#violas are never in tune

[elastica1995]

maybe i’ll get really into playing my viola again. start busking or whatever

[elizadoll]

Wedding Bells for Dolls!

CW: Dolls.

The dolls have decided to get married! All of them! They aren't quite entirely sure what marriage is, and they're not quite sure about all the intricacies of a wedding, but what they do know is that Miss had one very recently and now she has a Wife! All of the dolls decide they want a Wife too! How do they get a Wife? Well, Miss's Wife is a human like she is, so a doll's Wife should be a doll!

They all gather together in the garden and decide to hold a wedding! One of the dolls remembers an important-looking person that stood next to Miss and her Wife during the wedding, they said a lot of words before Miss got to kiss her Wife, so they must be important! A doll volunteers and takes its position at the end of the aisle. The person at the wedding was holding a book, so it brings along its favorite cook book to hold.

Oh, and there was a person there that played a violin too! Or was it a viola? The dolls could never manage to remember what the difference was. None of them could play the violin or viola, but one of them had a harmonica, so it volunteers to be the viola person! Or violin person!

Another doll points out that it remembers there was a huuuuuuge cake at the wedding! At least three dolls tall! They have to have a cake too to have a wedding! A trio of dolls look at one another and nod. They know how to bake! They've made Miss pancakes and biscuits and cookies before! A cake should be easy! They all run off towards the kitchen, ticking loudly with glee.

So a book doll, a music doll, and three cake dolls. That's important. The dolls put their heads together. What else does a wedding need? One remembers that Miss and her Wife held bouquets at the wedding, and it runs off to go pick flowers. Another remembers how Miss called it a 'flower girl' and asked it to spread petals down the aisle, so it follows the one that went to make the bouquet. A third pipes up, pointing out that they still haven't picked out which dolls will be married!

It is a tough decision with much deliberating, but eventually, the matter is settled! Two dolls step forward, one the tallest of all Miss's dolls, and the other the shortest of them all! Miss is taller than her wife, so the dolls conclude this pair makes the most sense!

Thus the dolls scatter and begin their preparations in earnest, until finally they all convene back in the garden where Miss's wedding was held. The doll in charge of bouquets hands each of the future Wife-dolls a handful of roses, pansies, and daisies, bundled together by strings of yarn tied around their stems. The 'flower girl' doll emerges soon after with a basket full of all sorts of petals of numerous colours and varieties.

The music doll begins to play its harmonica in an off-key tune, and finally the cake-dolls return with a towering stack of flapjacks. Miss told them not to mess with the oven unsupervised, so they couldn't make a proper cake, but when they realized that pancakes have the word "cake" in their name, they knew just what to do!

Finally, the preparations were complete, and together, the tallest doll and the shortest doll walked together down the aisle, bouquets in hand, trailing after the 'flower girl' who scattered the petals of lilies, dandelions, snapdragons, and many more in their path. When the two of them reached the book doll, it briefly panicked, unsure what to say, but it quickly settled on reading is favorite recipe from the book: spaghetti bolognese.

When the doll finished its recital of its recipe, it repeated the only words it actually remembered from the wedding: "You may now kiss the bride." The tallest doll and the shortest doll both blurted out the words "I do," half-certain those words were important when Miss and her Wife said them, before pulling one another into a nice, tender kiss.

And thus, two dolls were married! They were Wives! They weren't entirely sure what that meant, of course, but they were happy about it nonetheless! They celebrated, they cheered, and they shared many a pancake together. A doll wedding! A joyous occasion to behold!

[thy-valhallen]

Batfam Voices as Instruments

Batfam voices as instruments bc i think of things very musically and it struck me others don't

Bruce: bass guitar. he's low and deep and when he speaks, you feel it in your eardrums, straight into your jaw. his words are like injections into your skull, feel intense and impossible to ignore-- but he has softer moments, too. quiet, gentle plucking of strings, the careful, slow strums of a man who plays only for the ears who will know what the notes will mean

Alfred: viola. slightly deeper than a violin, but mostly just warmer. a voice you hear and want to hum along to, a voice that sits in your ears before it sinks into your chest. it's gentle and sways with grace across strings and notes, it plays a harmony that supports and compliments, that is a steady through-line for everything that surrounds it

Dick: trumpet. brassy and loud and present and fuck do you KNOW when he's in the room. he's so bright and warm and MEANT to be heard. you hear him in your heart, every time he speaks, feel it deep in every vein like he's writing gospel into your DNA. and usually it's jazzy, it's excitement and riffs and improv and leaping off the page and doing cartwheels across a music staff-- but he's just as capable of whispersoft confessions of heartbreak and loss in D minor, can let loose a lament of all he's lost in an elegy of epic proportions

Barbara: harp. a challenging instrument to understand and play, and one she plays with ease. she is plucking strings with careful fingertips, strums across them all with a single hand. she's a melody that glides past your ears, a song that doesn't sink in-- if you're not paying attention to the hooks that latch into your brain. she is careful compositions and sweeping songs arranged for each audience with care. yet when she feels wrath, she shreds herself to make sure you feel it-- she takes scissors to her own strings to cut deeper than the song could alone

Jason: cello. deep and contemplative, with a sort of vibration that bites into your bones from the moment he opens his mouth. waxing poetic is his native tone, and it sounds like a bow dancing across strings and fingers traversing the frets like they were made for it, a soothing melody that could be a lullaby. when fury comes, the sound alone is so sharp where it's settled into your joints that you can't fight back; it's vicious strokes across the strings that shred the bow's hairs without care, wrath in every pull like it's a sword. he can settle into the orchestra or he can sweep them all offstage to stand alone against the conductor that dared to direct him

Cass: marimba. light and soft and so very deliberate. all those bars close together, and each hit with precision, because when Cass speaks, each sound and syllable is effort and choice and control. she is range and gentle dancing note to note and a sound that settles on your skin like a gentle rain, clinging and soft and so very present. to hear it is to hear if a storm could sing and serenaded the sky it calls home. she is echoing in an empty room until she fills it herself (i think of this specifically)

Tim: piano. it's all about the force put into it-- he can be the most careful, calculated guy in the room, playing with all the rigor and rigid professionalism of a NY Symphonic pianist. but the real Tim is the one who's fingers flutter playfully over the keys, who's voice cracks from laughter and sleep deprivation and stress, who trembles between octaves as his fingers tire but makes the leap anyway. he is clear ringing notes in a crowded room and rambling words like a glissando back and forth across the ivories, he is a song quiet enough to fall to the background but a complex and delicate tune if you care to listen

Steph: drum kit. she is all intensity and living in the moment and sharp impacts and a beat that never stops, never waits for the rest. she can get lost to the rest of the voices in a room, but you'll never shake that she's in your head, that her voice is there and present and presses against the base of your skull like it wants to worm straight in. she's rhythm and motion and changing things up just to do it; her voice hops from the snares to the bass to the snares and back to bass and never lets you think between notes, she's moving so fast, because it's all her, nothing she ever has to question, even if she makes you question with every slam on the cymbal

Damian: violin. he is careful in his every motion, ever meticulous with all he does; he lives in fear of being out of tune, of off-key notes for a long time, and so each one is practiced and known to the point of monotony. but over time, he thaws and the notes become more loose, more free-- he speaks less like his eyes are glued to the page, furiously tracking each note he'll play and more like the natural he is-- he becomes sharper in a different way than the rest of him, notes out of place that jut from the rest and it's okay that they do, a hum of songs that don't follow classic melodies and don't feel the need to. don't mistake it though-- his voice has always been as regal and pointed as the rest of him was raised to be, and his voice grabs both your ear and your eyes, dragging you to look at him, for him to be seen and noticed and given attention

Duke: saxophone. he is deep and rich and resonating. his voice is emotion and expression and honesty. his voice sits on your tongue because hearing him makes you want to speak, want to talk and chat and ramble with him, to reply to his melody with any harmony to match. he is a voice meant to be heard by many, who may not stand out in a room naturally but makes himself stand out by the passion in his voice. he is a slow, experimental hand that plays notes with hesitance until the rhythm hits him and suddenly, it's a melody of energy and power and a presence that he doesn't even know he has

[onlybeeewrites]

The Violinist

Pairing: x reader

Requested: no

Warnings: none, maybe light sexism

Part 2

———————————————————-

You had not come from a very prominent family. Not near as well known as any of the families of the Ton. Neither were you on the lesser side of money. Your family had more than enough to be comfortable, yet nowhere near the money that was flaunted by the upper class.

