#t: instrument of surrender

[vgtrackbracket]

Video Game Track Bracket Round 4

Spicy Calamari Inkantation from Splatoon 2

vs.

Instrument of Surrender from Disco Elysium

Propaganda under the cut. If you want your propaganda reblogged and added to future polls, please tag it as propaganda or otherwise indicate this!

Instrument of Surrender:

THESE HORNS ARE SO ICONIC

[sweettu1ips]

PAIGE BUECKERS x SINGER!FEM READER

SYNOPSIS: "The push and pull had always been intoxicating, a slow burn of control and surrender. But tonight, the rules shift—an unspoken goodbye lingering in the space where lips almost met."

WARNING(S): (18+) toxic relationship ⋮ situationship ⋮ hook-up buddies ⋮ fuck buddies ⋮ kissing ⋮ not exactly a happy ending, but if you like that reader got her lick back, then yes consider this a happy ending... ⋮ flashbacks to intimacy ⋮ not really sure what else I'm missing soo...

WORD COUNT: 6.7K

| MAIN MASTER LIST ⋮ VELVET TRACES [P2] |

THE THING ABOUT PAIGE BUECKERS is that she doesn’t do attachment. Not in the way that matters. Not in the way I wanted.

She’s like a storm that never settles, all presence and pressure, rolling in heavy and hot before vanishing like she was never there at all. A name whispered in locker rooms, an echo in arenas, a breath against my neck in the dead of night. She loves like a shadow—only seen when the lights are dim, only felt in fleeting touches that never sink past the surface.

I should’ve known better.

But how could I, when Paige is all adrenaline and honeyed words, wrapped up in a body that moves like poetry, lips that turn even the most fleeting moments into something that sears? She’s a habit, a high, a hands-on-my-hips, teeth-against-my-skin kind of addiction that I can’t shake, no matter how many times I swear I will.

We started as nothing. Just a few run-ins at events, a reckless decision after too much tequila and neon lights bleeding into the early morning.

 Me, fresh off a sold-out tour, my name looping through radio stations like an anthem, still buzzing from the stage, from the energy, from the world’s obsession with me. 

Paige, the golden girl of the court, drowning in expectations but never once missing a shot. Our first time was impulsive, a collision of egos and sweat, hands grasping, mouths hungry, neither of us looking for anything more than the rush of it all.

And then it happened again. And again. Until suddenly, I had the code to Paige’s apartment, and she had a habit of pulling me into dark corners whenever our paths crossed.

It was easy. Until it wasn’t.

Because while Paige only ever wanted hands tangled in sheets and a body pressed to hers, I wanted something deeper. Something beyond the four walls of a dimly lit bedroom, beyond the stolen kisses and murmured goodbyes before dawn broke.

I wanted late-night conversations that didn’t end in tangled limbs. I wanted mornings where Paige didn’t slip away before the sun rose. I wanted to be something more than just a fleeting thrill, more than just a name she moaned into the dark before locking the door behind her.

But Paige?

She wanted nothing more than the sensation, the moment, the rush.

And I don’t know how much longer I can pretend that’s enough.

That’s how I found myself in the studio late at night, the soft hum of the city’s distant chatter filtering through the windows.

 The overhead lights cast a warm glow, the dim shadows stretching like the quiet ache in my chest. The walls around me, lined with instruments and sound equipment, felt both comforting and isolating at the same time, as though they had absorbed every secret I had whispered into the microphone over the years.

Two days had passed since I had last sent a message to Paige, the blue text bubble sitting unanswered on my phone. 

My thumb hovered over the screen, pausing just before tapping it to send another message—my emotions like a tangled wire, too complicated to be untangled with a few simple words. 

Every minute that passed without a reply felt like a bruise on my heart, a dull throb that seemed to sink deeper with each second.

The night was mine now, a time to drown out the ache, to lose myself in music. I sat at the keyboard, fingers brushing lightly against the keys, a note breaking the silence in the room. 

My mind wandered as the melody spilled from the ivory, filling the space between the notes. My thoughts slipped into the lyrics that had been playing on repeat in my mind— Would you hear me more if I whispered in your ear?

A small sigh escaped my lips, and I exhaled slowly, almost like I was trying to let go of the tension held within my lungs. My hands hovered above the piano once more, the next note suspended in the air, waiting for something, anything to push it into reality. 

I could feel the weight of the question—a question that had stayed in my mind since the moment Paige and I had begun drifting, a question I didn’t have the courage to ask aloud. 

Would Paige hear me? Would she understand me more if I approached things differently? Would the vulnerability, the quiet intimacy of whispering, make her more present in our connection? Would it make her feel wanted, or would it push her further away?

I bit down on my lip, the sudden wave of emotion flooding my chest. The lyrics replayed in my mind, Would you hear me more if I touch you right here? 

I didn’t mean to think about it like this, didn’t mean to feel the heat of the words burning in my veins, but the song had a way of weaving itself into my very skin, sinking under my bones.

 The “right here” was never a place—it was an act, an invitation, a vulnerable plea for attention, for connection. I could picture it: my fingertips barely grazing Paige’s skin, the tremor in my touch betraying the uncertainty in my heart. 

The thought of making that kind of contact—so close, so intimate—was both electrifying and terrifying.

I slowly stood, the music still playing in my mind, as my hand reached for the microphone stand. The cool metal against my palm felt oddly grounding. The intensity of my emotions surged, threatening to spill over like an ocean crashing against the shore. 

