your head.”

“You’re a cruel man, witcher,” the bard whined. Geralt could hear the pout in his voice. “The reason for my demise, even. My blisters have got blisters, I think my feet are about to fall off. And whose fault will it be? Yours, my friend yours alone—”

Geralt jerked on Roach’s reins; he had heard quite enough of those baseless accusations. The bard, however, didn’t even seem to notice. Instead, he just kept on babbling and walking—limping, really. He couldn’t help but smile. “Jaskier,” he said far too fondly as he hopped off the saddle.

He spun around, a confused look on his face. “What?”

“Come here.” He gestured at Roach. “Maybe this’ll give your feet some rest.” In the privacy of his mind, he added: ‘And my ears, as well.’

Eagerly, Jaskier hurried over to him. “Are you being serious?”

He rolled his eyes and laced his fingers together, offering to give him a boost. When Jaskier still didn’t move, he growled: “Come on, before I change my mind.”

“Alright, alright,” the bard mumbled. Shortly after, he was safely in the saddle, grinning from ear to ear, as he patted Roach’s neck. “Gotta admit it,” he said smugly, while Geralt adjusted the stirrups, “I kind of missed this. Thank you, Geralt.”

He mumbled something unintelligible and waved him to be on his way, as he got all of his friend’s useless weight situated on his back. It did not take much urging for the bard to ride ahead and leave Geralt trailing behind.

In all fairness, what happened next was only loosely his fault. Maybe he should have paid better attention to the road. Maybe he should have walked beside Roach, ready to grab her reins if anything went wrong. Maybe.

But he was, after all, only a man. Only a man who was not only confronted with the fact that his bard had a rather lovely bottom, but also that said lovely bottom was right in his line of sight, if he walked behind Roach just so. Information he’d certainly file away again for later, if his bard was dilly-dallying again.

Still, maybe he shouldn’t have let himself be distracted quite as much by the sight. And he probably should have seen the bandits waiting at the side of the road well in advance. He definitely should have realised sooner what exactly was happening and come to Jaskier’s rescue.

Alas, none of that had been the case.

A piercing scream had ripped him out of his silent contemplation and next thing he knew, Roach was gone, Jaskier was lying on the ground and he had four, admittedly not very skilled, crooks to contend with.

Once that was done, he crouched down next to his friend, fretting nervously. “Are you alright?” he asked anxiously, skimming his hands all over Jaskier’s body to check for injuries. “Did you break something? Any blood, any pain? How’s your head feeling?”

“I’m alright, I’m alright,” he insisted, batting the hands away. “Melitele’s tits, Geralt, please tell me I’m not that insufferable.”

He sat back on his haunches, unable to do anything but stare. This was nothing like he had planned.

Jaskier sighed heavily and waved his hand. “Just… go check on your horse.”

Bereft of any other options, that was exactly what he did.

~*~

Autumn was almost upon them and Geralt was running out of options. After the Question Incident, the Book Catastrophe, the Mushrooms and the Wannabe Robbers, a number of other disastrous mishaps had followed, the most prominent among those being the Tavern Brawl, the Brothel Failure, and the Library Ban.

What he had learned during all those horrifying events, was that the only way he could ever even hope to do something nice for his bard was with a town, meticulous planning, and the radical elimination of any and all possible liabilities.

The first two, he had excelled at, this time. There was a town, there was an inn, there was a room they rented for five days. The first three of them, Geralt had spent conspiring with the innkeeper and her wife, who found them and his efforts ‘absolutely adorable’ and who were more than willing to aid him in his ‘display of his undying love’. Both of those were rather weird notions, but Geralt was so close, so close, he had no time to bother with semantics.

It was the fourth day and everything was going perfect. The tub was prepared, the tavern was quiet, the bath salts and scented oils and soaps his bard loved so much bought. And the bard did not suspect a thing.

All that was left to do know was fetch Jaskier and finally, finally do something nice for him.

That last thing was easier than he had anticipated; they practically ran into each other on the way out of the tavern. “Jaskier!” Geralt said.

“Geralt!” Jaskier said.

“I’ve got something for you,” they both said.

Geralt blinked.

Jaskier blinked.

“You go first,” Geralt growled.

“Great!” The bard was bouncing on the balls of his feet. That was never a good sign. He didn’t know, however, how much of a not-good sign it was until Jaskier produced a sheet of paper from his sleeve. “Look! It’s a contract!”

‘Fuck,’ Geralt thought. ‘I should’ve gone first.’ “Shit,” he said. “I can’t take it.”

“What?!” he balked. “What are you talking about, you have to take it! That’s a hundred crowns, Geralt, that’ll last us weeks! I know you’ve been going all stir-crazy these past few days; you’re even more quiet and taciturn than usual.”

That wasn’t exactly untrue. Four days of conspiring had taken their toll. “What’s it about?”

“Oh, just a couple of drowners.”

Geralt growled and snatched the page out of his hand. “I’ll be back in an hour,” he promised and stormed off.

He wasn’t back in an hour. It wasn’t a couple of drowners, either.

Instead, he returned two hours past sundown, drenched in mud, every bone in his body hurting like fuck, the heads of a couple of drowners and a fucking water hag. He hated water hags. Not because they were specifically difficult to kill, but because they just kept lobbing mud at him and that was all he needed for a day to qualify as truly revolting.

He stomped to the house of the alderman, collected the payment and then dragged himself up to their inn room, where he was greeted by a far too cheery bard. “You’re back!” he exclaimed and almost lunged to embrace him, when he spotted the mud and guts all over him. “Eww,” he sneered. “You, my dear witcher, need a bath.”

On any other day, Geralt would have readily agreed. Maybe even on this day. But then, Jaskier declares: “Luckily, our gracious hosts have been so kind to already provide us with one.” He stepped out of the way and, to Geralt’s horror, presented a wooden bathtub with candles and rose petals and a nice embroidered linen sheet to avoid any annoying splinters. “Come here, friend, and take a bath.”

“No, you take a bath,” he blurted before he had even time to think about the words coming out of his mouth.

“Excuse me?” Jaskier wrinkled his nose in disgust. “I’m not the one smelling like he just got dunked into the swamp and then took a nap in the pigpen. You take a bath, Geralt, or you sleep with Roach tonight!”

Accepting his fat, his shoulders fell. “Fuck.”

~*~

It was almost winter, almost time to separate for months, and Geralt almost admitted defeat. Almost. But, of course, he didn’t even manage that.

Honestly, after nigh nine months of trial and error (mostly error) it shouldn’t come as a surprise to him, that even this final opportunity was a complete and utter failure in regards to his plans. How it still did was beyond him.

The door to their inn room shut behind them with a bang, Jaskier leaning against it to block any means of escape. "Geralt of Rivia," he declared boldly, probably as menacing as he could, "what are you playing at?"

"Hm?" he tried innocently.

"Oh, no,” he laughed throatily and raised an accusatory finger, drawing closer with each word. “Oh no, my friend, don't you 'hm' me. You,” the finger poked into his chest, “are acting weird."

"Hmm."

He huffed. "At least we can agree about that. So. What are you playing at? Because I tell you, this has been going on for months and I can't decide whether you are trying to mock me, insult me, or kill me!"

"None of that," Geralt was quick to assure.

"Well, then, what is it?"

His eyes darted back and forth, desperately searching for a way out of this. But Jaskier was directly in front of him, trapping him against the bed, and still blocking the way to the door. There was nowhere to run, so he decided to go for the truth: "I'm trying to do something nice for you!"

The bard gawked at him. Then, he blurted: "What on earth are you talking about?!"

He didn’t say a thing.

“Geralt!” Jaskier took another step forward and as Geralt’s calves hit the mattress, his knees buckled and he sat down involuntarily.

"I—” He threw up his hands in defeat. How on earth was he supposed to explain all of those confusing things going on inside of him. Before he could come up with a satisfying answer, his mouth started talking on his own: “You care so deeply for everyone, let someone care deeply for you."

Silence fell over the room, as Jaskier kept staring and Geralt kept avoiding his gaze. Then, the bard suddenly crouched down, with the exact same expression he had after The Mushrooms. “Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier said in that soft tone he just couldn't quite understand. 'Fond,' his mind supplied, 'adoring.'

"Please," he begged, hiding his face against the reassuring shoulder of his friend, "this has been hell. I tried everything I could think of, and it all failed. Just tell me. Tell me how I can do something nice for you. I'd do anything, anything at all."

"Anything, you say?" He laughed, a playful undertone sneaking into his voice. "Well then, heroic witcher, I would like a kiss,” he said, accompanied by a wink.

Geralt wasn't thinking. If he had been, he'd probably stopped himself. But since any cerebral activity had ceased to exist, he just leaned forward and pressed his lips to the bard's mouth in a chaste kiss.

It was over almost before it had begun, the bard spluttering with surprise: "I- You- I was joking!"

Oh. Fuck. Well, that certainly was a way to end a year of embarrassments. "I'm sorry," he blurted and backed away, frantically scooting back on the bed, only to be stopped by Jaskier's hands.

“I—umm—shit!” Jaskier cursed; now it was him who was avoiding Geralt’s gaze.

He snorted. No hunched shoulders or ducked head could hide the crimson cheeks of his bard. “You’re blushing.”

“Well, you’re an idiot!” he countered. And, well, Jaskier certainly was not prone to be a liar. “I didn't think you’d actually do it, you daft witcher,” he hissed, before his face grew soft and he smiled again, invitingly. “But I also didn't say you should stop.”

It was a terrible line. It was a terrible line and they both knew it. Evidently, they both didn’t care. As soon as the words had left Jaskier’s mouth, they surged forward. It was surreal, really, to finally be granted permission. To finally be able to taste Jaskier’s lips, to pull him in, close, closer, until he was straddling his thighs. To finally be able to dispose of his doublet, push his hands under his shirt and up his back and—

Breathlessly, Geralt pulled away. “I love you,” he blurted.

Jaskier sighed quietly and smiled. “I know,” he whispered and pecked him on his cheek. “You show it in a thousand little ways, every day.” He pecked him on the other cheek.

“I know,” Geralt replied and kissed him on the mouth. “You tell anyone who would listen.”

He chuckled and kissed him again. “I never dared to dream you’d love me like this,” he murmured against his lips.

“But I do.”

“You know,” Jaskier said, playing with the clasps of his armour, “that was awfully nice of you. But if you’d life to do another nice thing for me, to make up for lost time, so to speak, I’ve got a couple of ideas in my mind.”

Geralt groaned and pull away, flopping backwards onto the bed. “No,” he said stubbornly, shoving at the bard who tried to kiss him again. “Nope, not in a thousand years. That was it, you ruined it. Enough nice things for you.”

“Oh, come on,” Jaskier whined. “It wasn’t that terrible. Cheesy, yes, I’ll accept even tacky, but certainly not tasteless enough to warrant such a cruel punishment.”

He raised an incredulous eyebrow at him.

Jaskier crossed his arms and pouted. “Alright, maybe it was,” he conceded.

Geralt huffed his agreement, stretching out his hands for his bard’s hips, already tired of this game.

“Regardless,” a smug grin spread on his face as he shimmied closer, “you love me too much to deny me for long.”

“Yeah.” Geralt smirked as well and put his arms around Jaskier’s neck to pull him in for another kiss. “Yeah, I do.”

#prompt fill #kimception98 #look i've got an ask #geraskier #the witcher #geralt of rivia #jaskier #my writing #julian alfred pankratz #geraskier fanfiction #the witcher fanfiction #geraltxjaskier #geralt/jaskier

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bisexualhobi · 4 years ago

Note

i get you bc I'm an actual rap fan (not just kpop hip hop) so if you come from that background you're like used to a certain style or whatever, and yoongi definitely emulates it, you can tell he grew up listening to biggie and jay and eminem. but again I know taste is subjective. if you had to rank the rapline in objective terms could you do it?

Hmmm yeah I think I kinda agree with you. I'm not sure if I'd say yoongi emulates them or even if he does it better (but then again, all korean hip hop is a literal copy of black music and culture, specially black people from the USA), but he's a favorite among hiphop lovers.