No. Instead you reside in a family of musicians. You, surrounded by your three brothers and your father, all enjoy the thrill of performing. They were hesitant to allow you to join them in their endeavors, but with much reassurance they allowed you to join them. The promise was kept as long as you remained in the back, hidden from others while your music echoed through the rooms. They didn’t entirely agree with you playing. A young woman of twenty and three focusing on music instead of finding a husband. But you loved what you did and that’s all that you cared about.

Your well-known family was one of the bands that would preform at the balls through the ton. Set up to one side of the room long before guests we’re ever to arrive, giving yourselves plenty of time to set up and prepare your instruments. You had played the violin. Rather beautifully in fact. Your brothers and Father played the rest of the instruments, some other violins, a cello, and the viola. Together, you all make the most beautiful music.

You had been almost blessed with such a talent from a young age, taking on the violin at about eight and catching on quickly. you were able to hear music and replicate it almost instantly and it was incredible. You absolutely loved it. Your parents had called you a prodigy of the instrument, your elder brothers amazed at how quickly you were able to pick such things up.

This ball was no different. It was about mid season, and the young ladies and gentlemen of the ton were in full sing of the social season of finding the right partner to court. This evening your family had the pleasure of preforming in Aubrey Hall, home to the Bridgerton family themselves. You had heard all sorts of stories about the family both from the whispers of the ball rooms to the scandalous readings of Lady Whistledown. From the rakes that were the eldest boys, to the Diamond that was Daphne, or the bookworm that was Elouise who had seemed to despise these lavish parties more and more with each year.

These people had intrigued you. You have seen people of all sorts within these parties, but those Bridgertons were the most interesting to you. For a family so wealthy, so well-known, they were so kind. It was not like the Culpers where they would stick up their nose at the nearest person who was beneath them. No, they were strangely kind. Though it all made your job much easier.

It never took too long for you and your family to set up and tune your instruments. The servants and such were all rushing around, getting some final arrangements done before all the guests were to arrive.

You, yourself we’re just finishing up your tubing when a younger female voice spoke up behind you, pulling you from your concentration.

“I remember you playing from a few other balls. Are you usually tucked in the back playing?” The voice spoke, causing you to turn to face one of the middle children of the Bridgerton family. Elouise Bridgerton.

You raised an eyebrow before you lowered your head in a greeting. “Miss Bridgerton,” you started before nodding at her words. “I do. I am Y/N Lyndon. I play often at these balls through the social season with my brothers and my father. Though my only place is in the back but I do not mind,” you say, and this leads even more curiosity from the Bridgerton girl.

“Hm. So you’re hidden in the back just playing. Listening to the room. Perfect for….gossip. Is it not?” Elouise then asked, which caused a confused look to come across your face before you had realized what she was insinuating. This laugh caused Elouise to narrow her eyes, “why are you laughing?” She questioned, “it’s because it is true. Isn’t it?”

You shake your head, recollecting yourself before speaking. “Forgive me, miss. Uh no, it is not true. I do not have the luxury of having so much time to write such gossip in the papers as Lady Whistldown does. I spend my time preforming and practicing and I do not have much time to write such things. Though it was a rather clear idea. A preformed hidden in the back? A rather good suspect,” you say before continuing, “though if I do hear anything of Whsitledown I’ll ensure that you are first to know,” you then reassure the young girl.

Eloise huffed softly as she could have sworn that she was close. But she was relieved that you would be able to help though.

Before she could speak, the eldest of the Bridgertons came up and placed his hands on Elouise’s shoulders, “excuse my sister, miss. She often speaks out of turn. Excuse us,” he said and before Elouise could utter another word he pulled his sister away.

You looked to them a bit in confusion, but assumed he either didn’t want Elouise to distract her before her performances, or maybe the Viscount didn’t want his sister interacting with a worker. Either way she didn’t mind. She lowered her head as Anthony came and went, turning and getting settled in her spot just beside her brother.

“You need to stop bothering people with that Lady Whistledown nonsense,” Anthony said as they approached Benedict and Colin as well. The two were already a few glasses of champagne down.

The two shared a look with each other before glancing to the other two siblings, “who are you bothering now with your hunt for Lady Whistledown?” Colin asked in an exaggerated sigh.

Elouise rolled her eyes, “I am not bothering. Just inquiring. And it was Miss Lyndon. The violinist,” she said, subtly gesturing to you who had just started to warm up amongst your brothers.

This seemed to catch the attention of the brothers as they took in your form. Hair done up simply but elegantly and a dress proper enough for a ball. Though it wasn’t anything extremely elegant or very outlandish. It was simple, but it was intriguing. A rather beautiful young lady playing an instrument instead of dancing.

“Intriguing…” Benedict hummed, obviously intrigued by a fellow artist. He was always drawn to such people with such creativeness. Then again, Colin was as well.

The brothers made a note to keep an eye on this certain violinist, hopefully they would see her preforming once more.

[beannary]

He arrived!!!!

The little prince is home!!!

The silly!!!

He criticizing my out of tune viola but I still love him!!!

I’m never taking him off my keychain, he lives there now.

im so glad he arrived safely!! he is very disappointed about your out of tune viola, you better get it tuned quickly or else he's going to get more and more annoyed

[acidheaddd]

No special formatting, image, or upload for this, so I hope it doesn't fly TOO under the radar, but while playing, I noticed that the stone vase in ClutterCat's Sunny Sundae Part One has uh... these red lasers surrounding it whenever you enter live mode.

So I fixed it. It was just a simple tuning issue and how they never noticed it is beyond me, but. 🙃 I figured I'd share it so anyone else that might wanna use it finally can without the annoying ugly lasers around it.

Just delete the original file from ClutterCat and plop this one in and viola.

Download Fix Here (SFS)

[wilderlore-stuff]

Wilderlore incorrect quotes

Audrian, singing to the tune of I Kissed a Girl: I killed a guy, and I liked it- 

Cyril, whispering: Should we call the police? 

Runa, also singing: The taste of her cherry chapstick. 

Leopold, appalled: Call the exorcist.

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

Barclay: I sort of did something and I need some advice, but I don't want a lot of judgment and criticism. 

Tadg: And you came to me?

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

Yasha: I think I need a hug... 

Audrian: Good thing I'm hug shaped! 

*45 minutes later* 

Yasha: You... you can let go now. 

Audrian: No, I absolutely cannot.

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

Kidnapper: I have one of your friends. 

Barclay: Which one? I have seven. 

Kidnapper: The loud, annoying, rowdy one who never shuts up. 

Barclay: Which one? I have seven. 

Tadg, distantly: HEY!!!

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

Shazi: *sneaking in through their window* 

Cyril: *turning in their chair and flicking the light on* You want to tell me where you've been all night? 

Shazi: I was with Viola? 

Viola: *turning in their chair* Wanna try again?

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

Tadg: You’re giving me a sticker? 

Barclay: Not just a sticker. That is a sticker of a kitty saying “me-wow!” 

Tadg: I’m not a preschooler. 

Barclay: Fine, I’ll take it back- 

Tadg: I earned this, back off!

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

Tadg, talking to Viola: Well Viola, whenever I’m about to do something, I think ‘Would Cecily do that?’ and if they would, I do not do that thing. 

Viola: … 

Cecily, from a distance: They’re not wrong though!

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

Runa: And what did we learn, Audrian? 

Audrian: Tackling someone isn’t the correct response to being asked a simple question.