I couldn’t stop it. I leaned into the microphone, my breath steadying, and whispered softly, “Ah, ah.” It was just a sound, a simple exhale into the space around me, but in that moment, it felt like I had said everything I needed to.

 The vulnerability of the sound echoed, filling the room. A sensation of wanting, of longing, crept up my spine.

I moved to the center of the room, the dim light casting shadows across the floor, and closed my eyes, my body swaying with the rhythm in my chest. My hands floated just above my skin, as if reaching for something that was just out of reach. 

Would it be enough if I reached out and touched someone, poured my desires into every delicate movement? Would it be enough if I brushed my lips against their skin, against their thoughts, the weight of every unspoken word shared in the air between us? The question lingered, as heavy as the silence that hung in the room.

I exhaled slowly again, this time with more certainty, as if releasing the tension that had built up between Paige and me, between myself and the world around me. 

I wasn’t sure if this would be enough—if this small act of touching, of whispering, would ever be enough to bridge the gap of distance that had formed between us.

But there was something about the act of letting go, of offering myself in the quietest way, that made it feel like I could be heard. Even if it was only by myself.

My fingers brushed the strings of the guitar by my side, the soft strum of the chord filling the space with its melancholic sound.

It was almost as if the act of playing the song was a silent plea—a desire to be understood, to be touched not just physically, but emotionally, in ways that words couldn’t express. 

My heart raced, the lyrics flowing through me as if they were written just for me. Would you hear me more?

I paused, letting the silence settle in. I wasn't sure if I was ready to hear the answer. But in this moment, in the stillness of the room, I let myself be vulnerable, letting the music carry my thoughts into the night.

I snapped out of the haze, the weight of the emotions that had overwhelmed me suddenly lifting, replaced by a sharp, determined clarity.

My heart, still thudding in my chest, quieted as I reached for my phone on the corner of the desk, the cold screen feeling almost foreign against my palm.

 My fingers fumbled for a moment, as if they were still tangled in the last few lingering chords of the song that had played over and over in my mind, but soon found their place.

The familiar touch of the phone felt grounding, like a lifeline pulling me back to reality.

I pressed the call button, the sound of it ringing filling the silence, each ring seeming to echo my anticipation, my nervousness, my need for something—anything— to move forward.

It was as if I was trying to shake off the last remnants of the vulnerability I had just laid bare. I couldn’t stay here, lost in my head any longer.

When the line finally clicked, the voice on the other end greeted me with that familiar, steady calm, “Hey, it’s me.”

I exhaled sharply, as if releasing all the tension I hadn’t known I was holding in. “How fast can you get to the studio?” The words came out faster than I had intended, but they carried an edge—urgent, a little desperate. My voice shook, just barely, the slight crack betraying the layers beneath the surface.

I could hear the slight rustle of movement through the phone, as if my producer was shifting his position, maybe setting his coffee cup down, or running a hand through his hair.

It didn’t matter. I could feel the moment stretching between us, filling the space with an electric charge. I wasn’t even sure if I was asking for help, for direction, or for something else entirely, but the need was undeniable.

My hand, still gripping the phone, tightened around it as I gazed out the studio window, my eyes scanning the night outside. The city’s lights twinkled in the distance, just a blur of movement that felt so far away, so detached from the chaos inside me. 

I was still on edge, still haunted by the unresolved feeling that had settled in my chest like a heavy weight. Paige. The distance between us. The things left unsaid. The longing that pressed against my ribs, urging me to do something, to make a choice.

But in this moment, I needed to focus. I had to focus. I wasn’t ready to dive back into my thoughts about her, about us. Not now.

I took a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. “I’m not sure what I’m doing, but I need to get this out,” I admitted, my voice a little softer now. The honesty slipped through, unintended but there all the same.

 My eyes shifted over the studio, taking in the dim lights, the instruments scattered around like pieces of a puzzle I wasn’t sure how to solve. The walls that had once felt so comforting now seemed like they were closing in on me, the air thicker with the weight of my feelings.

The producer’s voice came through again, low and calm, but with an undercurrent of reassurance. “I’ll be there in 20.”

I nodded instinctively, even though I knew he couldn’t see me. A sigh of relief escaped me, and I finally let my shoulders drop, feeling the tension melt away, bit by bit. It wasn’t over, I knew that. 

The song I was trying to create, the emotions I was trying to channel, the unresolved ache that lingered—it was all still there, pressing at the edges of my mind. But I had made the decision. I was going to push forward, try to create something, anything, to move past the confusion and the frustration.

As I hung up, the weight of the room felt just a little lighter. I wasn’t completely sure where I was heading with the song, but in this moment, it didn’t matter. The only thing I knew for certain was that I had to keep moving, keep creating. Maybe in the music, I would find the answers. Or maybe, just maybe, the answers would find me.

𖥔 A WEEK LATER 𖥔

The air was thick with anticipation, the bass from the speakers humming through my body like a second heartbeat. Backstage, I stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the strap of my top—minimal, yet enough. 

The dim glow of the vanity lights flickered against my skin, casting shadows that felt almost poetic. The weight of the moment pressed down on me, but not in a suffocating way. It was exhilarating. Electric. Like standing at the edge of a storm, just waiting for the thunder to crash.

For the last week, I had poured myself into two songs. Every lyric, every melody had come faster than ever, flowing through me like something inevitable. Like I was supposed to write them.

 Like they had been waiting for me to put them into words. I hadn’t released them yet, holding onto them for this moment—this night—when I could perform them live for the first time. A choice that was far from accidental.