Answering your question should be short and sweet, so the objective ranking of rapline is:

Agust D

J-Hope

but the long answer explains why I ranked them this way, and I went off and wrote all of this in 20 minutes so if you feel like reading it, here you go:

About Agust D, his unique production style imo is what shines through even more so than namjoon and Hoseok's. his first mixtape is raw Yoongi style. it's insane. I actually didn't think he could surpass it in D-2 but he shut me up. You can tell that man was originally going to be just bangtan's producer. He's got an ear for catchy hooks, innovative rhythm schemes and he just knows how to make a hit. it reminds me so much of young Kendrick Lamar, or Kanye in his golden age..... hell I'll admit I hadn't been as pumped listening to a rapper since I discovered Childish and Tyler the creator. His lyrics however are often just dissing, humble brag, humble brag, ambiguous reference to his sexuality, more dissing, reference to his time in bts. Which is fine!! I listen to agust d to get hyped and feel like a bad motherfucker. it does its job. If you care about speed, Yoongi beats Namjoon and Hoseok easily. He can spit bars like Eminem. He's got the speed, the flow, and it's really fucking hot.

regarding Namjoon, if you listen to RM's first mixtape though, it's very much a western rap mixtape. almost all the tracks are samples from black American rappers. what shines through in RM's rapping is his lyricism and ability to play with the verse, imagery and word play. but there's at least five of his songs that sound the same melody and production wise. However, he's also versatile, because mono is something so unlike anything you could've expected from RM after the first mixtape. I actually have a problem with mono being called a rap mixtape lmao. mono isn't rap, it's alternative hiphop mixed with lofi r&b, a very pleasant indie sound that I've only heard with Frank ocean, Kevin abstract, or Steve lacy. but still, mono is, accordingly, very monotonous in its musicality. That's why a lot of people put it on before they go to bed. it winds you down. But yeah, RM isn't as focused on the track's melody as he is in the story he tells. So I guess you could say Agust D's strength lies in his beats and melodies, while RM's is his lyrics and rhyme schemes. I'm gonna get made fun of in reddit if a screenshot of this gets spread around but I hadn't seen such a powerful, born lyricist since 2pac and Biggie. his shit is off the rocker. It makes sense that his role model is Nas, who's also known for powerful verses. Regarding his rapping style, he can be fast but he's better at playing with the cadence. His delivery is stronger than his flow, but Yoongi can match him in delivery too.

Hoseok is a very different case. man didn't even know how to rap when he joined big hit. He only listened to hip hop for his dance performances, he didn't grow up absorbing the culture the way Yoongi and Namjoon did. RM and Agust D move like you expect underground seasoned rappers to move, J-Hope moves more like a pop star. His lyrics aren't as intricate as RM's, but he still manages to paint an image in your head, he manages to get his point across while still making references to literary works such as 20,000 leagues under the sea, Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Alice in Wonderland, and Around the World in 80 Days. Can you tell he's a literature teacher's son? People have this idea that his songs are just feel good, happy tunes, but there's much more depth than that. I think personally he's more of an r&b artist than a rapper, at least that's the way I feel it. His strength lies in his stylization of the music and composition of a track's journey. He's a dancer, ofc he knows how to make the song build tension, keeping you waiting, and then he knows exactly when to give you release. His musicality is top tier, he rivals Agust D in that aspect. But he comes up short in flow. He's not as fast or effortless as RM or Agust D when it comes to speed. He can spit bars, don't get me wrong, but his style is less about fast verses. Emotion wise he beats RM and Agust D though, because his stage presence surpasses the other two. He knows himself and he knows what his strengths and weaknesses are. He makes every song his own. I saw a meme that I think is very fitting here, this is literally Hoseok:

it's true! Yoongi can do RM and Namjoon can do Agust d, but neither of them can do Hoseok's verses. There's a performance where Namjoon and Hobi fill in Yoongi's mic drop verse, but I remember an interview where Yoongi says neither him or Namjoon could do Hoseok's verse in Outro: tear. whether that makes him better or just different I leave to your interpretation. I'll just say he stands out.

To summarize, Yoongi is better at:

✔️production ✔️flow ✔️delivery ✔️musicality

Namjoon is better at:

✔️lyricism ✔️flow ✔️delivery ✔️production

and Hoseok is better at:

✔️musicality ✔️lyricism ✔️production ✔️emotion

#asks #long post #I'm sorry I did this on mobile and can't put a readmore #rapline #hobi #namjoon #yoongi

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weasleydream · 5 years ago

Text

Not gonna leave

Masterlist

Hogwarts had always been my home. It was the best place in the world. But when this awful toad arrived and took the control in the school, things started to change. Merlin, even Trevor, Neville’s toad, would have been a better director than her! Umbridge was everybody’s nightmare as she made more and more stupid rules. “Boys and girls are not permitted to be within 6 inches of each other.” How could she be that intrusive in our lives? How many times did she separate me from Fred and George when we were just walking in the corridors? Lucky us, she never caught us, Fred and I, while we were hiding in some broom closet to snog as if our lives depended on it.

Yeah, by the way, this beautiful redhead and I had been together since he asked me out on a Hogsmeade date during our third year. I had always gotten along pretty well with the twins, but I had always been a little closer to Fred, a little more tactile but also a little more impulsive. That’s why George and I never fought, I somehow always succeeded into calm my anger. But with Fred… Let’s just say that one day, he received pumpkin juice on the face because he had made fun of me the day before for almost tripping in front of Snape. So yeah, things can escalated quickly between the two of us. But it’s not always a bad thing, if you know what I mean.

One of the worst decision Toadbridge had taken was to prevent us from playing Quidditch. If it wasn’t for McGonagall who talked to Dumbledore, we still wouldn’t be allowed to play. Fortunately we got the permission and Angelina, our new captain after Wood’s departure, trained us. Unfortunately, our new keeper, Ron, seemed to be way too anxious whenever someone was looking at him. Worse, some Slytherin’s team players had seen him and made fun of him whenever they could.

We knew that the Slytherins loved being foul, but when Fred, George and I saw the badges they were wearing the morning before the first match of the year, we understood that it wouldn’t be easy. Weasley is our king. Of course it wasn’t against the twins, they were too self-confident to let themselves be dampened by such idiotic things, but they both seemed furious.

-Don’t worry, I’m sure Ron’s gonna be incredible.

Honestly, I was not sure of who I was trying to convince: the twins, whose faces were as red as before, the two Slytherin girls that were giggling behind us, or me. My fears turned out to be justified when Ron entered the Great Hall. His face was very pale, he seemed to be on the verge of vomiting. Harry dragged him to our table, clearly trying to get his friend avoiding every single Slytherin that happened to be on their way. All we could do is hope Ron would make the Slytherins shut up.

The air was really cold. I was pretty sure my hands would freeze before the end of the match. Alicia passed me the Quaffle and I barely heard Lee make some comment about our captain. My left hand firmly holding my broom, I headed towards Bletchley, Slytherin’s keeper. The guy looked like a big gorilla cowering on a little broom. Riddikulus. I was ready to throw the Quaffle when a bludger hit me on the back, which made me drop the ball with a groan. Fred screamed and rushed to me.

-Are you okay?

-Yes, don’t worry.

A little exchange but accompanied by a sweet touch on my cheek, and I was ready to face the world again. The game continued. When Warrington scored, throwing the Quaffle just between Ron’s arms, the Slytherins sang so loud that I understood what they were saying.

Weasley was born in a bin

He always let the Quaffle in

Weasley will make sure we win

Weasley is our king

I was furious. Completely furious. And also horrified because the song seemed to have the desired effect: Ron lost it and Slytherin scored again, three times. Suddenly, I heard the shouts of joy from the Gryffindor’s supporters and I saw Harry with the Golden Snitch. I joined him and Angelina, and soon Fred and George landed near us. I jumped into my boyfriend’s arms, relieved that we won. Then I hugged George and I was going to congratulate Harry. However, Malfoy seemed to be decided to ruin our joy.

-We wanted to write another couple of verses. But we couldn’t find rhymes for fat and ugly - we wanted to sing about his mother, see… We couldn’t fit useless loser either - for his father, you know…

Then all happened in a second. George was just in front of me. I put myself in front of him while Harry was holding him. Distraught, I looked after Fred only to find him as mad as his brother, hold by Angelina and Alicia. I was furious too. The Weasley were my second family; Mrs Weasley always treated me like her daughter and always welcomed me to the Burrow, this magical place; and Mr Weasley was the first one I had met who shared my interest for the Muggles. I wanted to hit this little bastard, I wanted him to shut up, but I couldn’t let George go, I was afraid he would do something that could bring him problems.

Malfoy seemed to be delighted by the situation. He also provoked Harry, who had a hard time controlling himself, and the little jackass looked at me with an evil smile. I felt George tense behind me and his hands gripping my wrists. He knew how much troubles I had with managing my emotions. Fred seemed to understand what was going to happen because he screamed the worst insults he knew. Malfoy’s drawling voice made me lose my temper.

-And you, the little Gryffindor slut. Unable to choose between the Weasley twins, are you? So you decided, what, to spread your legs in front of all the family?

Once again, it happened too fast for anyone to react. I jumped towards Malfoy, Harry and George close behind me, and tackled him to the floor. He let a pathetic scream out as I broke his nose, barely aware of the fact that George and Harry were also hitting him. I let my fury out until a spell projected us to the floor. Madam Hooch was screaming at us, probably blaming us because we were three against one, but I couldn’t listen to what she was saying. Malfoy was watching me, a grin on his despicable beady face. We were going to leave the field when Malfoy stepped in front of me. I didn’t know what he was going to say, but I was pretty sure I didn’t want to hear it. I spat in his face and leave, still trembling with fury. I only saw from the corner of the eye Fred, still hold by the girls, his eyes filled with anger and worry.

To say that McGonagall was infuriated was an understatement. I had never seen her in this state. She was livid, and looked at her Gryffindor scarf as if she was going to tear it apart. But it wasn’t the worst, oh no, the worst part arrived with a detestable toad. Hum, hum. McGonagall’s face took a red shade, which darkened when Umbridge offered some help. Obviously, it wasn’t just a proposition, because she took a parchment and announced that she had the right to punish us. She claimed happily that George and Harry were banned from the Quidditch team forever, along with Fred even if he hadn’t done anything. Then she told the boys to go back to the common room.

-As for you Miss Y/L/N, I think a bigger punishment is required. Your disrespect towards the young Malfoy is unacceptable and -

-Didn’t you hear what he was saying?

-Don’t interrupt me.

I glanced at McGonagall, hoping that she would help me defending myself, but she seemed to have enough difficulty with calming herself.

-Miss Y/L/N, you’re expelled. You will leave this castle tomorrow.

The world seemed to collapse around me. Umbridge wore a little smile, probably proud to have gotten rid of one of the pranksters of the school. I felt my eyes burning but I would never let her see me cry, because she didn’t deserve this pleasure. I stormed out of the office, and without even thinking, I took my wand.

-Flipendo.

My voice was quiet, but as I was running, I heard shouts of surprise as Fred and George, who had been waiting for me, were knocked to the floor. The sound made McGonagall get out and she yelled something at me. I didn’t listen to her, nor did I listen to Fred who was begging me to come back. I ran as fast as I could, hardly thinking about what I was doing, and soon I collapsed behind a big thicket near from the lake. It was a place that I loved. When we had to work for our OWLs, Fred, George and I and sometimes Lee would come here because we were sure that no one would come. And now -the thought broke my heart into millions of tiny pieces- it was the last time I would see this place because I was expelled. Expelled.

Fred��s POV

I wanted to go find her. Y/N, my lovely girlfriend, was gone Merlin-knows-where, and she had attacked us. I knew she didn’t mean to hurt us, something was upsetting her and she didn’t want us to see her like this. But what happened? I was quickly back on my feet and ready to run behind her when McGonagall ordered us to go back to the common room. I was about to ignore her when Angelina and Alicia arrived and urged us to the common room.

-She’s gonna come back, said our captain. Don’t worry and don’t bring yourself more problems. So, what happened?