[thalialunacy]

[a wee character sketch interlude for the @calaisreno May Prompt Party]

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (10) (11) (12) (13) (14) (15) (16) (17) (18) (19) (20) (21) (22) (23) (24) (25) 26: manipulate (27) (28) (29) (30) (31)

-440-

Orchestras always tune to ‘A’ on the oboe, because every string instrument has an ‘A’ string. Oboes can play sharp or flat, just like any other instrument, but modernly every oboist uses a little electronic meter to ensure that their ‘A’ is exactly right.

As a child, his violin instructor had made him start every lesson by vocalising A4 out of thin air. Or, at least, attempting to do so; Sherlock has always had excellent intonation, but perfect pitch -- the ability to name the frequency of sounds one hears and vice versa -- is not on his resume.

So the exercise always felt fruitless, and aggravatingly so, because of course he never actually got the correct pitch. Close, and closer with time, but never close enough.

Years later, watching a tiny human named Rosamund drag herself to her feet just to fall back down time and time again, it finally occurs to him: That was the point.

-415-

Baroque: relating to or denoting a style of European architecture, music, and art of the 17th and 18th centuries that is characterised by ornate detail.

He finds himself in a tiny overcrowded music hall watching a small early music ensemble (3 violins, 1 viola, 1 cello, 1 contrabass, 1 recorder, 2 bassoons, 1 trumpet, 1 harpsichord, and 1 very murderous theorbo player) and it takes him far too long to realise why he's uncomfortable. Why there is a little twitch below his left eye.

They are actually using a historically accurate tuning.

Sherlock blinks, feeling around his jaw to see if it could be something else, but no, a part of his overly-trained brain rebels against all the sounds being pitched slightly lower than modern sensibilities. It's like a phantom toothache.

It's like before, when Sherlock would glance up from his microscope and observe John feeling poorly. In those days, Sherlock had nothing to offer, really, so he'd just had to let John's unhappiness bury itself under his skin as something else to ignore.

Now, though. Now he can do something about it.

-432-

Some theorists and musicians claim that the 432 Hz tuning has better effects on the human body, but there are no scientific studies that support the hypothesis.

He brings an exhausted John a late night (and therefor unattractively decaf) cup of tea. 'What happened?' he asks quietly, settling in across from him.

John shakes his head vaguely. 'I couldn't… I couldn't convince a mother to respect her child's pronouns.' He coughs. 'I am an old man who is shit at not stumbling over such things, but… She wouldn't even try.'

He meets Sherlock's eyes over the rim of his mug. 'Please remind me of this when Rosie is a teenager and I want to throttle her for reinventing herself every two days.'

Sherlock pauses, then sets his tea down and leans in until he can palm the soft pyjama fabric covering John's knee. It's a small gesture, but it works-- the creases in John's brow lose a little of their severity. 'I have no doubt she'll try our patience and sanity severely. But, John… You are already a far better parent than yours were.'

John stares at him and breathes out heavily. 'Fuck.' His free hand comes down on top of Sherlock's, absently palpating his knuckles one by one. 'But you can't-- There's not exactly scientific evidence, is there, to support that.' 

Sherlock clears his throat. 'Yes, well. I'm confident there will be.' 

John's lips twitch. 'Sherlock Holmes, are you saying you have faith in something?' 

Sherlock tuts, then decides he doesn't care about propriety in this moment. He moves until he's kneeling before John, holding his face in his hands and focusing on the tiny freckle under John's left eyebrow, knowing John will understand.

'Yes,' he says simply. 'Just one thing.' And then he leans in. 

[❤️]

[music to which this was written: Britten's Violin Concerto, Op 15, which I'm certain Sherlock would hate, but he's wrong]

[crookedkryptonitebeliever]

Best and worst of both worlds (part 44)

Tw: mention of previous assault, yves being manipulative as always

Vote down below pls i will only consider first 21 votes

Part 45

To your surprise, Yves wheeled you into a room that you have never been in. Neither did you realize it existed on the ground floor.

You called it the music room. There is a grand piano in the center, with various other orchestra instruments in the corner and on the shelves. It was lit by none other than a chandelier. Yves loves his chandeliers.

You asked him if he played all the instruments present here. He nodded and you found that impressive, since the number of items in this room is mind boggling. You don't even know the names to some of these.

"Would you like me to play something for you?" He asked, locking your wheelchair in place.

You said you would like to see it.

He walked towards the harp, positioning the seat properly before sitting on it. His elegant fingers strummed against the strings masterfully as he played a melancholic tune that you weren't familiar with. However, it was beautiful and moving, the rises and dips in volume invoked some powerful feelings in your chest.

Yves seemed to be completely immersed in his performance, his eyes were closed and his lips were pressed into a neutral line. His movements were fluid and hypnotizing, making you watch without ever blinking.

He ends his piece with an elegant fade. Yves opened his emerald eyes to see you gaping your mouth at him. He stifled a laugh as he rose from his seat.

"Did you like it?" He asked, gently pushing your jaw up to close your mouth.

You said it was amazing, you asked what was he playing. Yves tilted his head to the side and pouted playfully.

"I thought you would have recognized it. I was playing a song that is very popular among your age groups."

You were adamant that you have never heard it before. It sounded like something that was written by an angel, it was unbelievably ethereal and sublime. You don't think modern-day music was of this calibre.

An amused smile made its way to his face.

"Well, I am happy that you loved my rendition of it."

But you were curious, what did he intend to play?

He tapped the side of his face and looked to the side as he tried to remember the name of it.

"It is something that your peers danced to. I have only heard fifteen seconds of it, but it was repeated ad nauseam."

You asked him if he heard the full song.

"No. I improvised the rest."

You were wracking your brain, trying to figure out what modern "popular song" did he just let you experience in a completely different light.

Then you asked how were the dances like.

"There was a vast array of variations. However, they shook their rears in front of the camera for all of them."

And the lyrics?

"The artist managed to refer to her supposedly... fat buttocks four times in that short segment. They were standard lyrics about emotional infidelity." Yves was describing it almost clinically, only when it comes to the cheating part did he look disgusted.

You think you know which song he was talking about now. You're dumbfounded at Yves talent to recreate it in such a way it's unrecognizably beautiful. Not to say that the original wasn't good, it was. It's just that you're impressed at how Yves's musical abilities allowed him to create such a masterpiece.

For the rest of the afternoon, you tried out most of his instruments. Yves taught you the basics without boring you to death, he was patient and understanding when you either couldn't grasp the control or you gave up for being too hard. You noted that the quality of his items are always exemplary, he takes good care of all his belongings.

Occasionally, he would nag about being mindful of your property. He wanted you to share the same mindset of prolonging the health and life of an object.

But you were having fun, even if you were bowing the strings of his Viola horrendously so, that it could make a musician's ear bleed. Yves is elated to spend so much time with you while sharing his own interests.

And most importantly, your head is not filled with redundant thoughts about your dependence on Yves. Both of you are free to relax and be happy in peace.

__

You scrolled through your social media feed mindlessly as you laid on the loveseat of his music room, your casted leg hanging off the armrest. Yves had to leave you alone so he could speak with the professionals regarding his air conditioning system.

Yves told you to use a special fob to control the speed of the fan. You left it off because it's not sweltering right now and you believed that you should not waste too much electricity.

There was the occasional tinkering and stomping as they worked hard to remedy the issue. Other than that, the environment is pretty quiet.

You received a notification that your assignment has been graded. You reviewed it and found that you achieved the highest score possible, it wasn't surprising because you have Yves to guide you throughout the entire--

Where are your crutches?!

The thought shot through your head and everything that you were procrastinating talking to Yves about came rushing in.

You have got to talk to Yves about moving out and going back to school. And also, the whereabouts of your stupid crutches.

Just when you're about to send Yves a text about it, so you won't forget, you heard a knock on the door.

Yves entered holding a cold glass of freshly pressed fruit juice. It was beading with condensation as he took large strides towards you.

You took large gulps of the refreshing beverage, not realizing how thirsty and overheated you were.

"My apologies, dear." Said Yves as he dabbed a wet cloth on your forehead and cheek to further cool you down. "There was an accident causing the breaker to trip. They also had to cut the power supplying the ducts in order to repair the faults, why didn't you use the fan?"