I ran a hand through my hair, inhaling deeply, trying to shake the gnawing feeling in my chest. It had been almost a week since I had last spoken to Paige. Since she walked away. Since I stood there, silent, replaying every word, every sharp edge of our argument, over and over.

"You act like this is more than what it is," she had said, her voice edged with something I couldn’t quite place—frustration, maybe. Or indifference. "But it’s not. We’re not. You know that."

I remembered the way she had looked at me, the way something flickered across her face just before she turned and walked away. Like she knew exactly what she was doing. Like she knew her words would stick to me, get under my skin, wrap around my ribs and refuse to let go.

I clenched my jaw, blinking away the memory as I exhaled sharply.

The arena was dark, thick with anticipation. A low, pulsing hum vibrated through the air, rattling through the floor beneath my feet. The crowd was already screaming, their voices blending into a chaotic symphony of excitement, but they hadn’t seen me yet. 

Not yet.

A single spotlight flickered on, illuminating nothing but the stage floor. The massive LED screen behind it came alive with static, glitching shapes and distorted visuals flashing in time with the deep bass that rumbled through the venue like a heartbeat. The sound of distant sirens echoed—warped, haunting, looping. A breathy, distorted voice whispered my name, stretched and layered over itself until it sounded surreal, hypnotic.

This—this performance—was my way of getting the last word in.

Maybe Paige would see it as an eye-opener. Maybe she’d see it as an attempt to get under her skin. Truthfully? I couldn’t give a single fuck.

What mattered was the music. The stage. The way the lights would hit just right, the way the crowd would scream the lyrics back to me, their voices colliding with mine in a way that felt almost sacred. 

And the fact that I looked good. No—better than good. The deep purple lace hugged my frame just right, the dark fabric catching the glow of the stage lights in flashes as I moved.

A crew member signaled that it was time, and my pulse quickened, the air around me shifting. The venue was packed—thousands of bodies pressed together, waiting, the energy buzzing like static in the air. And right at the heart of it all—Madison Square Garden. The place where it all started. Where we started.

The music built slowly, a heartbeat turning into a racing pulse, synths creeping in like something alive. The fog machines hissed, rolling thick waves of smoke across the stage, swallowing the floor in shadows. And then—just for a second—total silence.

The arena went pitch black.

Suddenly..

The bass dropped. A blinding flash of white light strobed through the venue in sync with the first beat, illuminating me for the first time, standing center stage. Head down. Eyes closed. The breath of the moment curling in my lungs.

The screen behind me glitched again—flashes of old, grainy footage, a mix of blurred city lights, broken reflections in puddles, flashes of hands, lips, fleeting touches. Her silhouette. The past bleeding into the present.

A deep, sultry voice—mine, but distorted—spoke over the mic, just two words:

"You watching?"

And then—violins.

Soft at first, delicate, but haunting. They floated through the venue like a slow drip of honey, smooth, entrancing, weaving their way through the charged air. The LED screens behind me shifted—deep purple and black, slow-motion imagery of silk slipping off bare skin, fingers ghosting over lace.

The first beat crept in underneath, a subtle pulse beneath the strings.

Then the drums hit, and the violins swelled, twisting into something richer, more dangerous.

The lights flickered, shifting to deep reds and violets as the beat intensified, climbing into something sultry, hypnotic. The bass curled through the melody like smoke, smooth but intoxicating, pulling the entire track into the kind of rhythm that demanded to be felt.

I let the moment stretch just long enough—let the tension coil, let the crowd feel the buildup in their chests, waiting, craving.

And then, just as the beat fully dropped, I moved.

Hips swaying, chin lifted, gaze locked forward.

The mic brushed my lips, and I let the first words spill out.

“I been singin’, I been screamin’...

“...I been goin’ all night till my throat’s bleeding” 

If she was watching, good.

Because this time, I was saying everything I never got the chance to.

The LED screens flicker to life behind me—glitching city lights, reflections rippling in puddles, fleeting hands skimming over skin. A fragmented memory playing for thousands to see.

And then—my voice.

"Did my purple lace bra catch your attention?

Uh Yeah, the look in your eye made me question."

The words drip from my lips like honey, smooth, effortless, but laced with something deeper. Something raw. Something meant for only one person.

And somewhere above—watching, devouring—Paige.

She's here. Actually here, in New York. In the VIP section, perched above the stage with the best view in the house. I don’t see her at first, too lost in the rhythm, in the way my body moves in sync with the dancers around me. 

The choreography is sultry, deliberate, every step calculated. When I drag my fingers down my torso, lingering just slightly against the purple lace that clings to me, the crowd screams—but only one gaze matters.

Paige.

And the second I finally lock eyes with her—piercing blue, locked onto me with a fire that burns even through the darkness—I feel it.

The shift.

Her gaze settles on me like she owns me, like every movement is hers to consume. And then the realization hits—I see it in the way her lips part slightly, in the way her fingers tighten around the glass in her hand—this is a new song. 

She hasn’t heard these words before. Hadn’t known until now just how deep this ran.

A memory flashes, one neither of us could ever forget.

Me, sprawled against silk sheets, bathed in moonlight, wearing this same shade of purple. The lace barely covering me, teasing just enough to make Paige lose her mind. 

The way she had whispered against my skin that night—God, you’re wearing this just to kill me, aren’t you?

I had laughed then. But tonight? Tonight, I’m performing.

And Paige is watching.

"Would you hear me more if I whispered in your ear?