When George confessed that the team just lost four players, she became pale and sat hurriedly, taking her head in her hands. I still couldn’t believe what Umbridge had done. And I was still worried sick about Y/N, because I knew her very well and I knew that she could be very stubborn. Every part of my body wanted to be with her. I wanted so badly to take her in my arms, stroke her hair while whispering that all was going to be okay… But two Gryffindors entered the common room wondering why Filch stayed in front of the entrance, so I know I couldn’t get out of here. All I could do was pray for Y/N to come back to me. I was so lost in my thoughts that George had to shake my arm to get me listening.

-The Marauder’s Map, Fred! The Marauder’s Map!

Harry brought us the Map and the three of us, along with Hermione, searched for the dot that represented Y/N. But, after a dozen of minutes, we had to admit that she wasn’t in the castle anymore.

-Maybe she’s in the Room of Requirement, suggested Hermione.

But I shook my head. No, I knew perfectly where she was, it was always the same place, a place she loved to go to when she was upset. However, it didn’t comfort me because I was pretty sure she would freeze to death behind this thicket. But then again, what could I do when Angelina and Filch were on my back? I couldn’t even get out of the common room. When Ron came back, covered in snow, I lost it and ran out of the room, only to be stopped by Umbridge’s wand pointed at me.

-I didn’t allow you to leave your common room, Mr Weasley.

I tried to ignore her interdiction, claiming that she could stupefy me if she wanted, but her answer made me stop.

-If you make one more step, Mr Weasley, you, your twin brother and your girlfriend will be expelled.

Being expelled didn’t bother me. I knew it was the same for George. But I couldn’t risk Y/N’s place here. I was turning my back to her when she added:

-Don’t try to get out during the night, Mr Weasley. The portrait will receive particular orders.

Furious at this old toad, I sat in a couch, trying to relax and wondering why Y/N was so upset. I was determined to stay here until her return, George by my side. I tried twice to leave the common room but, as the toad sait, the portrait didn’t open.

However, when the sun rose, Y/N still wasn’t here. I asked Hermione if she could check in her dormitory, but she confessed that she had already done it and her bed was empty. With a terrible feeling, I rushed to the Great Hall, George close behind me, but she wasn’t here. McGonagall came to us.

-Where is Miss Y/L/N?

-We don’t know, she didn’t come back yesterday.

George had to answer, because my anxiety was suffocating me. McGonagall mumbled something about Umbridge and that she didn’t have the right. I wasn’t really listening, but George seemed to understand something.

-Professor, what happened yesterday?

-Umbridge gave herself the ability to expel students, and of course, she has started with Y/N. But she can’t do this, Dumbledore won’t let her.

George and I exchanged a look, and we left the Great Hall, heading to the thicket where I believed she was. Outside, the floor was covered in snow. The air was freezing and I felt tears burning my eyes. I didn’t know if it was because of the cold. We finally arrived to the thicket and horror filled my body as I saw a little hand behind the vegetation.

She was there, curled up into a tiny ball, her E/C eyes closed. Her skin was white but her lips were blue and she had puffy eyes, and her tears were frozen on her cheeks like little diamonds. She was motionless. If it wasn’t for the steam that escaped her slightly opened mouth, I would have feared her being dead.

I was shocked. George reacted faster than me: he pulled off his jacket and put it on her. I finally got out of my stupor and touched her cheek. It was so cold… I picked her up. The following events were a blur. George was in front of me, yelling to all the students to let me pass, that it was an emergency. I didn’t even feel Y/N’s weight because of the adrenaline that was spreading in my blood. We finally arrived to the hospital wing to find it empty. Madam Pomfrey wasn’t here. I was going to put my girlfriend into the nearest bed when George stopped me.

-You need to get her clothes off, they are soaked and freezing. I’m gonna go get McGonagall.

With that, he stormed off the hospital wing, letting me alone with Y/N. I delicately undressed her, letting her in her underwears. Swearing because I didn’t know any spell that could help her at the moment, I took all the blankets that I could see and laid them on Y/N. She was slightly shaking and I stroked helplessly her hair. I could say that her eyes were rolling under her eyelids and she started to whine.

-Hey, I’m here, baby, I’m here…

I placed my lips on her forehead, hoping that maybe she could feel it and know how much I was afraid.

-Don’t worry, I’ve got you, I’m not gonna leave you…

I slipped my hand under the blankets to find hers. Her skin was slightly warmer. With a loving pressure on her fingers, I continued to whisper sweet things to her. I was kissing her forehead again when George finally arrived with McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey. The matron didn’t waste time, she rushed into her office and came back a few seconds later with a purple potion. She made Y/N drink a few drops of it.

-All we can do now is wait. Don’t worry, she’s gonna be okay.

She patted my shoulder and left. I was sitting next to her bed. George stood behind me and McGonagall was in front of us. With a sigh, she told us that Y/N would stay at Hogwarts. Somehow, Dumbledore had managed to prevent Umbridge from expelling her. Then she told us that our detentions would start when Y/N would be better and that she wanted to know when she would wake up. She allowed me to stay with her, but told George he had to go to class. My brother pressed my shoulder in a comforting way and left with McGonagall.

Y/N woke up two hours later. We were still alone in the hospital wing, and I was half sleeping. I felt her hand, the one I was holding, I felt it move and I almost jumped off my chair.

-Fr-red…

-Yeah, I’m here baby. Don’t talk, it’s okay.

I knew her throat was hurting her because she frowned. I just slipped into her bed and hold her against me. She cuddled as close to me as possible and fell asleep again. George arrived after lunch, and wiggled his eyebrows. I chuckled. The sound woke Y/N up and she lifted her head to see my brother sitting on another chair.

-Hi, sleeping beauty!

She waved back, her throat probably still sore. George told us how relieved everyone was because she was going to be okay. He also laughed at the fact that almost all the Gryffindors were waiting at the door to tell her that Y/N spitting at Malfoy made their week. After a while, he looked at me, then at her.

-Have you announced her the good new yet?

-No… No I forgot!

Y/N watched me suspiciously, her beautiful E/C eyes shining in the light. George laughed at me, ruffled her hair and left. I looked back at Y/N who seemed impatient to hear what I had to tell her. Instead of telling her immediately, I kissed her. She melted into the kiss, hopefully feeling all the love and relief I put into it. Then, with my forehead against hers, I whispered:

-You’re not gonna leave Hogwarts, love. You’re staying here with me and the toad is gonna regret what she did to you.

#harry potter #harry potter imagine #harry potter imagines #fred weasley #george weasley #fred x reader #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley x y/n #fred weasley x you

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thecoleopterawithana · 5 years ago

Quote

I remember giggling with John as we wrote the lines 'What do you see when you turn out the light? I can't tell you but I know it's mine.' It could have been him playing with his willie under the covers, or it could have been taken on a deeper level; this was what it meant but it was a nice way to say it, a very non-specific way to say it. I always liked that.

Paul McCartney, in Barry Miles’ Many Years From Now (1997).

[And because we have the fortune of having a witnessing of the “With A Little Help From My Friends” writing session by Hunter Davies:

In March 1967 they were getting towards the end of the Sergeant Pepper album. They were halfway through a song for Ringo, a Ringo sort of song, which they’d begun the day before.

At two o’clock in the afternoon John arrived at Paul’s house in St John’s Wood. They both went up to Paul’s work room at the top of the house. It is a narrow, rectangular room, full of stereophonic equipment and amplifiers. There is a large triptych of Jane Asher on the wall and a large silver piece of sculpture by Paolozzi, shaped like a fireplace with Dalek heads on top.

John started playing his guitar and Paul started banging on the piano. For a couple of hours, they both banged away. Each of them seemed to be in a trance till the other came up with something good and he would pluck it out of a mass of noises and try it himself.

They’d already got the tune the previous afternoon, a gentle lilting tune, and its name, ‘A Little Help From My Friends’. Now they were trying to polish up the melody and think of some words to go with it.

‘Are you afraid when you turn out the light,’ sang John. Paul sang it after him and nodded. John said they could use that idea for all the verses, if they could think of some more questions on those lines.

‘Do you believe in love at first sight,’ sang John. ‘No,’ he said, stopping singing. ‘It hasn’t got the right number of syllables. What do you think? Can we split it up and have a pause to give it an extra syllable?’ John then sang the line, breaking it in the middle: ‘Do you believe – ugh – in love at first sight.’

‘How about,’ said Paul, ‘Do you believe in a love at first sight.’

John sang it over and accepted it. In singing it, he added the next line, ‘Yes, I’m certain it happens all the time.’

They both then sang the two lines to themselves, la-la-ing all the other lines. Apart from this, all they’d got was the chorus. ‘I’ll get by with a little help from my friends.’ John found himself singing ‘Would you believe,’ which he thought was better.

Then they changed the order round, singing the two lines ‘Would you believe in a love at first sight Yes, I’m certain it happens all the time’, before going on to ‘Are you afraid when you turn out the light’, but they still had to la-la the fourth line, which they couldn’t think of.

It was now about five o’clock. Cynthia, John’s wife arrived, wearing sunglasses, accompanied by Terry Doran, one of their (and Brian Epstein’s) old Liverpool friends. John and Paul kept on playing. Cyn picked up a paperback book and started reading. Terry produced a magazine about horoscopes.

John and Paul were singing their three lines over and over again, searching for a fourth.

‘What’s a rhyme for time?’ said John. ‘Yes, I’m certain it happens all the time. It’s got to rhyme with that line.’

‘How about, “I just feel fine”,’ suggested Cyn.

‘No,’ said John. ‘You never use the word just. It’s meaningless. It’s a fill-in word.’

John sang ‘I know it’s mine’ but nobody took much notice. It didn’t make much sense, coming after ‘Are you afraid when you turn out the light’. Somebody said it sounded obscene.

Terry asked what my birthday was. I said 7 January. Paul stopped playing, although it had looked as if he was completely concentrating on the song, and said, ‘Heh, that’s our kid’s birthday as well.’ He listened while Terry read out the horoscope. Then he went back to doodling on the piano.

In the middle of the doodling, Paul suddenly started to play ‘Can’t Buy Me Love’. John joined in, singing it very loudly, laughing and shouting. Then Paul began another song on the piano, ‘Tequila’. They both joined in again, shouting and laughing even louder. Terry and Cyn went on reading.

‘Remember in Germany,’ said John. ‘We used to shout out anything.’

They played the song again. This time John shouted out different things in each pause in the music. ‘Knickers’ and ‘Duke of Edinburgh’ and ‘tit’ and ‘Hitler’.

They both stopped all the shouting and larking around, as suddenly as they’d begun it. They went back, very quietly, to the song they were supposed to be working on. ‘What do you see when you turn out the light,’ sang John, trying slightly new words to their existing line, missing out ‘afraid’. Then he followed it with another line, ‘I can’t tell you, but I know it’s mine.’ By slightly rewording it, he’d made it fit in.

Paul said yes, that would do. He wrote down the finished four lines on a sheet of exercise paper propped up in front of him on his piano. They now had one whole verse, as well as the chorus. Paul got up and wandered round the room. John moved to the piano.

‘How about a piece of amazing cake from Basingstoke,’ said Paul, taking down a piece of rock-hard cake from a shelf. ‘It’ll do for a trifle,’ said John. Paul made a face. Terry and Cynthia were still quietly reading.

Paul got a sitar from a corner and sat down and started to tune it, shushing John to keep quiet for a minute. John sat still at the piano, looking blankly out of the window.

Outside in the front courtyard of Paul’s house, the eyes and foreheads of six girls could just be seen peering over the front wall. Then the girls dropped, exhausted, on to the pavement beyond. A few minutes later they appeared again, hanging on till their strength gave way. John peered vacantly into space through his round, wire spectacles. Then he began to play a hymn on the piano, singing words that he made up as he went along.

‘Backs to the wall, if you want to see His Face.’

Then he seemed to jump in the air and started banging out a hearty rugby song. ‘Let’s write a rugby song, eh.’ No one listened to him.

Paul had got his sitar tuned and was playing some notes on it, the same ones over and over again. He got up again and wandered round the room. John picked up the sitar this time, but he couldn’t get comfortable with it. Paul told him that he had to sit on the floor with his legs crossed and place it in the bowl of his foot. Paul said that George did it that way; it felt uncomfortable at first, but after a few centuries you got used to it. John tried it, then gave up and placed it against a chair.