You said that it wasn't that warm and you didn't want to rack up his electricity bills. He has nothing to apologize about, it didn't even affect you.

You couldn't understand why Yves looked defeated, as if he's expecting something bad was about to happen. It isn't like you're going to die from a little heat, you're simply going to sweat and whine. That's all.

"That is very considerate of you, my love. However your comfort comes first. I do not want you to worry about anything. Please. I will always take care of you no matter what." He pressed the cool cloth against your neck, soaking up droplets of sweat. It almost seems... desperate.

You told him that you're grateful. Then changing the topic about your crutches and the idea of going back to university, so that you could catch up on your studies.

His shoulders sagged in devastation. Yves sighed, burying his face in a hand for a bit before instantly regaining his composure. Oh, how he wished that he could just... control everything.

You wonder what that reaction was about. But you deem it unimportant in the end.

He switched the fan on to circulate the air in the room. You feel relief when the wind hits your face.

"(name)..." He called you quietly, crossing his arms over his chest. Yves squatted down to your level and looked you deep in the eyes. "Are you sure?" Yves spoke in a voice that sent uncertainty through your bones. You could feel an undertone of warning too.

You gulped and stammered under his scrutinizing gaze. You suddenly felt small and helpless, just like how when you first met him. Except, now it's much worse. Because you value his views on you a lot more.

Yet, you stood your ground. You noticed that you've been lacking a sense of agency ever since you got here. Yves wasn't treating you badly by any means, but subconsciously, you felt that there was something wrong. You felt like you were getting stuck in a trap that is slowly but surely killing you, and this is your attempt at clawing out of it.

No matter how much you tried to change the tone of the conversation to become lighter, Yves stayed there, unmoving, unsmiling and unblinking. He may not explicitly confirm it, but it is clear he is disapproving towards your desire to regain freedom.

You explained that you can get around with crutches, you need to go back to your old life- you can't stay like this forever, burdening Yves with your problems!

"You are not a burden to me, (name)." The seriousness of his intonation left no room for doubt that he was telling the truth. Deep down, you already knew it too, but you didn't like how he enjoyed taking care of you to this degree. It's as if he is intentionally incapacitating you so he could continue coddling you.

That wasn't a nice thought about someone who paid for your bills, housed and fed you. But it was a gut feeling that existed nonetheless.

You explained that you just wanted normalcy. Like how it was before your assault, where you would run from your own place to catch the bus. This sudden change in lifestyle is jarring and unnatural to you, it's stressing you out.

"It takes a minimum of eight weeks for your fracture to heal. You only rested for three, it is too early for you to start walking again." He explained, in a soft voice that sounded patronizing. You squirm under his unyielding and unsettling stare, he never stopped despite you showing painfully clear signs of discomfort.

You tried weakly arguing that you saw students move around the campus with a broken foot, they're using crutches and always arrived to class on time.

The room fell silent, save for the quiet whirring of the fan's propeller and the murmuring of the contractors.

Yves knew he was fighting a losing battle. But he tries, he tries to scare you into staying with him. Because he wasn't ready to let you go yet, not when he was spoiled with three weeks of uninterrupted bonding time with you. It is going to feel particularly excruciating when the luxury of being in close proximity to you is slashed tremendously.

So he waited. You were someone who associates silence and a stare as something terrible, hence he uses that against you. He calculated the chances of you backtracking or doubling down, and it was of equal probability.

You cower, feeling afraid and severely pressured even though Yves did nothing except appear menacing.

It is tempting to just dismiss everything and pretend like nothing happened, you could enjoy his pampering without a problem and let Yves take care of you like a delicate doll.

But... it's uncanny. You have never felt this strange towards a supposedly "good" thing. You will definitely have to participate in uncomfortable conversations with Yves, however, maybe the reward would outweigh the damages?

Using all your strength to temporarily push down the nauseating feeling of fear, you decided to choose a path.

[cherrylng]

Great Guitarists 100 - Graham Coxon, Jonny Greenwood, Stuart Braithwaite, and Wes Borland [CROSSBEAT (November 2009)]

Graham Coxon The reason why Blur, who have never announced their break-up, have been said to have 'reunited' is that his presence in Blur and in the UK in the 1990s was too great. He was a maniacal noise-obsessive himself, even using an electric drill when recording "Modern Life Is Rubbish", but the resulting riffs were terrifyingly poppy. The revolution of the 90s was that guitar heroes were no longer required to have technique, and Graham Coxon's ability to turn everything upside down with his unique sense of time and phrasing was one of the centrepieces of the Britpop era. As a visibly literate and nerdy guitar hero, he may well be one of the first. This year, he continues to be active with his latest solo album and touring with the original members of Blur. -Hitoshi Sugiyama

Selected Albums "Modern Life Is Rubbish" (1993, photo) Blur "Parklife" (1994)

Jonny Greenwood A child prodigy who learned to play the cello and viola from an early age and was once awarded a prize for 'contribution to the development of music at our school' when he was at the prestigious Abingdon School. He has been a key member of Radiohead's predecessor band On A Friday from the time of the band to the present day, playing a central role in the band's sound. In his early work, his guitar playing was rather straightforward, with a strong influence from grunge/alternate rock bands such as Sonic Youth, Pixies, and Dinosaur Jr, but from "OK Computer" onwards, he actively introduced all styles of music, including classical, avant-garde and dance music. He began to play experimental sounds using various effectors, such as whammy, which makes the pitch of the guitar rise and fall to extreme levels. He has always regarded the guitar as a means of expression, which is why he is able to create unique and original sounds. -Takanori Kuroda

Representative albums "The Bends" (1995) Radiohead "OK Computer" (1997, photo)

Stuart Braithwaite From flowing arpeggios to raging feedback. Mogwai's dynamic soundscapes, which move back and forth between "stillness" and "movement", are the product of a flawless ensemble. The band is built on a perfect balance that cannot be created by any one person being left out, but what really stands out (including their looks) is the guitar playing of Stuart Braithwaite, who is also the leader of the band. His sound, influenced by My Bloody Valentine, Sonic Youth, hardcore, and heavy metal, is the cornerstone of the band. He mainly uses a Fender Telecaster and a Gibson SG, with a very conventional amp. However, there are more than a dozen different types of effectors, from distortion to spatial systems, and he switches between them (and sometimes steps on them all!), creating that high-density guitar noise. -Takanori Kuroda

Representative albums "Mogwai Young Team" (1997, photo) Mogwai "Come On Die Young" (1999)

Wes Borland The 90s saw the crossover between rock and hip-hop go from strength to strength. Guitarists had their work cut out for them. How on earth do you bridge the gap between the two? Wes Borland's answer to that question was to stick to riffs. The riff, a traditional rock technique, is treated like a sampling loop in hip-hop. In doing so, he arrived at a method that blends the two well. But for this to happen, every riff had to be catchy. He used every means possible to achieve this. The techniques are diverse, including heavy riffs with drop tuning, arpeggio riffs utilising delays, and simple riffs with only two notes. Although his eccentric looks tend to attract attention, he is in fact one of the leading riff masters of our time. -Junya Shimofusa

Representative albums "Significant Other" (1999, photo), Limp Bizkit "Chocolate Starfish and the Hot Dog Flavored Water" (2000)

[theresa-of-liechtenstein]

it is a thursday evening in the academic year, and you know what that means: WE ARE SO BACK!!!

started off extremely nervous for...honestly i have no CLUE why. but i was walking to the arts building feeling like my heart was going to escape my chest

i found a bench outside the rehearsal hall and sat down out of habit to eat my snack, when—you all must know the drill by now—along came tita conductor, who hurried the rest of the way to meet me with the BIGGEST smile on her face

we then had what can only be described as a rapturous reunion, wherein we briefly discussed some seating-arrangement things (due to the whole Music Department Being Closed thing in the summer she's not yet done auditioning new violins, of which there are many THANK GOD. having to hire ringer VIOLINS last year was nothing short of insane. we've gone from like 14 to somewhere in the 20s.)