Made all my inner thoughts sound like, ‘Ah, ah’

Would you hear me more if I touch you right here? Made everythin' I want sound like, ‘Ah, ah.’"

The choreography intensifies, fluid, seductive. I roll my hips, arch into the movement, dragging my hands down my curves before flipping my hair back, locking eyes with Paige again. There are thousands of people here, screaming my name, but I only care about one.

Paige’s grip tightens around her drink.

I smirk.

I feel the effect I have on her, see it in the way her chest rises and falls just a bit quicker, in the way her jaw tenses.

She’s unraveling.

And me? I’m going to make her feel every second of it.

"I could take it off for you and tell you what I'm goin' through, hm

'Cause my body positioning determines if you're listenin', ah-ah."

I turn, my dancers moving in sync with me as I twist my body, sinking into the rhythm. The choreography is intimate, teasing—slow rolls of the hips, fingers grazing down arms, lingering touches that set the stage ablaze. And the entire time, my eyes never leave Paige’s.

The flashbacks bleed into every lyric. Paige’s hands gripping my hips that first night, pulling me closer, our bodies pressed together in the dim glow of city lights. The way she had looked at me—like I was something to be worshiped.

And now?

Now, I’m untouchable.

"Did my dance on your lap pique your interest? Yeah

Now I got you like that, let me finish."

The words are a challenge. A reminder.

I run my fingers over my chest, pressing into the lace just enough to tease, enough to dare Paige to remember.

The chorus hits again, and I let myself sink into the song, into the power of it. Paige feels it—the way I own this moment, how every movement is meant to be felt, witnessed.

"I'm losin' my mind, I'm losin' my head

You only listen when I'm undressed

Hear what you like and none of the rest, 'est."

And Paige feels that lyric.

It’s the truth she never wanted to admit.

The way she ignored the things I actually needed to say, the words that got lost somewhere between tangled limbs and gasping breaths.

"I'm-I'm losin' my mind 'cause giving you head's

The only time you think I got depth."

Her stomach drops.

I see it—the way her fingers dig into her thigh, her jaw clenching so tightly I swear she might crack a tooth.

Because fuck.

This isn’t just a song. It’s us.

I know exactly what I’m doing, the way I sway my hips, run my fingers along my thighs. I let myself sink into the music, into the feeling of being desired.

And Paige?

Paige is trapped. Watching. Needing.

But this time, she doesn’t get to have me.

But this time, she didn’t get to have her.

The final notes linger in the air, and I let the moment hang. I let her sit with it, drowning in the weight of the lyrics, the weight of me.

Then, slowly, I tilted my head, eyes flickering up to Paige’s seat.

 I smirked.

And it was as if I knew— felt the way Paige was losing her mind, unraveling at the seams.

And then, just before the lights went dark, I mouthed one final thing.

“Still listening?”

Paige had actually sat through the whole concert—watching, studying, caught somewhere between lust, anger, and something heavier that neither of us had ever put a name to.

 Her eyes had been fixated on me the entire time, tracing every movement, every note I sang, her expression an unreadable mask of longing and frustration, the kind that simmered beneath the surface, never quite reaching the surface.

By the time I was done with my last set, she was already out of her seat, her body taut with tension as she stood.

 I thought, maybe, that this was it. Maybe this was the moment she would finally walk away, truly done with me for good.

But the second I hit backstage, pushing open the door to my dressing room, I realized how wrong I was.

There she was.

Paige was sprawled across the leather couch like she owned the place—legs casually spread, arms draped lazily over the backrest, her fingers barely curled as if she had all the time in the world. Her body was relaxed, but there was something predatory about her stillness, something that told me she had been waiting for this exact moment. 

Her head tilted slightly, eyes never leaving me, watching as the door swung open, revealing me in all my post-show glow. The rush of the performance still lingered in the air around me.

 My skin was flushed from the lights, damp strands of hair clung to my neck, and though my body ached from the show, I could feel the hum of my confidence still thrumming beneath the surface, energizing me, keeping me upright. But in an instant, that energy started to flicker, replaced by something I hadn’t prepared myself for.

My breath caught in my throat as our eyes met.

Everything stilled.

The cool, collected air that had surrounded me the entire night faltered for a second—just long enough for her to catch it. That self-assured smile I had walked in with faltered, just barely, enough to let her know she had the power to break me, to make me doubt every inch of the poise I had so carefully constructed.

The weight of the silence in the room pressed against me, the distance between us shrinking with each heartbeat.

I stood there for a moment longer than I meant to, the tension between us so thick that it felt like it could snap at any second. My final outfit of the night clung to me like it was made just for this moment—soft fabric molded to my form in a way that demanded attention. 

The mini skirt skimming the tops of my thighs, the hem dancing with each subtle movement, while the fitted top traced the curves of my torso, leaving just enough skin bare to tease, just enough to make her notice. 

The dark brown chunky platform boots I wore added an edge to my look, the weight of each step grounding me but also making me feel powerful in a way I couldn’t quite explain.

And all the while, Paige’s gaze was on me—slow and deliberate, her blue eyes tracing me from head to toe, each movement of her eyes sending heat pooling in my chest. Her expression remained unreadable—calm, controlled, like she was watching a masterpiece come to life, but there was something else there too. 

Something simmering just beneath the surface—an intensity I couldn’t look away from. It was like she was waiting for something to break. Waiting for me to break.