‘Heh,’ said John to Terry, ‘did you get to the place?’

‘Yeh, I got you three coats, like George’s.’

‘Great,’ said John, very excited. ‘Where are they then?’

‘I paid by cheque and they wouldn’t let me have them till tomorrow.’

‘Oh,’ said John. ‘Couldn’t you have said who they were for? You should have said they were for Godfrey Winn. I want them now.’

‘They’ll be OK tomorrow,’ said Paul. ‘There’s some more stuff to get tomorrow. Don’t worry.’

Paul then went back to his guitar and started to sing and play a very slow, beautiful song about a foolish man sitting on the hill. John listened to it quietly, staring blankly out of the window, almost as if he wasn’t listening. Paul sang it many times, la-la-ing words he hadn’t thought of yet. When at last he finished, John said he’d better write the words down or he’d forget them. Paul said it was OK. He wouldn’t forget them. It was the first time Paul had played it for John. There was no discussion.

It was getting near seven o’clock, almost time to go round the corner to the EMI recording studios. They decided to ring Ringo, to tell him his song was finished – which it wasn’t – and that they would record it that evening. John picked up the phone. After a lot of playing around, he finally got through, but it was engaged. ‘If I hold on, does that mean I eventually get through?’ ‘No, you have to hang up,’ said Paul.”

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thearabkhaleesi · 4 years ago

Photo

SOME THOUGHTS ON HAMILTON & THE HAMILFILM

I said I wasn’t going to review Hamilton, & this isn’t technically a review, but I couldn’t help myself from discussing its genius or the film. If you wanted me to rate it, consider it to be a perfect rating: 10/10, 100%, A+, you name it. Since I’ll never be able to dissect or talk about Hamilton as in-depth as I’d like to (I could write an entire book on it & wouldn’t know where to stop), consider this a discussion or appreciation post where I express SOME of my thoughts on Hamilton & the Hamilfilm. - To me, Hamilton is a masterpiece and Lin-Manuel Miranda is a genius. He said something along the lines of “people will just think you’re a genius if you write a musical about a genius” but I disagree with him (& he was awarded the MacArthur “Genius Grant” so yeah Lin, you're a genius). Only a genius would look at the founding fathers and say: “yes, this is a hip-hop story”. And he doesn’t just tell Hamilton’s incredible story, he wrote Hamilton in such a way that every line, word, song, & verse is written in a specific way for a specific reason, whether it's as simple as a rhyme, or whether it’s because Lin Manuel Miranda is making a deep-reference we might later discover or whether it’s in the exact style & structure of Alexander Hamilton’s writings. Combine that with his fellow brilliant collaborators - Alex Lacamoire, Thomas Kail, Andy Blankenbuehler - you have a show where every stage direction, dance move, & note serves a greater purpose & they come together perfectly. Hamilton is absolutely filled with an unbelievable amount of hidden treasures (meanings, symbols, references) that I still find myself discovering new ones every time I revisit it, from the role of “the Bullet”, to the spectacular staging of Satisfied, & the mini replay in Hurricane to name a few. Lin turned a seemingly dry, confusing concept into an exciting, moving, unparalleled piece of art that speaks on each theme it touches upon - legacy, reputation, history, work, politics, honor, love, with great depth & meaning. And by doing so, the musical & it’s incredible lyrics could easily resonate with or impact anyone who, like Lin, Hamilton & me, have great value for those things. - One of the first things you might’ve heard or noticed about Hamilton, is that every actor in the show is a person of color (except those in the ensemble/King George). Everyone else: Alexander Hamilton, George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, The Schuyler Sisters, they’re all white in real-life, yet they’re played in the show by BIPOC, which in itself is a stroke of genius because Hamilton’s story is extremely relevant today & resonates more with BIPOC experiences than white people, & in every major project he’s worked on, Lin-Manuel helps amplify BIPOC representation; not only does he do that in Hamilton as well, but it’s the perfect way for the story to be delivered when you combine this casting choice with the music Lin wrote for the show that stem from BIPOC origins. Can you imagine how underwhelming it’d be for a white person to sing Lafayette’s raps? It’s one of the ways “the story of America then is told by America now”, WITHOUT glorifying the founding fathers or excusing the horrible things they did. On the contrary, the show goes out of its way numerous times to emphasize that fact & anyone who took that away from Hamilton didn’t understand or pay attention enough. (Plus LMM condensed an entire man’s life into two & a half hours, give him a break).

As for the Hamilfilm, the only thing I can attempt to “review” is how it was adapted/filmed. And let me just say, director Thomas Kail pulled off an incredible feat with the Hamilfilm. When listening to Hamilton for the first time, I could visualize it all in my head like a movie, & I couldn’t really imagine how it’d be on stage. And when I saw it live, I was blown away & almost couldn’t imagine it as a traditional movie. So when I heard they were filming it this way, I was pleased but worried it wouldn’t be as immersive as the show. But Kail did it. He made Hamilton as immersive as it could possibly be on film, & I’d even go as far as to say it might be even more immersive than seeing it live as you’re provided a better perspective than any seat in the theater. He puts you on stage & in the audience simultaneously, through closeups that put us in the midst of the drama & show us the actors’ talents, wide shots that show us the stage & choreography in all its glory, and tracking shots that put us in the midst of the action, following all the melodious movements of the actors & dancers on stage. I’ve seen similar “professionally filmed” Broadway shows but none of them are as well-done or as well-directed as Hamilton was. (Though I’d trade a few closeups of King George for wide shots…) The editing was never off or felt choppy, which is remarkable considering they filmed it over several days & shows, yet it still feels like one outstanding show with the original cast - all of whom were sensational. I can’t even pin-point a favorite number or performance because I loved them all so much - Satisfied did give me goosebumps like nothing else though.

Still, it doesn't compete with actually being there in the room where it happens. The energy and experience of seeing it live is unbelievable. Does that mean you should wait until you see it live? It’s up to you really, but we never know when theaters will reopen, & the first instinct I had after the Hamilfilm ended is that I couldn’t wait to experience it live again. Rating: ‪10/10‬⭐️

#hamilton #lin manuel miranda #hamilfilm #thomas kail

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midnight-hotel · 5 years ago

Note

Scenario of how would Alastor react to his crush singing Tape Five - Bad Boy Good Man? (I really like this song!) Like, they're happily singing and stop immediately when they saw Alastor just watching them. Is it ok? Good luck on your new blog :3

A maid of the Happy Hotel, that is all you really were around these parts. You weren’t anyone special, not very powerful and hardly worth a second glance. You were attractive, no doubt about that, but so were a lot of others down in hell, so it hardly made you different from anyone else walking down the street. It was with this knowledge that you found comfort in being able to roam around Hell without too much trouble. There was no reason for any demon to go out of their way to give you trouble- most of the time. The most attention you received these days was within the Happy Hotel, better known around hell as the Hazbin Hotel. A cruel name, started by the Radio Demon himself, but continued on by the citizens of hell, even after he changed the sign back to how it was supposed to be.

As a maid, you were busy almost every day, cleaning up messes made by the few patrons the hotel now had, or simply dusting rooms that weren’t currently in use. It was a drag doing the same thing every day, but at the same time, you found an odd sense of peace in the routine you had developed. You would hook your small speaker to your belt and connect your phone to the device to listen to music as you worked. People like Husk and Angel complained every now and then at first, but as you refused to stop, everyone came to accept that they’ll be bound to hear some music whenever you were nearby. It was a fantastic way to locating you within the hotel, that’s for sure. An excellent cover to sneak up on you too, many getting away with scaring the life out of you whenever you’re cleaning. Well- scare the hell out of you maybe? Life and hell both don’t sound right but you get the idea.

A soft cough rattled your chest as you inhaled some dust, lowering your head to prevent yourself from inhaling anymore too easily. You allowed yourself to cough a few times, trying to clear your throat of the unfortunate irritation and momentarily blocking your hearing off from the music coming from the speaker resting on your hip. Your lungs ached for a moment as you let out a slightly harsher cough, before you righted yourself and took in a breath to make up for what you had lost during your little fit.

“Damn old hotel. There’s too much dust- too much to clean- probably gonna give me some weird ass condition or disease,” you huffed, pressing the back of your hand to your lips to cover another short cough.

It was as you finally gained some kind of relief from the uncomfortable sensation in your throat, that you focused back on your music, the song you had previously been humming, slowly came to an end. The soft melody towards the end stopped bouncing off the walls of the hotel room you were cleaning before the room itself was filled with nothing but your soft breaths, unsteady from your moment of wheeziness. It was in that silence, as you stood straight and raised your duster once more, that the next song on your shuffled playlist came on, a familiar tune filled the air that sent a rush of excitement through your veins. You liked- no- you loved this song. This song never failed to bring a smile to your face and a swing to your hips. You could never sit still when the beat met your ears, simply ordering you to cave and bend to its will.

You dropped a hand down to the little speaker attached to your belt and turned it right up, the music bouncing off the walls before the first verse pelted from the small device. At first, you simply swayed your hips as you hummed along, continuing to work away, dusting off the bedside tables and the curtains before putting your duster away and pulling the sheets off the bed so you could replace them. You were expecting a guest in this room soon apparently. Couldn’t have them sleeping on a bed covered in dust and who knows what else. You’re pretty sure you saw Angel come into this room at some stage for whatever reason so you were sure not even Lucifer wanted to know what could be on those sheets.

Old sheets thrown out into the hallway, in your trolly, and new ones sitting on the chest that was stationed down at the end of the bed, a plush cushion protecting its wooden surface from any threats to it’s shiny finish. You grabbed the fitted sheet and began to make the bed, the lyrics beginning to spill from your lips.

“Bebop sliding down my back, never alone when I hit the sack. Swings a thing with a ringa-ding-ding, I get wings when I sing – Ragtime reason and rhyme, I’m the reason you’re divine. Rhumba mambo Latin samba.” You knew the lyrics like the back of your hand, not needing to pay attention to the singer, just the tune itself. “I’m a bad boy…” you would continue to sing, sliding the remaining corner of the sheet over the mattress before spinning back over to the pile of bedding left on the chest, picking up the next sheet to set it on the mattress.

With your attention so lost in the music, the lyrics and your movements, of course you didn’t notice the tall figure standing in the doorway, watching your every move like a predator watching its prey. He had been with Charlie, discussing ideas for the hotel while sipping at some coffee in the kitchen. His red eyes were focused on the blonde sitting across from him, who was happily explaining one of her bright ideas to him and clearly subconsciously tapping her fingers against the tabletop. At first it was completely mindless, just tapping, but once he had started talking, his sharp ears caught onto a pattern in the tapping that had suddenly appeared. At first, he figured she had some sort of song stuck in her head, maybe one she had come up with herself, but then he heard the music.

His ears perked up at the music that had suddenly become louder, clearly coming from upstairs. It was swing, he recognised it instantly, but the song itself was foreign to him. It wasn’t surprising he didn’t recognise it; he did die a very long time ago. He knew exactly who was playing it too. It had to have been you. You were the only one who paraded around with your music playing aloud.

“Do excuse me my dear, I have just remembered there is something I must do,” he excused himself from Charlie, finishing the last mouthful of his coffee before standing and leaving the kitchen. He rounded the corner and then vanished into the shadows, reappearing upstairs to find not only the music, but now your lovely voice that had suddenly joined the tune coming from the device usually attached to your hip. And now here he was, standing in the doorway of an unused hotel room, watching as you swayed your hips from side to side and sung along to the song, he could only raise a brow at. An interesting choice of music indeed, but catchy, nonetheless.

You twirled around, giggling softly to yourself as you reached out and grabbed a pillowcase to snuggly wrap around one of the plush pillows. Watching as your skirt flared out around you as you spun and listening to that innocent giggle, Alastor hadn’t realised that his usually intimidating smile had softened, his cold hard warming- all because of you. The demon was besotted with you, completely and utterly so and it was such an unfamiliar feeling to the overlord that he didn’t now what to do with that feeling. Millions of demons overpopulated the depts of hell and no one but you managed to make his heart do things it rarely did even when he was alive. Had he ever felt this way in the past? Was there a southern bell in his past that made his heart swell with warmth and adoration like you have since meeting mere months ago? No- he doubted it, because this feeling was far too foreign to him. Foreign, but not completely unknown.