we took a brief break from our conversation for her to do the thing she was Actually supposed to do (make copies of the class syllabus in the printer room down the hall)

when she came back tita conductor was SO excited to tell me how much she loved my drawing of her 😭 she must have spent at least five minutes excitedly recounting her favorite details, in particular the musical references. which, considering that 4/5 were from brahms works, is not uncharacteristic of her

"you were so meticulous! it was so intricate!" well madamina you didn't give me this job for my lack of attention to detail,

eventually she went on her way to assist a new member and i was left to my snack

just then, principal viola walked out of the rehearsal room, followed by concertmaster and a new student i didn't recognize. they saw me and headed over, and we all stood around chatting. i did what i've always wanted to do and introduced myself as a first year (which is technically true)

we headed inside eventually and continued chatting in the back as more people came in—like oh my god we have SO MANY STRINGS this year. we don’t have to budget our strings we have more than enough to get by

ate dean (!!! i thought she’d be too busy) walked in and gave me a HUGE hug 🥹

my returning sectionmates were happy to see me and so i was sitting in the section turned around chatting to them

tita conductor suddenly walked behind them and i accidentally made eye contact, to which she gave me one of her megawatt smiles 😭

concertmaster always tunes on time (he tries never to tune after 10 past the hour when rehearsal “officially” starts) so we had long been ready by the time tita conductor went to the podium, whirled around with a flourish, and asked principal oboe for an A

cue concertmaster piping up innocently next to her, “we tuned already.”

tita conductor looked VERY put out and said “oh darn it. i was hoping for the sounds of mystical tuning”

WE GOT DVOŘÁK 8 RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

because there were so many new people and none of the violins were placed, tita conductor started us off reading a bach chorale (iirc dir, dir, jehova will ich singen) with parts adjusted for b-flat instruments and differing clefs just to get us all adjusted to each other

at one point she had us SINGING the lines and the first violins were so timid to the point where she turned to them and said “you have six people to cover for you” 💀

i hated that i had to leave halfway through, not least because i had to just get up in the middle of something FUN and walk away from the FRONT like boo boo the fool, but also because tita conductor looked down at me momentarily like 🥺 while i did so. fuck the registrar for breaking our hearts like this

when i left she was getting ready to conduct something and did one of her signature Wiggles 😭

i was so giddy on my way to my next class that when i refilled my water bottle in the engineering building, i literally skipped my way back to my classroom grinning. as in i was FROLICKING. and some kid said to his friend as i skipped away "oh, the freshmen"

i had no idea just how much i missed orchestra and tita conductor and ate dean until now and i am so excited for the year to come. in conclusion, best first day of school of my whole life.

[novasintheroom]

♡ Pairing – Nicholas D. Wolfwood x Reader.

♡ Word count – 0.7k.

♡ Warnings – none.

♡ A/N – A prompt inspired by the “Head, shoulders, knees and toes” children’s song. Challenge to make each section 100 words or less.

                                              ꘎♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡꘎

Head

There’s an old saying he heard once: “The heart is forever making the head its fool.”

Didn’t make sense at the time. What he wanted didn’t matter in the Eye of Michael, and as long as he got paid for his contracts to buy his next pack of cigs, he couldn’t care less about that blackened thing in his chest.

Then you trip into his life, and suddenly his heart is making a lunge for you, like you’re the first sip of water after years of drought. Then you make him a bigger fool by kissing him, and oh, he’s in trouble.

Shoulders

Splinters of sunlight fall through cracks in the blinds. He traces the rays on your shoulders, waking you with calloused fingertips. Brushes your hair away. He receives your first smile, and it’s already a good day. You light up at his murmur about breakfast and this, here, is what keeps him going. The way you hum when you stretch, then lace your arms around his neck. Even in a dingy inn with sand swept into corners and the din of an outside world waking up, he thinks:

Yeah. This is good. This is it.

Knees

Nicholas loves to make you weak in the knees. Takes every opportunity to get yours trembling – whether that be from his kisses, or from the death-defying stunts he pulls.

Of course, his knees knock when you kiss his chin. They tremble as your nails trail the back of his neck. He tries to stop it by pulling you close, but you’re both a mess of weak limbs and breathy giggles.

It’s disgusting what you do to him. He tells you. And you give him another long, slow kiss. He has to lean against a table to keep from falling over.

Toes

He sways with you in the dark, the sounds of ruckus from the saloon drowned out by the night and the toma snorting nearby. Whining notes of an out-of-tune viola warble through the sheetrock and broken glass of the windows. You step on his toes a lot. He steps on yours as payback. Your whispers together create the best kind of song. He’s not much of a dancer. Hates it, actually. But for you.

For you.

Eyes

His eyes follow yours. You look at a stall. A tomas. Children running across the street. You keep glancing at a storefront window. A swinging sign above the door: BIG HENRY’S CLOTHIER. There’s a pair of boots displayed. You look down at your shoes – ratty, torn. Years old. You limp a lot, do you know that?

You ignore the store and walk ahead. There’s that limp again. He makes an excuse to branch off, says he’ll meet you guys at the saloon in a bit. Gotta get his next pack of smokes.

When you turn a corner, he walks into the clothier. He’s getting those shoes. What’s giving up a few packs of cigarettes for his girl to walk right?

Ears

You kiss his cheek, and his ears go red. Don’t point it out to him; he’ll deny it and sulk. Then he’ll act like he forgot about it and let you do it again, and there they go, bright red and glowing in the sunlight like a beacon walking through town.

It’s a game you play: how flustered can you actually get this man. Turns out – very. And he puts on a nasty expression, tells you to knock it off.

But his hand finds yours, and he lets you play.

Mouth

He still wonders, still hesitates, thinking how his lips are chapped and how he must stink of smoke and damn, he needs to cut the habit if you’re gonna keep getting this close. Then your lips meet his and he forgets the suns on his back, the ache in his shoulders, pulling you closer and showing you what a real kiss is. He can feel your butterfly heartbeat with his own. Your breathless gasp is his reward.

Nose

He loves to nose your cheek. Rub his stubble across your chin until you push him away with a laugh. He’ll bury his nose into the crook of your neck when you’re alone and take in that scent of sand and fruit after your latest bath. You can never truly get rid of the desert in your skin, but he appreciates the strawberries that poke through the dust.

[cirilla-fiona-riannon]

Kicho's Main Story Chapter 7 Part 2

These translations are not intended as a replacement for the game. Please support cybird by buying their stories. JP SPOILERS under the cut. Expect mistakes.

Kicho: “I cherish you. I can assure you that much.”

Mai: “............”

Kicho: "Stay put. This is the last part."

He put some rouge on the tip of the brush and slowly drew it across my lips, making me hold my breath and shiver a little at the tickling sensation.

(The words he said just now...)

Even though I know I shouldn't, I'm tempted to confirm it with words right now.

Kicho: "Okay. That should do it."

Mai: "Oh..."

Coming back to my senses, I hurriedly bowed to him as he moved away and put away the make-up kit.

Mai: "Thank you for everything."

Kicho: "It's what I wanted to do. Let's head to the hall now."

Mai: "Okay."

I got up and was about to leave the room with him when he suddenly turned around and一

Kicho: "Mai."

Kicho: "It really suits you. You look beautiful."

Mai: "-----!"

With that, he left the room.

(I feel like he's acting somewhat differently than usual.)

(I'll get the wrong idea if he says something like that.)

The sun was already setting when he led me to the hall, and everyone who had already arrived was playing with their instruments.

Mai: "What's that?"

Kicho: "It's from a foreign country. The big instrument there is a harpsichord, and the one next to it is a viola."

(I've never heard these names before, but they all look somewhat familiar.)

(The harpsichord looks just like a piano.)

I listened carefully to his explanation and beautiful melody.

Mai: "Oh."

His eyes met one of the players, who smiled and moved his hands gracefully.

The other players followed suit and began to play their instruments, filling the hall with sweet melodies.

(I've never heard this song before.)