I could feel the pull of her gaze like gravity, dragging me toward her without a single word exchanged. It wasn’t just her eyes that had the power over me. It was the tension, the rawness, the fact that I had never really escaped her orbit, no matter how many times I thought I had.

And I knew then, just as I always had, that she was never really done with me.

She wasn’t just watching. She was studying. She was waiting. And I was no longer sure if I could fight it.

I broke eye contact with her, a scoff slipping from my lips before I even realized I was doing it. I rolled my eyes, not bothering to hide the annoyance that flickered beneath my skin. 

If she thought I was going to stand there, locked in some silent power struggle with her, she had another thing coming.

I turned my back to her and walked deeper into the room, letting the door swing shut with a sharp click behind me. The sound reverberated in the otherwise still air, cutting through the tension that had settled between us like a thick fog. 

My hips swayed with the rhythm of my steps, the heavy click of my platform boots echoing off the cement floor. The sensation of each boot hitting the ground felt grounding, like I could still control this situation, even if my heart was already betraying me.

I moved toward the vanity, not daring to look back at her. Not yet. I reached for the small mirror on the edge, adjusting it slightly, watching my own reflection instead of facing Paige’s unwavering gaze.

 I wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of seeing how much she affected me, not tonight. Not when I was so close to losing myself to whatever this was between us.

I could feel her eyes burning into my back, unblinking, like a predator watching its prey. It wasn’t just the weight of her stare; it was the certainty that no matter how hard I tried, no matter how many walls I built around myself, she always knew how to break through them. 

She always knew where to strike. Her jaw was clenched tight, her body unmoving, but I could feel the tension radiating off her in waves.

 She didn’t say anything, but the amused smirk that danced on her lips told me everything I needed to know. She was watching, waiting for me to crack, to give in, to say something. Anything.

I wasn’t going to give her that. Not tonight.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, like it was daring me to do something. I stayed focused on my reflection, pretending that the quiet wasn’t eating away at my insides. But deep down, my mind was a storm. 

Thoughts swirled like a cyclone, each one more confusing than the last. Paige—her presence, her control, the way she always seemed to hold every card—was never easy to ignore. It wasn’t just her ego, the way she carried herself with an unshakable confidence, or how she always had a smirk on her lips like she was always one step ahead. It was the pull of her. The constant tug she had on me, whether I wanted it or not. The way she made me question everything I thought I knew about myself.

I wasn’t some naive girl who couldn’t see the truth. I knew exactly what this was. Paige and I, we were never going to be anything more than what we were—hook-up buddies, tangled in this chaotic mess of lust, anger, and everything in between. Her ego was too big.

 Her confidence too loud. It was a game, one she always won. Always kept me at arm’s length, just enough to keep me wanting more, but never enough to let me close.

And yet, I found myself caught in it, every single time.

The weight of her presence grew more suffocating, and I could feel my patience wearing thin. But I refused to show it. I refused to let her see the way my heart raced when she was around, the way my body seemed to lean toward her without my permission. I couldn’t give her that satisfaction. I wasn’t going to let her win tonight.

She broke the silence, her voice cutting through the room like a blade.

"You really think that outfit's going to distract me, huh?" Her eyes flickered over my form, her smirk widening as she took in the tight mini skirt I’d chosen for tonight, the way the soft fabric clung to my skin. "You think that’s gonna make up for what you did on stage?"

I didn’t look up, kept my gaze focused on my reflection. I wanted to give her nothing. I wanted to return to the calm, collected version of myself—the one that could walk into a room and own it without breaking a sweat. But the truth was, I was already unraveling, piece by piece. And Paige? Paige was the one who had the scissors.

Her voice was a poison, calculated and precise. "So tell me, Y/N, is this your way of proving something? With that little performance of yours? You really think you can just walk out there, do your thing, and not expect me to notice?"

But I refused to give in.

“Don’t pretend like you don’t get a kick out of this,” she continued, her tone dripping with challenge. “You’re not fooling anyone, Y/N.”

I let out a slow breath, letting the tension roll off my shoulders like it didn’t matter. I wasn’t going to let her get to me. Not tonight.

“You really think I care?” I finally said, my voice steady, but I could hear the lie in it. The cracks in my calm. My hands clenched into fists at my sides, but I didn’t move.

Paige let out a low chuckle, a sound that made my pulse quicken. She stood from the couch, the smooth, calculated movement of her body almost predatory as she took a step toward me.

“I think you care more than you’re willing to admit.”

I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. Because somewhere deep down, she was right.

I was in too deep.

The silence between us stretched, suffocating yet electric, and I refused to meet her eyes, even as I felt the weight of her gaze searing into me. 

The reflection in the mirror, though, was another story. I could see the smirk spreading across her lips like a slow burn—satisfied, triumphant. I hated that damn smirk. It was her weapon, a reminder that no matter how much I tried to hold my ground, she always had the upper hand.

I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing how much it grated on my nerves. Not once did I meet her eyes. Not once did I let her see how badly she was getting under my skin. 

Instead, I focused on the mirror, watching my own reflection, trying to cling to the remnants of composure. I could almost pretend that I wasn’t trapped in this web of tension, but I wasn’t fooling anyone—least of all, Paige.

She didn’t let it go. Her presence shifted, darker, closer. I felt the heat of her body pressing against mine, her chest just barely touching my back, and I bristled at the contact. But I didn't move, didn't flinch. I wouldn’t let her have that.

Her hands slid around my waist, just above the hemline of my mini skirt. The warmth of her touch made my skin prickle, my breath hitching slightly as she pressed her body further against me.