Lost in his own thoughts, just like you were lost in your own little world, he didn’t notice you turn around to grab something from your trolley, finally noticing him and letting out a squeal of surprise and embarrassment. Just how long had he been standing there? He snapped to attention- though to you it just looked as if your reaction made his smile widen.

“Alastor, don’t sneak up on me like that,” you scolded, turning your music down, the song coming to an end as you did. You took in a deep breath, brushing down your skirt before gazing back up at him, figuring he had a reason for suddenly appearing before you. You could only hope he had only just arrived and hadn’t seen you singing and dancing for more than a couple seconds.

“My apologies darling, but I couldn’t help but become curious over the stunning voice coming from upstairs,” Alastor claimed in his usual charming way, of course smiling down at you as he always did. “To find it was you singing though, my dear- you’re quite the canary if I do say so myself!”

You flushed lightly at his compliment, embarrassed at the confirmation that he had indeed heard her singing, but flattered all the same.

“Thank you, Al, that’s very kind of you to say,” you thanked him, biting your lip lightly and looking down at the floor for a moment. Has the carpet always been this stained? This would surely drive Niffty insane.

“I was going to ask if you would happen to be free for a dance, though unfortunately, that sing you had there has unfortunately come to an end,” he hummed, faking disappointment, but there was no way he didn’t have something up his sleeve.

“If it’s all the same to you however, darling, perhaps we could settle for another song instead.” Offering a gloved hand to you, swing music played seemed to play out of nowhere and your own quite music was now nowhere to be heard. Letting out a soft laugh, and brushing yourself down one more time, you accepted his hand, being pulled in close almost instantly.

“I suppose I could spare the time for a dance.”

#bad boy good man #alastor #hazbin alastor #alastor x reader #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x reader

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nightbloomsresorthotel · 4 years ago

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A Controversial, but Fair Essay on Gabbie Hanna’s Poetry That Doesn’t Completely Shit on Her Writing

So I just finished listening to her youtube video where she addresses this topic. When I first saw her poems, I could see what everyone was talking about: her poems are simple, full of puns that seem to masquerade as a function of “depth”, with simple, easy to understand language juxtaposed with themes of growing up and trauma. She says that her influences include Shel Silverstein, Bo Burnham and William Williams, including his famous poem This is Just to Say.

(prepare thyself reader, this is a quick 2k analysis. I’ve included GOOD poetry recs at the end!)

She goes on to say that what drew her to these poems was there charm- Shel Silverstein’s works were meant for children, and they are easy to interpret- and could be read from the perspective of both an adult and child. As a child reading Where the Sidewalk Ends, I enjoyed the illustrations and the rhyming nature of these poems. I’m sure Gabbie Hanna did as well. Hearing her talk about these inspirations and what she wanted to do with her own poems, it’s clear that she was aiming for each piece to harken back to the whimsy and innocence of childhood, while addressing more adult topics.

I think that Gabbie Hanna missed the mark. She admits that some of the poems in her book were rushed and this makes me question if and where she ever got any peer feedback from her pieces. I also wonder if Gabbie has ever taken any writing classes or poetry workshops, but I am doubtful. The big difference between This is Just to Say and, lets say, her poem Chivalry is clear. Here is This is Just to Say:

I have eaten

the plums

that were in

the icebox

and which

you were probably

saving

for breakfast

Forgive me

they were delicious

so sweet

and so cold.

So much has already been said about this poem. But the biggest thing to take away here, is that Williams clearly put thought into syntax, imagery, rhythm and rhyme. You will notice that this piece doesn’t exactly rhyme, but it slant rhymes. Rhyming has become less of a marker for poetry recently, mostly because I think it makes people think of nursery rhymes or songs and traditional, older forms of poetry, and some poets don’t want that connotation. This may surprise some, but poetry is an ever evolving art form; poets are always playing with experimentation in their work. Here, imagery and the five senses make This is Just to Say great. Up until the last stanza, we don’t really get anything that makes us feel a physical sensation until we get to “so sweet/ and so cold”. This is where the impact of the poem lies. This is the climax of this poem. Every word before it is intentionally abstract, while sweet and cold are in comparison, concrete images and sensual images. This is why we can almost taste the plums the author is talking about at the end of the poem.

Let’s look at a poem I picked at random from Gabbie Hanna’s book, CHIVALRY:

I’m not some no-brained bimbo

and i’m not some helpless girl

i am fucking remarkable

and i deserve the world.

i don’t need you to open my door,

but the gesture would be nice.

i don’t need you to buy my meal;

the offer would suffice.

i don’t need to be taken care of,

but it’d be cool to know you care.

i’m a holographic charizard

highly desired and rare.

yo, i even drop pokemon references

‘cause i’m fuckin dope as shit.

i’m good with just me, i don’t need you

not even a tiny bit.

Let me address what I like about this poem first. Gabbie knows what she wants to do- she utilizes rhyming and repetition to make this an easy flowing read. She knows that a lower-case “i” shows that despite what she may be claiming in the poem “i don’t need you/ not even a tiny bit”, the narrator does not think highly of themselves— perhaps the narrator desperately needs the “you” addressed, but is not confidant enough to ask for their friendship/ relationship. The narrator is contradicting themselves, showing a low self-esteem, and maybe crying for help. This juxtaposed with the fun rhyming tone of the piece and the mention of pokémon succesfully gets this point across.

However, this poem seems to focus on utilizing these elements of craft only. Gabbie could enhance the reader experience by adding more concrete imagery: why type of meal? How helpless of a girl? These are instances where Gabbie could help the reader connect to the speaker, and she doesn’t do so. We could also argue that she’s emulating This is Just to Say by only including one concrete and colorful image, but I will address this further down.

Additionally, this narrator could be anyone. I could imagine anybody saying this, of any gender. Perhaps Gabbie did this intentionally- the more vague a narrator is, the more it could apply to anyone— the average teen/adult could connect to this poem. However, this gives the poem a generic quality. Perhaps others would like to connect to this narrator more, and get a better sense of who the narrator is. Also let me address why I keep using “narrator” instead of “Gabbie”. It’s a force of habit for me (that I got from poetry courses in college) to assume that the narrator of the poem and the author of the poem may not always be the same person. I think in this situation, these poems are undoubtedly from Gabbi’s perspective, but to remain neutral just in case, I will continue to use “narrator”.

Something I’d also like to address is the matter of rhyming in the current poetry world. Many journals have gone so far as to say “we do not accept rhyming poems” in their submission guidelines. Not all, but some. People who just start out writing poetry believe that poems must rhyme to be considered poetry at all, but when you take your first poetry class in high school or college, you quickly realize that this is not the case. Here, Gabbie uses a simple end rhyme scheme to evoke poetry like Silverstein and childhood memories of reading poetry, nursery rhymes, etc. But I think to those who have been reading poetry for a long time, teaching it, or reading submissions for their journal, the mark of a novice poet is that everything rhymes, sometimes at the sake of using a better word in its place that doesn’t rhyme. I think rhyme has its place in poetry, but it can be overused. Since most of Gabbie Hanna’s poems do rhyme, it’s easy to see someone getting “rhyme fatigue” while reading. Another negative effect of rhyming is that the reader will begin to anticipate the rhyme- this can cause the reader to skip lines entirely, and focus solely on the rhyme scheme, rather than focusing on the meaning of the poem. A piece that harkens back to childhood and uses rhyme well, in my opinion, is This Be the Verse by Phillip Larkin:

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.

They may not mean to, but they do.

They fill you with the faults they had

And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn

By fools in old-style hats and coats,

Who half the time were soppy-stern

And half at one another’s throats.

Man hands on misery to man.

It deepens like a coastal shelf.

Get out as early as you can,

And don’t have any kids yourself.

I think the big difference between this and Gabbie Hanna’s poem is that it starts off strong right away with “They fuck you up, your mum and dad”. The condescending tone is always there right from the start, and the rhyming is more of a surprise than an expectation throughout- the line “it deepens like a coastal shelf” brings new imagery and meaning to the poem by veering off into another subject. This enhances the surprise.

I’d also like to address cliche’s. The cliche’s present in CHIVALRY are “I deserve the world” and “I don’t need you to open my door”. These are easy to understand from a readers point of view, but often, cliche’s offer nothing new and exciting to the reader. They are easy to skip over and ignore. These add to the poems generic atmosphere.

Let’s talk about the pieces title itself: CHIVALRY. When we read this poem with the title in context, we get a strange disconnect. The poem is clearly about a girl who says she doesn’t need chivalrous acts from a friend or partner, and doesn’t need someone because they are “good with just me”. But the subtext of the piece is less about chivalry and more about self-esteem or a willingness to be loved. The piece has changed meaning two thirds of the way down. I think the title is too obvious and misleading, and gives the reader the wrong idea about what the poem is trying to say. In essence, the piece is named after a facet of the relationship between the narrator and other person, rather than the root of what the poem is trying to convey.

The pokémon references add color to this piece, and it is the only place this piece has any kind of concrete imagery. In the This is Just to Say the sweet and cold plum imagery is the very last line, heightening them. In CHIVALRY, they’re near the middle of the piece. Thus, the longer ending reduces the color and lasting effect of “holographic charizard”.

Overall, I think Gabbie Hanna could benefit from workshopping her poems and getting peer feedback from other poets, in addition to reading poetry that isn’t thirty plus years old. I don’t know if she already does this, but judging from her poems, I can only assume that she hasn’t. At the very least, she should avoid rushing to get poems out before they are due.

Gabbie Hanna is a novice poet who put her poems out into the world and got a greater amount of backlash than any novice poet usually does in a workshop or classroom setting. When in the classroom, there is such a thing as Critique Etiquette. Critique for poems are give honestly and gently, never in a harsh or mean way. Fellow poets point out possible interpretations of work, or possible unwanted connotations of sometimes, even a simple word at the end of the line. In addition, poets in the classroom are exposed to modern poets that are creating new and exciting work that is often published in highly esteemed magazines- reading the best of todays poetry. Gabbi Hanna’s work seemingly got published without peer review, and the quality of it was clear to those who read it. That being said, I do think that people who read and love Gabbie Hanna’s work do connect with it— no doubt because these poems are designed to be as generic as possible, so that others may see themselves in the words.This isn’t necessarily a bad thing. I believe her work appeals best to newcomers to poetry, people who maybe have only ever read works from Shel Silverstein or Edgar Allen Poe. This can be a blessing and a shame. There are many good poets out there, that aren’t getting published because they don’t have youtube channels or brand collaborations, and they are just plain hard to find. However, Gabbie Hanna has opened the door for many would-be poetry readers, and has sparked a love for the art of poetry in them. Hopefully, this love leads them to become wider read, and to seek out more poetry from a multiple of authors to read.

I decided that I’d also like to include some published poetry from poets that are from a range of different backgrounds. Go forth and read!

POETRY THAT DOESN'T SUCK: Sonya Vatomsky's Salt is for Curing- poems by a non-binary poet that focus on themes of femininity, Russian food, Russian folklore and identity. Review Purchase

Danez Smith- A black, queer, non-binary and HIV positive writer. A poem I really like of theirs is "Dinosaurs in the Hood" is a great poem that I personally love.

Claudia Rankine's Citizen: An American Lyric. This book contains poems that focus on the Black experience in America. Excerpt from the book here

Khadijah Queen's I'm So Fine: A List of Famous Men and What I Had On. This collection features conversational poems that focus on the narrators encounters with famous men in relation to what the narrator was wearing at the time. A piece that centers around the question "Well, what were you wearing?". Read two poems from the book Here.

Fatimah Ashgar's IF THEY COME FOR US. Poems by a Pakistani-Kashmiri-American. These poems focus on race and identity. One of my favorites takes the form of a bingo card, titled Microagression Bingo (read here and two other poems from the book). As a poc myself, I was nodding along to every line, thinking "Yup. I've been through that too."