(I never thought the day would come when I would be standing in a place like this.)

The foreign melody was so gentle that it softly enveloped me as I was about to fidget, unable to fit into the space.

Mai: "I almost feel like a hero of some story just by being here."

Kicho: "Story, huh? What kind of story?"

Mai: "I dunno."

Mai: "But it's weird to become the main character. I'm definitely not that kind of person."

Kicho: "It's not weird. Everyone has their own will."

Kicho: "From my point of view, other people are almost just supporting characters, but I'm sure those supporting characters feel the same way."

Kicho: "I'm sure they still do."

With his eyes fixed on me, he held out his hand, and I immediately knew what he meant without being told.

Mai: "Sorry. I've never done this before."

Kicho: "No problem. I'll take the lead."

Mai: “Okay.”

I nervously took his hand, and he immediately pulled me closer.

Kicho: “Relax. Think of this as a rehearsal and don’t look away from me.”

Mai: “............”

I looked up at him, and he put his hand on my back and stroked it gently, my heart beating loudly.

(I still get nervous even if he says that.)

I moved my feet to follow the beautiful melody.

(Wow. I can dance properly.)

From the outsider’s perspective, I might look like I was moving awkwardly, but still, I looked up at him, and he smiled gently.

Kicho: “You’re doing great.”

Mai: “I’m glad. Hehehe.”

I was so happy that I couldn’t help but smile.

(Hm? It seems like the tune has gotten faster.)

Mai: “Kyaah!?”

I tried to keep up, but I ended up stepping on the hem of my dress, almost losing my balance as I did so.

Kicho: "Are you okay?"

He put all his strength into his hand behind my back and held me closer.

Mai: "T-Thank you."

Kicho: "The song just ended. The next song is gonna be a difficult one."

Mai: "Okay."

Kicho: "Mai? What's wrong?"

Mai: "I'm sorry. Just a little more."

I remained frozen on the dancefloor and buried my face in his chest.

(His arms are so warm.)

His large chest, which was hard to get away from, was not only warm but also smelled nice.

(I've been busy worrying about other things that I forgot to put on my perfume.)

His fleeting scent, drowned by the sweet fragrance he always wore, seemed like it would easily fade from my memory as soon as I moved away from him.

(I'm glad I forgot about it, even though I really shouldn't have because I got to know him one more time.)

Feeling regretful, I smiled and moved away from him.

Mai: "It's all right now. Sorry for doing that all of a sudden."

Kicho: "No, it's fine, but is something wrong?"

Mai: "Yes. I forgot my perfume."

Kicho: “Perfume? I see. So that’s it.”

For some reason, I felt impatient when he nodded, as if he was convinced.

Mai: “Did you notice it?”

(This is embarrassing.)

Kicho: “That’s not it. Rather, don’t put it on tomorrow.”

Kicho: “I don’t really like that kind of strong-scented stuff, to begin with.”

Mai: “But won’t it interfere with your work? It’s for personal appearance, right?”

Kicho: “That was just an excuse. I made you wear it to check your whereabouts.”

Mai: “What?”

Kicho: “That’s why you don’t need it anymore. From tonight onward, you will remain as you are.”

Mai: “That’s...”

(Does that mean he's letting his guard down against me?)

I was happy, but then I felt a prickling pain in my chest.

(No, I shouldn't show it on my face.)

Mai: "I understand. I'll do that tomorrow."

Kicho: "Yeah, then..."

Taking each other's hands, the two of us started dancing again as the tune changed to a gentle one.

(Tomorrow, huh? Why did I lie like that?)

Our shadows cast by the setting sun reached the bottom of the clock as we beautifully danced.

It was like watching a scene at the happy end of a story.

(I wish all of this was just a story.)

(I wish the curtain would fall here so I wouldn’t have to let go of this hand.)

Mai: “*sigh* The night breeze feels nice.”

I went outside by myself, saying I was going to take a break.

As soon as I took a deep breath, my lungs began to fill with air, and the heat inside my body subsided.

(Even so, that was amazing.)

(I knew that Kicho was talented, but I never knew he could memorize so many people’s names and hobbies perfectly.)

(I can only remember the faces of the last few people I talked to.)

As the stars began to shine in the sky, the hall soon became crowded as the guests arrived one by one.

The guests immediately dragged Kicho away, and all I could do was smile next to him, feeling very happy to stand next to him.

(It’s almost time.)

(I need to go to my room, change my clothes, and leave this trading post.)

I wanted to say goodbye to him at least one last time if I could. However, I didn’t have the confidence to pretend anymore.

(Is that really the reason?)

(Or is it because I was afraid that if I said goodbye, I would really never see him again?)

Mai: “I’m so half-hearted and selfish about everything.”

Kicho: “You mean that dance we just had?”

Mai: “Kicho!?”

Kicho: “Dancing like that in front of people, even though it was your first time, was good enough.”

Mai: “I’m not talking about that. Why are you even here?”

(He was just surrounded by guests earlier.)

Kicho: “I was worried about you.”

Kicho: “Wearing something you're not used to, and being in a place like that must be tiring.”

As he approached me, he gently stroked my cheek with the back of his hand, and my skin, exposed to the cool night breeze, felt his warmth instantly.

(He was worried, so he came out.)

(Why?)

Even though I should’ve been happy, my chest tightened, and my resolve almost shattered into pieces at his kindness.

Mai: “Sorry, Um, I got something in my eye.”

Kicho: “You don’t have to fool me anymore.”

Kicho: “It’s time for you to come clean.”

Mai: “What?”

I felt uneasy about his tone, then he sighed and narrowed his eyes.

Kicho: “Don’t tell me you thought I didn’t know you were Nobunaga’s spy.”

Mai: “----!”

Kicho's words made the blood in my body freeze.

I quickly searched for an excuse, but his piercing gaze wouldn't allow me to think, leaving me no choice but to raise the white flag.

Mai: "How long have you known?"

Kicho: "Only now did it turn out to be true."

Mai: "What?"

Kicho: "I had my suspicions for a long time now. I heard that Nobunaga kept a strange woman with him, a princess to be exact, three months ago."

Kicho: "Other than that, no one knew her background. There was absolutely no information about her."

Kicho: "You told me before that you came to this period three months ago."

(That's when I almost got caught and told him my other secret.)

Kicho: "I had my suspicions but couldn't quite put my finger on it."

Kicho: "There are no signs that you're working together or in contact with the outside world, but I became convinced when I saw your reaction."

Mai: "So you're playing like a fool."

I want to smack myself for my inability to keep the information.

Mai: "Are you going to kill me?"

Kicho: "You came here with that resolve, right?"

Mai: "That's..."

I looked down, unable to nod my head.

(I thought I knew what I was doing when I came here, but I was naive.)

(I wasn't prepared at all.)

Kicho: "I see. It looks like you didn't have that."

Kicho: “Well, it’s tough for a peace-loving person like you to go on a mission where your life is at stake. I know that because your world is full of such people.”

Kicho: “But I find it even more puzzling.”

Mai: “What is?”

Kicho: “Why did Nobunaga send a woman like you?”

Kicho: “There was no other suspicious person in the trading post, so you’re the only spy.”

Kicho: “Also, this is not something you can entrust to someone who has only been in the turbulent world for three months.”

(I see. Well, he’s right.)

Kicho: “Mai. Tell me the truth.”

Kicho: “Why did you come to me?”

Mai: “That’s...”

Mai: “Because I wanted to live.”

Kicho: “What?”

Mai: “I was a nobody here in this period.”

Mai: “I felt that if I could help everyone, even if just a little, then I’d feel like my existence had some meaning.”

Kicho: “You said the same thing when we talked at the inn.”

Mai: “Yes. You confronted me that night and saved my life.”

Mai: “So I wanted to face you properly too.”

Kicho: “.............”

Kicho: “I see. I understand.”

Kicho: “Even though you weren’t ready to die, you wanted to live and were ready to cling to life.”

Kicho: “That’s not a bad thing. It’s rather a good thing.”

Mai: “Kicho...”