 Every movement was calculated, deliberate. Her hands were claiming me, possessive in the way they moved, gripping the soft curve of my waist with just the right pressure. My heart raced, but I didn't show it. I wouldn't show it.

I let her. I let Paige think she was winning, let her believe she had me right where she wanted me. Her kisses, slow and feather-light, trailed along my skin, familiar, almost too familiar. I knew what this was. I knew the drill.

 She wanted control, wanted to be the one in charge, and I was giving her that—just for a moment. But deep down, I was already ahead. I always was.

I kept my silence, my body still, my expression neutral, and I could practically hear her self-satisfied smirk. She took my lack of response as confirmation. 

"Did I hurt your feelings, baby?" Her voice, dripping with honeyed mockery, made my pulse spike as she pressed a kiss to where my neck met my shoulder.

The way her lips felt against my skin should have been comforting, but instead, it ignited something darker, something more dangerous. She was playing a game, and I was letting her think she was winning, letting her think she had the upper hand. But all I had to do was wait.

Paige didn’t give me any time to breathe. In one swift motion, she turned me in her arms, so I was facing her now, my back pressing up against the edge of the vanity table with a jolt that made my breath catch. 

The shift was urgent, messy, the kind of passion that made the air between us thick with anticipation. I didn’t flinch, though. Instead, I stayed still as she pressed her hips against mine, the pressure making me bite my lip to hold back a reaction.

 Her hands began to roam, tugging, gripping, finding familiar places that made my body betray me.

I could feel the way she took pleasure in it—the way I let her touch me, let her feel me respond to her. My hands gripped the edge of the vanity behind me, fingers curling against the cold wood.

 Paige’s lips found their way back to my neck, and I let her—let her think that she had me, that I was melting into her touch, that I was submitting so easily to whatever game she wanted to play.

I tilted my head back, giving her more access, playing into the illusion, letting her think she was in control. But it was all a lie. I knew exactly what I was doing.

Her kisses were relentless, tracing sweet spots along my neck that made my breath hitch and my body tremble. 

Her hands slid around to grip my ass through the fabric of my skirt, and I couldn't suppress the soft noise that slipped past my lips—one she loved, one she craved. 

Paige was a menace, always knowing exactly where to touch, how to make me fall into this web of tangled emotions, of lust and anger and everything in between.

Her lips trailed up my neck, slow, deliberate, marking their territory, moving toward my jaw. The warmth of her breath on my skin made my chest tighten, but I could feel the moment approaching, the moment when I would stop this game. 

Just when her lips were about to claim mine, I opened my eyes, my gaze slicing through the thick haze of desire like a blade through silk.

I tilted my head to the side, deliberately slow, a teasing pout curling at my lips—a cruel mimicry of surrender. Our mouths were barely a breath apart, the ghost of contact lingering in the air between us.

If it had been any other night, I would have caved, let her take what she wanted, let myself get lost in her touch. But tonight wasn’t any other night. Tonight, I was the one pulling the strings.

Paige froze, her breath hitched, her eyes flickering with confusion, frustration—searching for confirmation, for any sign that she still had me wrapped around her finger. But I refused to give her that satisfaction.

“I’m not your toy, baby,” I murmured, my voice a quiet storm, steady and unwavering. The weight of my words settled between us like a final warning.

For a moment, nothing existed but the shallow, ragged cadence of our breathing. I watched the disbelief flicker in her eyes, the realization creeping in like a slow-moving tide, threatening to pull her under. 

She didn’t move at first. But then, the smirk she always wore like armor cracked, faltering, and I pushed her back—gently, yet firm enough to carve a space between us, a boundary she had never encountered before.

Her chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, her lips parted slightly in stunned silence. My gaze stayed locked onto hers, heavy with something she wasn’t used to seeing in me—control. And worse—rejection.

A slow smirk ghosted across my lips as I turned away, pivoting toward the vanity behind me. Paige wasn’t far enough for there to be real distance, so when I leaned forward, fixing my reflection with careful precision, the curve of my ass hovered dangerously close to her front—just barely not touching. 

A whisper of temptation. A reminder of what she wouldn’t have tonight.

I adjusted my hair, smoothed my lipstick, acting as if her presence didn’t unnerve me in the slightest. The silence behind me was deafening, thick with unsaid words, unfinished games.

Satisfied, I straightened, meeting her eyes in the mirror, the corner of my mouth twitching with something smug and unforgiving. I turned, stepping past her, my fingers barely grazing the fabric of her sleeve as I moved toward the door.

Pausing in the doorway, I glanced back just once, my voice laced with something light, but sharp enough to leave a mark.

“You know where the exit is.”

And with that, I was gone.

The air outside the dressing room was thick, suffocating, despite the hum of excitement still pulsing beneath my skin. The second the door clicked shut behind me, sealing her inside,

I exhaled—a slow, deliberate release of breath that did little to steady the riot inside me. The hallway stretched ahead, a blur of dim, flickering lights and the distant hum of voices, but I moved through it like I was weightless, like my body hadn’t fully caught up to the gravity of what I’d just done.

I left her there—just like she had left me a thousand times before.

The symmetry of it should have satisfied me, should have made the ache in my chest shrink, but it didn’t. Instead, it spread—slow and creeping, like ink seeping into paper.

A stagehand passed by, tossing me a wide grin. “Insane show, Y/N. You killed it.”