Tommy Pico is an indiginous poet, and Junk is a book length poem of couplets that uses modern, fast, text style language. From the Tin House website: "The third book in Tommy Pico’s Teebs trilogy, Junk is a breakup poem in couplets: ice floe and hot lava, a tribute to Janet Jackson and nacho cheese. In the static that follows the loss of a job or an apartment or a boyfriend, what can you grab onto for orientation?" Read an excerpt Here.

I can assure you that none of these read like Rupi Kaur, Gabbie Hanna, or Atticus. These are serious poets that have spent years honing their form, submitting to journals-- they did the work. And it shows in the quality of their writing.

While I'm not a fan of Atticus and Rupi Kaur and Gabbie Hanna, I can appreciate that they've appealed to people who may have never read a poem before. Now those people have a newfound love for poetry, and a hunger for more. Hopefully, those people will seek out other poets and expand their knowledge and repertoire of current poets, maybe lesser known poets that do amazing work.

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secretlystephaniebrown · 6 years ago

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Hands Curled Like Talons: Chapter 2

... things got busy, okay? but WE'RE BACK

A Mouth Full of Blood A Soul Full of Sorrow A Face Full of Scars The Bitter Taste of Graveyard Dirt A Golden Haired Ghost A Different Game ‘verse Previous Ao3

Stephanie Brown sat in a corner of the Bat Cave, and her hands shook as they lay on her thighs.

The Cave was crowded, packed tightly with vigilantes of all stripes. Cassandra was there, Duke by her side, occasionally turning her eyes towards Steph, as if to make sure that she was still there. Duke had brought Steph a glass of water, an hour ago, and she had drunk it to placate him, like she had eaten the sandwich that Alfred had brought her twenty minutes ago. It was a hollow motion, but it provided them reassurance that she was, in fact, alive.

She did not have the heart to tell them that Talia had once told her that she had been catatonic and still would eat and drink and fight.

Tim was across the room next to a man known as Batwing, with Tam Fox, who he was trying hard to pretend he wasn’t dating around Steph, as a strange form of acknowledgement for the connection that had once existed between them, going over footage of Steph’s apartment, looking for clues.

Dick Grayson and Damian and Colin were standing next to Bruce, arguing about something that Steph probably should care more about than she was.

Barbara Gordon, flanked by Dinah Lance, a woman that Steph remembered dearly from those golden days as Spoiler, but who probably had not spared a thought for Stephanie Brown in years, held court in a corner, speaking on a headset, directing the Justice League and her Birds of Prey, ensuring that the rest of the world did not fall apart, even as Gotham fell into chaos.

There were others in the Cave—Katherine Kane, Selina Kyle and her unfamiliar protégé, Helena Bertinelli, Onyx, a woman with blue hair who she had never seen before, another woman with no face in a blue trench coat, and Jason Todd—but she was numb to all of them. They might as well have been passersby on the street, for all that Stephanie Brown absorbed them.

Perhaps she should be grateful, that so many had rallied when Nell was in danger, even if none of them were here for Nell, and certainly not for her. Bruce and Barbara and maybe even Cass had called them, and they had come flocking, to seek the little lost girl. It was an impressive force, that they had put together, and they stretched out further, into the rest of the world, with them being only the tip of the spear point.

If a force like this had existed, all those years ago, would she have survived those fateful three days at the hands of Roman Sidonis?

Old scars, scars that not even the Lazarus Pit had healed, throbbed with old pain, and she closed her eyes against it, trying her best to stop from shaking until she fell to pieces.

Her very bones felt as if they had been transformed into ice. Goosebumps crawled along the length of her skin, despite the heat that was produced from all of the bodies in one place.

Nell Little was gone, and statistics danced behind Steph’s eyes whenever she blinked. Statistics that told her that Nell was dead. Beyond that was a further dread, a dread that went back to a children’s rhyme that she had chanted in time with the slap of a skipping rope on concrete.

“Speak not a whispered word of them / Or they'll send The Talon for your head.”

What could she have done, to bring this tumbling down upon them?

If the Court was real, they had evaded the eyes of the Bats since at least Stephanie Brown’s middle school days. Why had they chosen now to reveal themselves, to risk the wrath of the Batman and all of his followers, to take a single little girl who was under theirs, and more specifically her protection?

“Stephanie?” A familiar voice pulled her out of her reverie, if not her numbness.

Kara Zor-El stood before her, her face a strange expression of concern.

On autopilot, Steph tried for a flirtatious smile, but it felt flat and dull on her face, and only deepened the lines of worry on the other woman’s face.

“Supergirl,” she said. “How’s Metropolis?”

“Better now that you’re not in it,” Kara said. Her eyes were an inhuman shade of blue—Superman and Superboy were the same way. Her hair was a paler blonde than Steph’s had ever been, not quite platinum but not Steph’s golden waves that she had once been so proud of.

She was gorgeous and whole and wonderful and her eyes were full of real worry, despite the dig.

She was everything that Stephanie Brown was not, in short.

Stephanie Brown was dangerous, and Kara knew this. She had known this since that first night in Metropolis, when she had kissed her. She had known this when Stephanie had pulled out a fistful of Kryptonite and ran away. She had known this when she had come to the Cave, after Bruce Wayne’s death, and found the woman here, tension humming through the air.

Now…

Kara could remember Scarlet. She had been young, and worried for Stephanie Brown, and small. Scarlet had been in Metropolis, that day on the rooftops; that day of fire and kisses that bruised.

And she was missing.

Stephanie Brown met her eyes, and Kara’s heart skipped a beat. Stephanie’s heart beat almost lethargically, but Kara knew better than to be fooled. It was shock, of sorts, and a sort of shock that Kara had seen before.

Nell Little was missing, and Stephanie Brown was going to destroy herself over this.

Kara had been wrong, before. She had been so sure, back in those early days of the truce with the rest of the Bat Family, won after the Battle for the Cowl, that the truce, that peace, that uncomfortable compromise, would shatter into a million pieces, because Stephanie Brown would not accept limitations, would not last long under the shadow of mistrust, under the weight of all of that painful and loaded past.

She had been wrong.

Stephanie Brown, the Red Hood, had stayed. She had stayed when Bruce had returned, she had stayed through thick and thin, through good times and bad…

But none so bad as this.

Stephanie Brown was on the verge of falling apart or exploding, and Kara wasn’t sure which one was more dangerous.

The rest of the room was watching, keeping an eye on her, because she was one of them, even if she didn’t want to be, even if they didn't want her to be. Stephanie Brown, with her messy golden locks, sheered short for convenience, with her scars and her leather jacket, was one of them.

But she might not be, after all of this was said and done.

Stephanie Brown was like fire. She was dangerous and destructive, beautiful and deadly, and she consumed everything around her, whether she meant to or not. If she exploded, it would be outwards, and the collateral could be the entire city… or everyone around her, including Kara.

Kara was not used to being hurt, not here, in this world.

She wasn’t good at staying away from dangerous things.

“Did you see anything?” Stephanie said, her voice surprisingly steady as she met Kara’s eyes.

“No,” she said. She had spent hours looking, on Barbara’s request. She had scoured Bludhaven too, searching for any hint of these Talons and Owls and especially of Nell Little. “They must have used lead, wherever they took her.”

Stephanie Brown closed her eyes, and took a breath so deep and so long that Kara worried it might shatter her.

“Of course,” she whispered. She pivoted on her heel and stormed up the stairs, throwing her leather jacket off as she went, leaving her helmet behind.

Kara followed her, drawn by some instinct that she could not quite place.

The steps up to the Manor felt longer than usual, dragged on by each beat of Stephanie Brown’s heart. Kara could have raced up them, of course, but she kept pace, staying only a few steps behind Steph, each step just loud enough to let the Bat know that she was here, that she could say something if she wanted to be left alone.

Stephanie said nothing at all, and Kara kept following.

The Cave had been too small, too full of people, to deal with the explosion that was rattling around in Steph’s ribcage.

There was a room, purple and soft, a room for a child that was never going to come back, a child that had been buried in the ground, and Steph walked towards it, ignoring her silent, Kryptonian companion.

Nell Little was gone, because Stephanie Brown was a failure. She had brought this down upon them, somewhere, somehow. She had angered the Court of Owls, had awoken a fairytale, a nursery rhyme, and now it was war.

How many wars was it now, wars for Gotham, had she soaked her hands in? Her first rampage, her second brutal reign as the Red Hood, the Battle for the Cowl, and now this? A War of Owls, a War for Gotham?

She had brought the sky falling down around them, and surely, eventually, the other Bats would finally admit what they all already knew; that Stephanie Brown was cursed, and outsider to them and their ways, and that she would never be one of them again, if she had ever been in the first place.

The scream that was building in her throat pressed against her lips, threatening to bubble over, but she held herself back, biting her tongue before the taste of blood filled her mouth, and she gagged.

“Do you think this is a game?”

“Stephanie?” Kara asked, and Stephanie grabbed the nearest vase and vomited.

The taste was foul but Stephanie gripped the vase with both hands so tightly that she thought it might break, breathing heavily as her shoulders shook, the tears threatening to break loose.

Nell was gone, and Nell was in the enemy hands, and Nell had run right into a trap, and they weren’t going to find her.

The vase was taken out of her hands, and a glass of water was pressed into it.

“It’s not your fault, Stephanie,” Kara said, and those alien blue eyes of hers were full of kindness as Steph drank the water.

It was kindness that Steph did not deserve.

Kara Zor-El had been a convenience, back in Metropolis. A useful team-up to take on the Black Mask’s expanding operations into Metropolis, to try to draw him back in to Gotham, where he felt safe, and where Stephanie could be sure that she could reach him.

The team up had been a convenience, because Kara was bulletproof and didn’t ask too many questions, and everything else that had followed had just been… natural. Kara was beautiful and funny and clever, and Steph hadn’t had a single regret, even if it had ended in literal flames.

Kara didn’t know, not really. She had watched the buildings go up in flames, but she hadn’t seen the true depths of who Stephanie Brown was, or know what she was really capable of. She hadn’t seen her shoot Tim Drake through the leg in order to kill one of the Mask’s men. She hadn’t seen her beat him to a bloody pulp, only stopping because Cassandra Cain had intervened.

She hadn’t seen Stephanie Brown bring down a roof on her and Bruce’s heads, just in the desperate hopes that she might kill the Black Mask with them, not caring if either of them had lived or died, as long as she had gotten her vengeance.

Kara did not understand, even if she thought she did, what exactly Stephanie Brown was.

Maybe none of them did, downstairs.

Stephanie Brown was no hero, was not the girl with a laugh and a purple cloak that had gone into the ground. She was not Robin or Spoiler, she was nothing but the tattered and bitter remnants of that girl, and what was left was a killer, a monster.

She still was the woman who had nearly beaten Tim Drake to death with her hands, because he had dared to take on the weight of her crimes for himself, who had ran away from everyone who had ever loved her for fear of what would happen if she allowed them to see her.

She had pretended for months upon end, trying to be something she wasn’t, trying to create the illusion of someone who could, maybe, be a hero again one day, but now, Nell was missing, and Stephanie was under no pretensions about how this had happened.

“It is,” Steph whispered. “If I hadn’t—”

“Stop that,” Kara said.

“Stop what?” Steph threw out her pain towards Kara, sharpening her words like the knives that she no longer used, because Cassandra Cain had asked her to stop, because Cassandra Cain was still trying to build her dead best friend up out of the scraps that was Stephanie Brown. “Stop knowing what I am?”

She stepped closer to Kara, throwing aside the empty glass.

“I’m a killer. I don’t do that anymore, but that doesn’t change what I am.”

“You—”

“I can’t bring them back,” Steph snapped. “I came back, but they don’t get to, and maybe that’s good for most of them, but there’s no way that nobody I killed could have changed, could have been better. Why do I get to live and they don’t? Why do I get to change, and they don’t? Why do I get a second chance, Kara?”

Kara opened her mouth.

“I’m going to get Nell back,” Steph said. “One way, or another. I’m going to get her back. And who knows? Maybe I’ll back down that hole again. Maybe I won’t. But I know that I’m done. After this? I’m done.” She closed her eyes.