Kicho: “But the clock is ticking.”

Mai: “----!”

He pulled out a pistol, which he seemed to have hidden in his pocket, and pointed it straight at me.

However, he only kept the pistol steady and stared at me sharply.

(There’s no reason to forgive an enemy who lied to him.)

(I know that, but...)

I’m scared. I don’t want to die.

All I can hear is fear and screaming, growing louder and louder in my head.

Mai: “Um, I...”

Kicho: “I know you’re hiding there. Come out.”

Mai: “Huh?”

I heard a rustling in the bushes behind me, where he pointed his gun.

Mitsuhide: “Oh? You noticed?”

Mai: “Mitsuhide!?”

Mitsuhide: “What’s the matter? Is it that strange that I’m here?”

Mai: “Well, yeah. Because it’s still...”

Mitsuhide: “I thought I’d help you get out of here first.”

Mitsuhide smirked and stood in front of me to protect me, then pointed his gun at Kicho.

Mitsuhide: “Anyway, thank you for helping our lass out.”

Mitsuhide: "It looks like you’ve learned a lot at the trading post, but it’s time for us to take you back.”

Kicho: "Do I look like the kind of idiot who'd let this place slip away?"

Mitsuhide: "No. That's why we're pointing our guns at each other."

(What the hell am I supposed to do in this situation?)

Confused, I looked at them alternately.

All hell will break loose if they both pull the trigger.

Mai: "Wait!"

Mitsuhide & Kicho: "-----!"

I jumped between them and spread my hands out, almost losing my footing with both guns pointed at me, but I managed to hold on.

Kicho: "What? You're protecting that man?"

Mai: "No!"

Mai: "I know it's my fault that this is happening, but is pointing weapons at each other the only way to solve the problem?"

Kicho: "What do you mean?"

Mai: "You've been suspicious of me for a long time, yet you didn't point a gun at me immediately."

Mai: "You talked to me, so I got to know you, and how kind you are."

Kicho: "I'm human too. I have feelings. I feel joy, anger, sorrow, and maybe I have said and done things you might think are kind."

Kicho: "But what you have seen is only a part of it."

Kicho: "That's why we are in conflict. There's no way for us to reconcile."

Mai: "Still!"

I tried to argue, but I was at a loss for words.

The two of them were cousins, and they had once been comrades in the Oda army.

Even though they had spent much more time together than I had, they were still pointing their weapons at each other because of their different goals.

(That's right. We live in a time like this.)

Kicho: "But not this time."

Mai: "Eh?"

Kicho: "I will lower my weapon depending on your choice."

Mai: "What choice!?"

Kicho: "Stay here with me."

Kicho: "If you do that, I'm willing to let this guy off the hook."

Previous Part╏Masterlist╏Next Part

[umbrx]

Can you write the beginning of Doffy and Viola's relationship? I often wonder how their relationship started after everything Doffy did to her and Dressrosa. I also want to see how Viola's feelings are mixed feelings of hate and love. They're really interesting.

Doflamingo was a private person. A VERY private one. Still, he was a public figure, and his passionate people SPOKE, especially about their beloved king and his possible love interests. ❝ How do you think it would have started? ❞ Not a confirmation, merely an interest (short-lived, so it better be used well) in one's speculation. Fingers tapped against the desk to a personal tune and lips pulled into a smile at the memories of initial hate. What was there not to hate? Viola had been brought up as a PRINCESS, as someone who was promised to LEAD her kingdom. To become a QUEEN. He could only speculate on the number of plans she had in her mind since young age. Plans to make Dressrosa a more comfortable kingdom to live in, plans to empower it, and most importantly, plans to make her people HAPPIER. She had, unlike Doflamingo, been SELFLESS in her SELFISHNESS, while he had always been selfish in his benevolence. There was always GREATER GOOD in her mind, regardless of the choices she made and how those could've been interpreted or judged. Then, before she could even ascend to the promised throne and reform the kingdom she so dearly loved, it was taken away. Eight hundred years of Rikus' rule stripped away by a descendant of those who had abandoned their rule and ascended to the status of GODS. Her family name soiled and bloodied in the eyes of the people she cared for. Hundreds of years of peaceful rule to be murdered by Riku Doldo's sword slashing away at his own people. The HUMILIATION. The ridicule. All caused by one mastermind and made worse when he gave her an ultimatum. Gave her a chance to SERVE HIM and be degraded from a future QUEEN to a mere SERVANT. What was there not to hate?

Yet, there was a fine line between love and hate. They were contrasting yet complementary emotions. Both concentrated on the object of its desire, and both able to suffocate. In very rare cases, they could create something new. Something interesting, THRILLING even. ❝ Would you place a bet on sexual attraction? ❞ He leaned further into the armchair, raised his legs onto the table, crossed the left over his right. ❝ Intellectual conversations during the night? Clash of wills, perhaps? ❞ Few could keep up with politics the way Doflamingo did. Even fewer could predict or understand his trajectory of thought. His manipulation of the black market, involvement in external affairs, the narrative he dictated across the world and the understanding of the level of POWER he held over those most ruthless. No one held the power of Viola's devil fruit either. A power to GAZE into someone's mind, to HEAR its thoughts — a powerful tool to possess. He knew she had used it more than once. It gave her INSIGHT, it gave her something to WORK WITH. She was only nineteen when he took over, and just like anyone willing to get ahead in life, Viola had to ADAPT. Viola was a rose, Violet her thorns. She knew if she wanted to get anywhere, she had to play the game by his rules and terms. She LEARNED. The more she did, the more she could calculate her next steps. The more she could subtly aid her people from the shadows. He was aware of it, very much so. He also found it AMUSING, at first. He wanted to see her struggle. He wanted to see whether the POTENTIAL he saw when she was offered a position was up to the task. She made sure it was.

She made it worthwhile to engage in conversation. She wasn't one of his yes-men. More often than not, she was his verbal opponent. She would make her opinions known, whether he'd ask for them or not, but she knew when to get the right TIMING. She never did it publicly in front of the Family, she didn't want to seem DISRESPECTFUL (he didn't need her Devil Fruit to know how disrespectful in her private thoughts she was). She would show her disagreement with a subtle condescending sigh, a short-lived frown on her lips, a glare thrown his way (most often). She patiently waited for a chance to catch him ALONE, most often when he was in his library READING, knowing that she could have his attention — if he was willing to give it. Sometimes he'd dismiss her entirely, sometimes he'd indulge her thoughts for his own AMUSEMENT, and sometimes he DESIRED a debate. Mental chess against someone who could peer into his thoughts if she chose to play that hand. The stakes and the need to think ten steps ahead were much higher in such a game. It was a game of POWER. Sometimes her concerns were considered afterwards, sometimes an exchange of favors occurred, but he always, ALWAYS, did what he wanted regardless of the final decision.

The wine in his glass was refreshing on the tongue, well-balanced with an elegant mouthfeel, sweet with hints of spice. It trailed down his throat, red as blood, leaving its IMPRINT. Dressrosa’s produce was unforgettable, much like its women. ❝ Would you bet on the effect I have on people? My deceptiveness? ❞ The charismatic pull NO ONE was immune to. Enemy or not, lover or not, his genuine ALLURE was undeniable. Well-spoken and well-read, he always had numerous topics at his disposal. He was a man of power, and people, whether they admitted it or not, were ATTRACTED to power. He knew Viola was attracted to those same qualities. Her attraction was even GREATER because she saw something no one else did. She got to see far BEYOND what anyone else has ever seen. She had gazed into the abyss, he had gazed back, and she never averted her gaze. She stepped right towards it.

Lips stretched into a grin, a chuckle left his lips. ❝ I'll ask for the last time, how do you think it would have started? ❞

There's a thin line between love and hate. Maybe they were simply confusing their emotions. Maybe he'd make an exception and let her call him Doffy.

[j-eryewrites]

The Symphony of You

MAIN MASTER LIST

Doctor Who x Reader one shot I wrote for my creative writing class. 