I nodded, murmuring a thanks that barely scratched the surface of my lips. Their words felt distant, muted by the steady pounding of my heartbeat. My hands, wrapped in rings that glinted under the fluorescent lighting, flexed at my sides, still buzzing from the way she had looked at me.

Paige, sitting there like she had all the time in the world, like she had been expecting me to cave—to melt under her gaze the way I always had before.

But tonight, I hadn’t melted.

Tonight, I had watched the cracks form in her armor, had seen the exact moment realization settled in—that she no longer held the leash she thought she did. That I wasn’t hers to summon at will.

I made my way through the labyrinth of the backstage corridors, my heels clicking against the polished floors.

The air was thick with the scent of sweat, perfume, and something electric—an aftershock of the show still clinging to the walls. But none of it compared to the static lingering on my skin, the ghost of her gaze burning into me long after I had walked away.

The night unraveled in a blur after that. The dressing room, the press, the distant hum of a celebration I couldn’t bring myself to care about. People talked, laughed, congratulated me, but I wasn’t there. Not really.

Because in the back of my mind, Paige was still sitting on that leather couch, still staring at the door I had walked out of, still replaying my words like a cruel, looping melody.

I’m not your toy, baby.

I wondered if she had stayed there for long, if she had run her hands through her hair in frustration, if she had exhaled sharply the way she always did when things didn’t go her way. If she had sat in the silence, replaying every moment between us with that same restless, hungry energy I had spent years suffering under.

And then the days stretched into weeks.

Paige didn’t call.

Didn’t text.

But she didn’t need to. Because I knew she had seen it.

The internet had erupted like an uncontained wildfire, speculation running rampant in the wake of my performance. Every move, every lyric dissected, pulled apart, devoured by fans and gossip columns alike.

The video of me on stage went viral within hours—the way I sang with fire in my voice, like the words had been ripped from my ribs, like I needed this to be heard.

The analysis was relentless.

"Did you see the way she looked toward the VIP section? SHE WAS SINGING TO SOMEONE." "The way Y/N sang that line… she meant that. You could feel it." "Purple lace bra. PAIGE’S FAVORITE COLOR. The way she moved during that part? She knew exactly what she was doing." "Paige was in the crowd. You think she didn’t feel that?? That wasn’t just a song; that was a message."

The evidence stacked, theory after theory, fans pulling together every little thread like detectives unraveling a scandal.

Then came the videos of Paige at my concert—sitting in the shadows of the VIP section, her eyes locked on me like a predator watching its prey.

She hadn’t moved much, hadn’t reacted outwardly, but the cameras had caught enough. The sharp set of her jaw. The tight grip on her knee. The way her chest had risen just a little too sharply when I had turned in her direction.

I should have ignored it. Should have turned my phone off, drowned out the noise, let the world do what it did best—talk.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I let myself scroll. Let myself watch the videos, read the tweets, trace over every blurry, stolen moment that confirmed what I already knew.

She had felt it.

I pictured her in some dimly lit room, scrolling through the same chaos, lips pressed into a thin line, fists clenching as she watched the world speculate about us.

Wondering if she was regretting every moment that led up to this—the push and pull, the endless games, the times she had left me in bed, tangled in sheets and longing, only to disappear without a word.

Well, now she knew what it felt like.

And yet…

I missed her.

Not in the soft, romanticized way people spoke about heartbreak. Not in a way that felt poetic or tragic.

I missed her like a craving, sharp and unrelenting. Like something I had been forcibly weaned off, left to suffer the withdrawal.

I missed the way she would’ve laughed at all this—at the internet’s obsession, at the way people were tearing their hair out trying to figure out what we both already knew.

I missed the way she would have leaned in, breath hot against my ear, whispering, "Look what you did, baby."

But I wouldn’t break first.

She had spent years teaching me patience, teaching me the pain of waiting, of wanting. Now, it was her turn.

I stood in front of my mirror, makeup wiped clean, skin bare, exhaustion weighing heavy in my bones. My reflection stared back at me, lips curling at the edges with something dark, something smug.

You know where the exit is.

I wondered how long it would take before she found herself standing at my door.

𖥔 J'S JOURNAL 𖥔

Dear sweets,

this was a quick write--- well more of a get done to test the waters fic. But, here's my first Paige Buecker's fic <3

Not sure if I should leave it as it is or write a second part and make y'all happy...

Anyway's please let me know :)

P.S my main account is: @angelshxt. Thought the wifey deserved a separate blog, so here it is :p

xoxo,

J.

© sweettu1ips.tumblr 2025 do not copy, translate or claim any of my writing or works as your own.

[synity]

Us, Under One Moon

(Lee Jihoon x FemReader)

*Slice-of-Life, Domestic Fluff, Girl Dad Woozi, Found-Family Warmth*

Lee Jihoon didn’t know he could cry that fast.

He hadn’t cried when he debuted. Not when he won his first award. Not even when he broke down from overwork behind the locked doors of a studio. But the second his daughter arrived into the world eight pounds of perfection, lungs strong, fists tiny his composure shattered like poorly tightened drum strings.

He stood beside Y/N, his wife, her forehead dewed with sweat, exhaustion painting shadows beneath her eyes, and yet, still glowing. Her hand gripped his weakly, but it was her eyes that anchored him eyes that silently said, This is ours.

And so he looked at his daughter. Her name would be Areum meaning beautiful, fitting for someone born with the moonlight resting on her skin and a soul that made the sterile hospital room feel like home.