“There’s never going to be enough to fix what I did.”

She was never going to be Stephanie Brown, the Girl Wonder, again. She was never going to be young and full of a joy that tumbled outward, boundless, swinging across rooftops. She was never going to be Spoiler again, full of a youthful righteous rage and a fierce and persistent knowledge that she was helping people.

Maybe she had once been that girl, who had been Cassandra Cain’s best friend, Tim Drake’s girlfriend, Bruce Wayne’s Robin, Crystal Brown’s daughter, but she was nothing but a spiteful shadow of that girl. She had taken everything any of them had ever given her and crushed it beneath her feet in the name of her vengeance.

She had been dead for days before they found her body, and she had never forgiven them for that, and the entire city of Gotham had paid, because she had been unable to accept that they had limitations, that they had been unable to avenge her, that they had been too… good to compromise like she had, to put her killer’s skull beneath the barrel of the gun, to take that decision into their own hands.

Stephanie Brown had been unavenged, and so the entire city had paid, because she was selfish and angry, and she would have robbed them of their greatest protectors in the name of her revenge. In her desperation to kill Roman Sidonis, she could have killed Batman, would happily have done so, if it meant that the bastard had just been dead.

The girl who was Robin had ran straight into a monster’s arms, believing herself to be helping, and it had been the thing that killed her. Her trust in Batman, her attempt to do right, had killed her, had led to her being six feet beneath the ground and clawing her way up through graveyard dirt.

What was left after the graveyard, after the Lazarus Pit… that wasn’t Spoiler, wasn’t Robin, wasn’t anything that any of them could recognize, not really.

What Stephanie Brown was now, was a killer and a monster, and nothing could ever change that.

When she opened her eyes, Kara was gone, and Stephanie Brown was standing alone in a hallway, with a shattered water glass at her feet.

The room was full of whispers and the rustling of feathers.

Nell Little kept her eyes tightly shut and kept her breathing even, terrified of giving any hints that she was awake, when she didn’t know where she was.

“She’s old,” one person said.

“Not too old,” another said. “You were older.”

“She fights well.”

“Yes.” A hand, gloved and strange, brushed against Nell’s forehead, and her eyes flew open without her meaning to, but it was only in time to catch the barest hint of a black, eyeless mask and the tail end of a feathered cape.

Nell Little sat upright, and her cape was missing.

There was a room, filled with children, all staring at her with wide, strange eyes.

The room felt like a room in a movie; large and concrete, the sheets thin and scratchy, the blankets grey and worn, the lightbulbs protected by cages.

They had taken her armor and her cape and her mask, leaving her in the tank top and leggings she wore beneath them. At the foot of the bed she was in, lying atop the covers, there was a folded set of clothes; grey and blue in color, the same clothes as the other children wore.

There were five others in the room, one in each of the beds.

They all stared at Nell, but did not get up.

“Hello,” Nell said. “I’m Scarlet.”

The one right across from her looked at her with wide, panicked eyes, and held a finger to her lips.

Nell frowned and got to her feet.

There were no windows, in this room that was not quite a cell. It was small, with the six beds almost pressed against each other, the ceiling just high enough that if Nell stood on her toes and reached, she could not quite reach the caged frame of the lightbulbs. The seam in the wall that marked the door was not quite invisible, and it resisted all of Nell’s attempts to push or pull it open.

A hand wrapped around her wrist, and Nell pulled back, yelling.

All five of the others had followed her, their eyes strange and wide, eerie in their silence.

One of them, a different one than before, pressed a finger to his lips, staring at her with wide, amber eyes.

Nell jerked her arm out of the grip of the girl who had shushed her the first time, glaring at all of them.

“Who are you?”

This time, all five of them pressed their fingers against their lips desperately. The first girl, with tangled hair that might have once been red, but was now dull and limp, pointed at the door, then held her finger up to her lips again.

“They’ll punish me if I keep talking?” Nell guessed.

All five of the others nodded.

They were strange, these children, with their matching clothes and scared eyes. Nell was not quite the oldest of all of them—there was a boy, one who had done nothing to distinguish himself, but whose hair was the longest of any of them, who looked to be her age or a little older.

“Do they punish you?” Nell whispered. If it was just her, she could take it. Steph had taught her to be strong, had given her the tools that she would need to take it. If it was just her, she would scream and batter at the doors and when they came to punish her, she would make them fight for every inch.

But Steph would come for her, and so she wouldn’t risk the others, even though they were strangers, just to make herself feel better.

The others nodded, all of them looking down, and Nell took a deep breath, and nodded.

Relief shining in their faces, the other children took her hands and led her to the bed furthest away from the door.

The smallest of them all—the last boy, who looked to be seven years old, with straw colored curls—climbed beneath the bed, and returned, carefully cradling in his arms a handful of treasures.

There were two feathers, a handful of small steel balls, a shard of mirror, and two equal sized lengths of a wooden pole.

The boy offered Nell these eclectic items; the toys, Nell realized, that they had to play with, in this small room.

Nell, unsure, selected one of the poles, and the girl with limp-red hair took the other one, and enthusiastically raised hers, motioning for Nell to come forward.

The three boys took the balls and feathers and set up a crude game of marbles, while the last girl, the one with black hair and freckles that were fading, took the mirror and sat on the bed, staring at the door.

Nell stared at this scene, unsure of what to make, of these strange children in this strange room, before finally lunging forward with her stick to combat the other girl.

She parried easily, with a fierce grin, and as she grabbed Nell by the wrist to pull her forward, a whisper carried from her closed mouth to Nell’s ear.

“My name is Carrie,” the other girl whispered, and Nell’s eyes widened as she continued to spar, a strange kind of hope kindling in her chest at this tiny sign of rebellion.

#A Different Game Verse #Stephanie Brown #Kara Zor El #Nell Little #Bat Family #DC #Steph Writes

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roshellrp · 5 years ago

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NAME: alicia eden dawson

AGE: 24

GENDER & PRONOUNS: cis-female, she/her

LENGTH OF TIME IN ROSWELL: her whole life

OCCUPATION: server at the crashdown cafe

FC: zoey deutch

I do not want to be human. I want to be myself.

heather and jesse dawson were thrice reborn religious fanatics who moved to a neat little house just outside of roswell all the way from sweet suburban mississippi because they felt some kinda way for the mythos of aliens that permeated the town. alicia was the product of their union, born just months after they touched down in that world famous desert. her childhood was spent with her older sister, mostly in their home with the dusty horizon as a backdrop, but she claimed roswell as her hometown all the same. living a little cut off was their parents’ choice, not hers.

she’d often felt like the god she grew up hearing about wasn’t all he was said to be — ‘specially since the bibles scattered throughout their home growing up, each one bearing different scrawls in the margins, had some choice words on divorce. well, divorce, and adultery, and coveting thy neighbors wife.

( alicia figured that went for husbands, too )

alicia’s parents were her parents, but her older sister was only her mama’s. her older sister was nearing on ten years older than alicia, swept up in the cross country move when alicia herself was just a baby bump. sure, jesse treated the older girl with the same fervent, reverent affection he gave alicia. something about children being the path to the future and the future paving way for heaven and his two girls, specifically, inheriting the earth. something about the purity of youth and the holiness inherent in purity. something.

older sister dearest’s father and dearest father’s wife were left in the dust in m-i-s-s-i-s-s-i-p-p-i because they just didn’t get it: heather and jesse were meant to be. god said so. never-mind that their god sure did seem to contradict himself a lot.

the thing was, roswell, new mexico was just one stop on their never ending road-trip to salvation. it had a history suburban mississippi didn’t, and it had a near-neighborless home for sale; that just made it the easiest option when they first ran off. the history of the crash and the celestial importance they’d assigned to it was icing on the cake, but they had other pilgrimages to make, other dreams shining bright in their gaze; alicia was often left alone in their cluttered home with her big sister while the adults hunted down preachers and prophets and miracles and mysteries.

the girl was older than little alicia, sure. but she was still a kid. she barely knew more than alicia when it came to ‘the hell do we gotta do to get by?’

still. the two of them seemed to know more than their parents there, so the sisters seemed to do alright. especially on the outside. no one seemed to notice much how much responsibility was left on their shoulders. no one seemed to notice how much it might mess with your head to grow up in a house so full of a theology being made up as it went along. the girls could spout fire and brimstone bible verses more easily than nursery rhymes, sometimes. they knew more about the coming apocalypse than they did disney princesses. the could spout bullshit on the blessings aliens would bring the faithful better than they could spout their favorite boyband.

but the two of them were just so good at feigning normal that no one in roswell seemed to wonder much about the sweet little sisters from the outskirts of town. the town attracted all kinds of strange people, so never mind any questions the girls raised — there were larger questions at play. it made things simpler on their parents, but nothing was ever made simple for the two of them.

luckily — that is, with a loose definition of the word luck — alicia’s big sister’s daddy came a-calling one fateful day, seemed to think he’d waited long enough to be able to talk sense into his wife’s head. seemed to think it’d be nothing now, to get her to kick alicia’s own daddy to the curb. of course it wasn’t so simple; he thought jesse and heather leaving for roswell had been a whim, something he could let pass while writing letters to his daughter. he had no way of knowing each letter sent ended up in the fire before it saw his kid’s hands. and he had no way of knowing he’d never possess the right words to sway his fanatic of a wife.

oh, but his logic sure did seem sound to alicia. it hurt to think as much, though, because she’d seen the shaky looks he threw her. a girl who looked enough like heather to almost escape notice as someone noteworthy. but a girl who seemed to carry something in the set of her shoulders that he knew he’d have never passed down himself. in those moments, those nights before he left his wife like she’d left him — alicia felt wrong. her own father had always looked her in the eyes with too much adoration and a promise that she’d inherit the earth. it was love, wasn’t it? and this thing, that felt so much the opposite, well, it must’ve been hate. she was a dawson girl, brought up in a household of absolutes. things might contradict themselves eventually, but they were always black and white.

nothing much changed with her parents after the man blew into town and blew right back out. but something changed with her, and something sure as hell changed with her sister. it was rough, bein’ a child kept hidden from her father. and it was rough, bein’ a child who someone could hate. mama and daddy still left on their trips. but now those weeks on end felt to alicia like relief.

her and her big sister floundered to do right by each other when they were left alone, but it was nice. knowing they knew each other, knowing they knew better.

alicia had a mind full of the rapture and a heart full of questions, a heart slowly filled with anger as the years went on. because, well, noneof what these adults were telling her seemed to check out. her parents contradicted themselves over and over and over, those black and white absolutes fading to muddy greys. it was slapdash and feverish and seemed like the kind of thing you couldn’t just shove blind faith into; any trust she’d still had in her parents crumbled as she realized all they did was shove blind faith at things. the things they said didn’t check out with the things her teachers at school did. and they sure as hell didn’t check out with the things her friends told her.

she couldn’t recall the moment she first realized no one else had had to grow up like she did. raising herself with the help of her sister, fighting just to stay afloat in a sea of lies and beliefs. she grew to seek out things that were the exact opposite of what they believed in.