(Supposed to be read as 11 x companion! reader)

Word Count: 1,001 words

(Master List)

Based off of the song: Dance with Me Wallis

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There he sits alone on the ebony bench. The moon shines down on him like a spotlight. His back sits tall as he places his long boney fingers on the keys. His hair now free of gel falls in front of his face creating shadows that move as he chuckles. 

“What are you doing out of bed?” He inquires. His striking green eyes are illuminated by the moon’s light as he turns to look at me. 

“Couldn’t sleep,” I reply. “Too many thoughts in my head.” I wouldn’t dare say more. I didn’t want to be another reason for the tiredness behind his eyes to grow. 

I drew near to him. My feet patter across the wooden floor of the room. He lifts a hand out to me. I grasp his cold hand and he guides me toward him. The bench creaks underneath my weight as I sit myself down. I get a closer view of his face. It’s so young, brimming with life, yet his eyes tell a different story. Even when they look at me with such kindness and adoration, I can see the truth. 

His emerald eyes tell tales of loved ones lost. They cry about life stripped away from him too fast. His eyes encapsulate the memories of children crying and people falling to ash. The horrors of war and the evils of the universe rest deep inside his dark irises. They were old and had seen more than my eyes would ever see in my lifetime. Despite all the woe, his eyes held beauty. The beauty of love and laughter. They showed me the enchanting spell of nature untouched by man. Trees as tall as the sky with strong thick trunks which held the wisdom of life. His eyes even held the stars that brighten every corner of the dark vastness of space. To me, his eyes were more beautiful than the finest of Van Gogh's works. 

“What are you thinking of?” He asks as his eyes peer into mine. 

I look down at the black and white keys of the piano in front of us. “What were you going to play?” 

There it is again. That laugh of his and the thrill I get from just hearing it. “I was composing.” He clarified. “I still haven’t played a single note.”

I rest my hands on his lap and gaze at him. “What were you composing?”

“Your song.” 

Those simple words took my breath away. My song. He gazed back at me, his smile still so prominent. 

With widened eyes and cheeks flushed red I whisper, “What does my song sound like?” 

My lashes fluttered down as I once again looked at the black and white notes. He followed my gaze and brought his hands again to the keys. 

I quickly closed my eyes in anticipation. My ears patiently waited for the sweet sound of the piano, but it never came. Instead, there was silence. I scrunched my brows and began to open my mouth, but I was shushed by the touch of his finger. 

“Listen,” He muttered into my ear. 

Then it came. A violin’s sweet tune began to enter my mind. Slowly, a viola joined in repeating the phrase over and over. Then there was a cello. Its deep melody rang low and smooth, sending shivers up my spine. I peer over at him in amazement. My eyes are wide, and my mouth is slightly agape. 

He looked at me and I was transported. I saw myself smiling as the ashes from a burning star fell upon the earth. In a blink of an eye, it was a new scene. His hands were on my waist grounding me to him as I reached for the heavens. My delicate fingers tickled the stars. I was beautiful, I thought. Then I realized it was he who thought I was more precious than any universe we had ever travelled to. 

He took my hand and led me into a ballroom. Guests were decorated from head to toe in lavish gowns and suits. I saw myself wearing a gown he had given to me. Its stunning blue accents glowed in the light as if I were a piece of art for everyone to see and admire. He smiled; I could feel it. He watched me twirl around, as I danced among the masked strangers. His hand was placed on my back guiding me through the crowd. 

Then we were running. It was a flowering field in the early months of spring. The chirping of flutes called the flowers to bloom. There I stood, taking in the view. Bees flying by bidding me adieu, yet he looked at me. His gaze is unwavering and calm. 

The sun fell and it was dark. All light had vanished. I knew where we were as the piano descended. Slowly, the sound of the strings disappeared as the blue light filled my–no his view. There I was. A hand gently placed on the blue beating heart of the tree. A magnificent glow blinded him as I faded from his view. As the light dimmed, the piano played its last note. A vivid image of myself appeared in front of him. Tears of joy stained my cheeks as he took a hand to wipe them away. At this point, I had only known him for a few hours, yet he was entranced by me. A human with a capacity to love greater than even his and he knew–I knew that it was it. 

The room came back into focus as his hands drew away from the piano. The keys still glisten in the light of the moon. I meet his emerald eyes and stare at him. I gaze upon his features the way he looked at me–the way he’s been looking at me this entire time. My breath stilled and I leaned forward taking a leap of faith; Knowing that he’d always catch me if I fell. Our lips met and that was it. 

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[websterss]

A/N: Hope you enjoy it! MASTERLIST

“Todd you need to calm down okay. Just breathe.” You placed your hands out in front of you trying to gain Todd’s attention. You had been the only girl in Prentisstown until Todd found Viola. The aftermath that came with finding her stressed him out. You were only trying to help him. You and Todd were in the midst of trying to find Viola to get out of Prentisstown, stuck in the forest making a plan. “Todd, quiet now, they’ll hear you!” You pleaded with sad eyes as his noise only grew.

“No no no no no.” He shook his head, grabbing at his hair.

“Aaron!” Manchee’s yelp was quiet and tense. You gave him a brief glance feeling your heart stop. You look around and find no one.

“There’s no one here Manchee, only Todd and I, buddy.” You bend down to pet him. Then turn back to Todd, who can’t tune out all the voices, all the memories that are taking over his headspace.

“Aaron.” He whimpers licking your hand

COWARD, COWARD, COWARD, CoWaRd, Coward, WARD, COWarD, COWARD COWARD.

YoU CaN’t SaVE HER. COWARD.

When Todd had gotten up from the floor he could feel how everything blurred and made him feel dizzy. Images within his noise sliding and pitching like static. All too fuzzy to comprehend. Everyone always told him how strong his noise was, but it never seemed like it was true until now. You hadn’t seen his noise become this big, become this loud.

“Todd, my voice okay, my voice. Drown them out.” You removed his fist from his hair, running your hands over the sides of his face that was scrunched up in pain. It was too much for him.

“We’ve practiced this before, remember?”

“It’s so loud!” He cried out in agony.

“I know, I know.” You cooed at  him. Both of you were kneeling to the ground.

“Aaron, Aaron.” Manchee tries gaining your attention again.

“Wanna know what I’m thinking?” You smiled remembering how it made Todd give you his attention every time you asked that question. He slowly opened his eyes. His noise was shouting awful and hurtful things Aaron and the rest of the boys in Prentisstown have said to him. 

“Yeah?” You nodded. “Okay, well today has been a hell of a day, but if I am being honest. Aaron can kiss my ass.” You chuckled, causing him to smile. The noise was still loud and present. “Yet I wouldn’t trade this day with you…meeting Viola. This is the most fun I’ve had in years.” You let a tear shed down your right cheek. “I’m scared too, for Viola, for us, for the future.” You looked down at your lap. “I know you hate that you can’t read my thoughts but I just-”

Todd had reached forward. Closing his eyes as he gripped your face and gave you a kiss. You were his only real friend. Who didn’t talk down on him, who hadn’t made fun of him for something growing up. You treated him like he was just Todd. You saw him, not the noise that clouded his mind. You saw past his internal thoughts, his confessions he didn’t mean to confess, you saw past that one time he told Ben he liked you.

Oh my god. Y/N….I JUST KISSED HER. KISSED HER. OH GOD, IS THIS REALLY HAPPENING? DOES SHE LIKE…LIKE ME BACK? I’M SO STUPID.

You pulled back from the kiss, pressing your head against his laughing at his noise. The distorted sound of his voice grew deeper, then back to its original sound.

“Y/n, does like you. She likes you very much.” You smiled looking into his eyes.

“You do?” Todd’s eyes grew wide.

SHE LIKES ME. HOLY CRAP, SHE LIKES ME, SHE REALLY LIKES ME.

You beamed as he tried to control his thoughts.

“That’s good to know, I’m really happy you do. You have no idea.” Todd shook his head.

“I’m glad!” You chuckled at the boy in front of you.

“Aaron, Aaron.” Manchee whimpers.

“Buzz off, Manchee!” Todd ushered him away with his hand.