( she imagined, one day, looking her father in his shining eyes and asking: what if she had no desire to inherit his earth? what if she didn’t want it? )

when she was still a kid but her sister was barely an adult ( now, finally ) the older girl cast her gaze to alicia and the two shared an understanding. they could do just fine on their own, in a more permanent sense, and so: they got the hell outta dodge. easy as pie. as much as they could, anyway. they pooled money ( from jobs her sister’d taken behind their parents back, and money alicia had taken out from under their noses ) and stuck it in a bank account. they took what they could from that and got an apartment. the hell outta dodge just meant roswell proper, but that was fine. they did their best to live their lives this way. to alicia, it seemed like both of ‘em were doing their best to pretend this new normal was the way it’d always been. she found that was fine.

their parents barely seemed to notice them gone, thank god. alicia wasn’t sure how any attempts at emancipation would’ve gone, wasn’t prepared yet to denounce them all the way. it was better like this. she visited them every once in a while, when heather and jesse were in town and she could stomach them.

and alicia turned her itching fingers to tarot cards and pilfered alcohol, carefree laughter and friends on friends on friends. she’d always gone to school in roswell, but never had she had people she could talk to ‘bout home, people she could have sleepovers with and talk crushes to. she was greedy for the human contact. alicia would make friends with anyone, then, if it meant not being alone. she took up track and swim team, because she needed something; something for when the friends and the occult and the parties couldn’t fill her up. she tried to do right by her sister, ease the way for her by getting good grades and not getting caught when she did something reckless. it was more of the same: feigning normalcy enough that everyone looked at the pair of them and didn’t see anything wrong.

alicia played at a duality of finding magic real and un-real all at once. acted like she didn’t worry about her eternal soul every time she fingered the crystals kept in her pocket and the second-hand books on magic in her bedroom. pretended that her thrift store crystal ball was somehow the wildest thing in a town built on the idea of aliens.

the thing was: she’d never bought into her parents’ vision of god. but she had bought into god, a little bit, in her own way. that faith felt dirty to alicia. how could she let herself believe in something like that, like god, when she’d seen how much it soured in her parents? in her and her sister? and even worse — she could not believe in aliens. lotsa normal people took a faith in god too far, too weird, but only wackjobs did the same for their faith in other-worldly beings.

the witchcraft, the talk of spells and demons, the devil-may-care attitude, making light of the town’s history and acting like she’s never worried about her own past grabbing her by the throat one day — it was child’s play, for alicia. for the girl so used to pretending. she loved her friends, and loved the way she could lose herself in things. in magic; because she could feel something there anytime she took to her crystals or cards with a modicum of true intent. she could lose herself in anything. both the benignly young things and the acts that bordered on sacrilege.

but alicia felt like she will always have to keep parts of herself locked away if she wanted to keep anything at all.

when she graduated from high school, she thought about college. thought long and hard about how no one she met in some big city dorm would get how she’d grown up. how they wouldn’t get roswell, new mexico. and how they sure as hell wouldn’t get her parents. she pictured explaining how sometimes her hippy-dippy magic stuff felt real, thought about boys asking after the lone sister that’d helped her move in, imagined the girls who’d judge her dusty books and secondhand wardrobe and spell candles. wondered how the hell she’d read tea leaves in a dining hall and if she’d ever feel settled at some school when sometimes she barely felt settled in her hometown. so alicia graduated with good enough grades and a fast enough breaststroke to get scholarship money for a decent school, and absolutely no desire to go to one. she took a job in roswell and spent a year fucking around before she found an online degree program. she dreamed of moving out of town and someday living by the water — but she knew she’d never have the guts.

it was easy enough to focus on work by day and submit essays and online discussions at night. it was easy enough to smile at tourists as she worked with ‘em and make fun of ‘em as soon as she clocked out. it was easy enough to stay by her sister and her friends and the town she wasn’t sure she could ever leave and pretend all the while she’d never had another option.

alicia, at her heart, was a liar. she talked a good game about not believing in god or aliens, about being invincible, about the way nothing fazed her. but she still prayed when it was dark and she had no one else to talk to. and she couldn’t help but hope sometimes she wasn’t alone in the universe. and she wondered if it made her too breakable, bearing scars from a childhood where nothing really bad ever happened. and she wondered if anyone could see how scared she was of change. there was a gift in being a liar, though: light enough candles, take enough shots, wear enough grins, and she could almost trick herself into thinking things might finally be okay.

ALICIA is penned by ZOE

#*all #*human #alicia dawson #zoey deutch fc

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acesotonic · 6 years ago

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acesotonic reviews | Logic: “Confessions of a Dangerous Mind”

hello everyone! welcome to the first album review on this blog. i have always been reviewing music from all walks of culture, languages and ‘genres’ on my instagram, but i figured putting it on an actual blog would be way neater. and because my opinion is so important, it’s more accessible in this format. so without further ado, enjoy!

Logic’s latest 16-track release, “Confessions of a Dangerous Mind”, had me feeling all sorts of emotions; and not all of them for the better. Some tracks were so good on their own, and some tracks made me question, “Why is this here?”. 16 tracks is long. Especially when Logic himself kept emphasising how any upcoming album would be his last... then proceeds to release another album. That makes the 16 tracks seem way longer than it should.

We begin with the first song that takes the name of the album title. The instrumental begins with a pleasant melody, and reminds you that this is indeed a Logic project. When he begins to rap, his flow is calm and emotional which grounds the listeners into this track at its most foundational level. He gets sentimental and sensitive about the album’s main themes, success and its demons that haunt the mind. But the snare comes off at some points as disruptive; an odd alien semi-grunge hit. The chorus gets lyrically cheesy (which will pop up again later), especially when Logic starts to sing (this too). I would think it was a decent start to the album, but more weak than it was strong.

The next track Homicide, a pre-release featuring Eminem, remains my favourite off of this album. Logic’s rap is rapid-fire, his lyrics are hilarious and his rhyme is impeccable. He switches into characters with his voice, which makes the song prominent. The hook is playing its role as a hook, and transitions into Eminem’s verse cooly. The older rapper’s flow felt fresh, a mix of modern styles but still very much nostalgic sounding with old school sandwich-rhyme schemes. The ending is still odd to me - funny - but does not reduce the quality of the track in any way. Eminem’s feature was a good one, fully fleshed out and utilised. An addictive track indeed. A total repeat.

Unfortunately, Wannabe and clickbait take the album to a downturn when it was just starting to climb. Wannabe feels out of place and almost lacked in the content it intended to have. Similarly, clickbait suffers from cohesive and juicy lyrics. Some bars that had references were fun, but that was only 2 or 4. There’s a cheesiness that is starting to pop up in these weaker tracks, either through Logic’s serious attempts at vocalising melodies or other ways.

The next piece Mama/Show Love that features YBN Cordae does not veer off from passable. The saving grace of this track’s first portion was YBN’s rap - with great content and rhyme. When the beat switches to the Show Love section, Logic’s rap feels more magnetic compared to the Mama section. This makes me feel as if the first half of this piece was not necessary. The melody of the instrumental felt a bit cheesy compared to the previous sounds as well.

It is at this point listening to Out of Sight that I realised I was getting bored. “ALrEaDy?!”. Yes. And I don’t like that. The instrumental does not have anything special to it, almost too consistent with no risk (which is contrary to the album’s themes). There is no strong hook and leads me to question the purpose of the track in this record. The next song Pardon My Ego is slightly better with some unique sampling in the beginning. Logic’s flow and some of the funny lyrics make the track’s safety net. But again, the instrumental sounds repetitive after awhile. There is no lasting impact on my ears and mind.

I started to get excited again for the next track COMMANDO, but only because it features G-Eazy. Many have said that his rap has no personality, but many have also said that he has a distinct voice and accent. I believe in the latter. The instrumental starts to sound more trendy, which I thought made sense since it featured a new generation rapper. G-Eazy had the more interesting flow compared to Logic; fast, rhyme-filled, funny and had cool switch-ups. However... it was too short. Logic’s powerless segment in the beginning made up the bulk of the track, which made COMMANDO almost forgettable.

The next song Icy also has a feature, by Gucci Mane. Logic in the beginning hook uses a high-pitched voice that comes off as comedic, but his carefree and funny lyrics make up for it ever so slightly. Gucci’s segment has a mediocre delivery, but some creative lyrics. Again, it is a very short feature which could’ve expanded to make the song more entertaining. The hook starts to get a little annoying towards the end of the song, though the overall instrumental is quite cool. In the following track Still Ballin featuring Wiz Khalifa, the roles are reversed. Logic’s flow was straightforward with clean lyrics, while Wiz’s bars were basic and fundamentally useless to the song’s theme of hustling. This is when I rather the feature not be... well... featured. Though the song speaks of something important in the life of a reckless artist, the hook comes off as lazy and does not make the song important to the album lineup.

The following track Cocaine again gets me questioning the purpose of it in the record. The instrumental is your typical arpeggio piano-based hip hop beat which is nothing I’ve not heard before. Nevertheless, Logic’s lyrics in the second half of the song get very personal and emotional. It delves into the reality that drugs and poison in music sell better than real and traumatic stories. The 808s laid out across the track becomes progressively crazy and is the most distinct aspect of the instrumental. These 2 things have made Cocaine a tolerable piece.

At the 12th track Limitless, the album almost becomes irredeemable. The record could have stopped at 10 or 11 tracks... and when the 12th one is not of high quality, a listener’s stamina drops. This track is sonically boring, and Logic’s sudden singing comes off as out of tune to my ears. The hook was bland with a repetition of “you the man”, and the existence of this whole song in the album is vague. Although, the album starts to pick up a little bit in Keanu Reeves. Logic’s flow is not stellar, he sounds bored sometimes, and the flute sound in the instrumental feels random. The piece may seem forgettable, but some of the self-referential lyrics are entertaining enough for me to keep listening. Also, the second half of the song is where his flow picks up and reminds me again of Logic’s true potential.

With 4 tracks left, Don’t Be Afraid To Be Different features Will Smith who takes a very short first verse that is lyrically featureless. The chorus has a weird-sounding synth that does nothing to amp up the track’s quality. It is also so loud during Logic’s verse that I can barely be immersed in his part. The hook is overly repetitive and does not help to make the track cohesive, like it is one whole element. But what makes this track decent is the instrumental in general, with a slight callback to It Takes Two by Rob Base and DJ EZ Rock; with the rugged-sounding shakers and drum pattern. Will’s flow, while plain, was cute and nostalgic with references to his Bel Air days. It kept a part of the album a bit more interesting and colourful, to reflect the album art minimally.

As the record comes to an end, it hits hard and suddenly gives us pretty amazing final pieces. BOBBY features sampling with an attention-grabbing intro and background ad-libs chanting “Bobby!”. Logic’s lyrics are raunchy and whimsical, showing off his confidence and presenting himself as an original entity. He gets very personal about his cultural identity as well, but masks it with the funky beat that gives listeners a slightly uneasy feeling being able to access his “dangerous mind”. I do wish the drums went back to a consistent 4/4 beat after awhile and stopped going into half-time, because I was yearning for more speed in this up-beat sampling. Featuring his father’s lament about how great his son is is a sweet touch, and makes the song even more personal and unique. It adds more character to the record, even though at an arrangement stand-point, BOBBY feels oddly placed.

Finally, we reach Lost In Translation. It begins with a wistful 2000s R&B vibe with electric piano and a bit of organ rotations in the background. The bass is soulful. The drum set is muted and very much old school, taking you way back to the times of Ashanti and Ja Rule. Then almost 50 seconds into the track, the beat switches up. It still retains the soul and blues elements in the bass and electric piano. The drums, however, have become more hip hop and so is the drum pattern. I guess it is to keep the track melded into the mainly hip hop album... but I wouldn’t mind a full-on cool R&B-reminiscent outro. And then, the beat switches up for a second time. The bass has become much stronger, and electric piano melodies are funkier. Logic’s flow is so good, with catchy rhyme schemes and edgy references to Hannibal Lecter’s passion for human flesh. His rap is on-going and fresh. Suddenly though, a Japanese narrator starts to speak. I have not found an accurate translation of her segment but one thing’s for sure, she says “Rattpack, motherf***er”. The general gist of her part translates to “Thank you very much for your help” (Logic_301). This could be referring to how this album grapples with themes that may seem distant and unaccessible to most of Logic’s listeners, but uniting them all as music-lovers at the echo of his label. But why Japanese? The purpose is still unknown - at least to me. Some have argued that this is cultural appropriation, but I will leave this to Logic himself to explain. Overall though, an entertaining track with a pleasant and atmospheric finish.

Conclusion

“Confessions of a Dangerous Mind” sinks deeper into an abyss of half-starred quality at almost every track. While very few from the many 16 selections of songs stand out to be great, like Homicide and BOBBY, majority of the album barely skims the surface of “passable”. We expected to see a raw and unedited form of Logic on this record. Instead, it came off as unsealed and unready to be released into the wild. The good songs are very strong, while the weak songs are absolutely underwhelming.

4.75/10

#music: review #logic #logic: coadm #acesotonic #confessions of a dangerous mind #critique #young sinatra #bobby tarantino

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