Seoul, 6:04 a.m. Sunlight seeped through the gauzy curtains and stretched across the king‑size bed like warm honey. Somewhere outside, a sparrow chirped an over‑enthusiastic scale almost as if auditioning for SEVENTEEN. Inside, the master bedroom of the Lee household was quiet… until a five‑year‑old whirlwind padded in on sock‑clad feet.

“Appa…” The whisper was soft but determined. Tiny palms pressed against Lee Jihoon’s cheeks, squishing them together so his lips puckered like a goldfish. “Wake up, you promised heart pancakes.”

Jihoon’s eyes cracked open; the night’s leftover exhaustion evaporated at the sight of his daughter’s bed‑head curls. “Morning already?” he croaked. His voice a producer’s prized instrument sounded more like crumpled sheet music.

From the other side of the bed, Y/N shifted, a sleepy smile curving her lips. “Your turn, superstar. My stage call isn’t until eight.” She reached out and brushed a stray curl from Areum’s forehead. “Mommy will taste‑test later.”

Areum’s face lit up, cheeks dimpling. “Appa, pancakes. With strawberry sprinkles. And chocolate eyes so they can see us eat them.”

Jihoon surrendered, sitting up in a tangle of blankets. His daughter squealed triumphantly and launched herself into his arms. The oversize T‑shirt he wore as pajamas sported a faded Going Seventeen logo; Areum fiddled with the hem as he scooped her close.

“How about a grand entrée?” he suggested, carrying her princess‑style toward the kitchen. “Heart‑shaped pancakes, blueberry smile, chocolate‑chip freckles, and a syrup moat.”

“Don’t forget the whipped‑cream mountain,” Areum added. “Mount Whipmore!”

Behind them, Y/N laughed into her pillow. “Remind me to trademark that.”

The Lee kitchen was equal parts homey and high‑tech: an espresso machine that hissed like a cymbal, a refrigerator plastered with preschool art, and a magnetic whiteboard where Woozi’s to‑do list battled stickers of cartoon tigers.

Areum wiggled onto her step stool painted lavender with silver stars, courtesy of Uncle Hoshi and donned a child‑sized apron. Jihoon tied the strings and grabbed the mixing bowl.

“Flour,” he announced, sliding the container over. “Half a cup careful.”

A puff of white dust clouded the air as Areum over‑enthusiastically dumped the flour. “Oops.”

“Creative expression,” Jihoon said, scooping the excess back in. “Next: milk, eggs, vanilla.”

As they whisked, Jihoon hummed a simple melody four bars looping like sunlight on parquet flooring. Areum matched pitch, her tiny voice threading through his bass notes.

Y/N appeared in the doorway, phone camera rolling. “Your morning duet is going to break Twitter,” she teased.

“Exclusive pre‑release,” Jihoon joked, flipping the first pancake with a practiced wrist. It landed perfectly; Areum clapped like it was a magic trick.

They decorated: strawberry‑slice hearts, chocolate‑chip eyes, whipped‑cream mountains so tall they threatened avalanche. Areum drizzled syrup until rivers formed around each cake. Jihoon pretended to launch tiny gummy‑bear boats down the syrup streams; Areum’s giggles filled the kitchen like cymbal crashes.

They plated three masterpieces. Jihoon carried the tray back to the bedroom where Y/N sat cross‑legged, laptop open, reviewing fabric swatches for SEVENTEEN’s next concept. She closed it at once, face lighting up at the spectacle.

“Mount Whipmore in all its glory,” Jihoon proclaimed.

The family tucked in. Syrup stuck to Areum’s chin; Y/N dabbed it away with a napkin. Jihoon cut bite‑sized pieces for them both before eating his own.

Between mouthfuls, Areum launched rapid‑fire questions: “Appa, why is a piano called a piano? Umma, can we visit the Han River today? Does whipped cream melt in space?”

Jihoon fielded each inquiry with professor‑level seriousness, eyes twinkling. Y/N chimed in dramatizing every answer.

By the end, pancakes were gone, plates licked clean, laughter echoing off the walls. Jihoon pressed a gentle kiss to Y/N’s temple, another to Areum’s syrupy cheek.

“Best breakfast concert I’ve ever headlined,” he declared.

Areum threw her arms around his neck. "tomorrow again?”

“Every day, Moonie my life’s favorite encore.”

And as the family shuffled toward the living room Jihoon to the piano, Areum to her crayon kingdom, Y/N trailing with her sketchbook the sparrow’s song outside seemed to harmonize, as if the whole neighborhood had tuned in for the next movement of the Morning Symphony.

Jihoon’s studio had evolved with the seasons of his life. What was once a solitary space for instruments and stress was now a shared sanctuary.

There was a low corner table with chunky crayons and pink post-it notes, some scribbled with Areum’s critiques:

"Appa, this one made me sleepy, good sleepy"

"More sparkle sounds please."

Y/N had claimed a shelf near the window for her brushes and fabric samples. She’d design mock outfits for comebacks right next to her daughter’s Lego cities.

Sometimes, while Jihoon layered chords, Y/N would be painting the concept poster for a new Seventeen unit. Areum, meanwhile, orchestrated her stuffed animals into a chorus line.

“Appa, make the teddy bear sing!”

“You’re the composer, Moon. You show me.”

She’d tap random keys until a melody emerged, laughing when Jihoon would nod and say, “We have a hit.”

Every Sunday was sacred.

Matching outfits hand-sewn by Y/N. They wore pastels or neutrals depending on Moonie’s mood. Today, lilac hoodies with tiny crescent moons stitched over the heart.

They picnicked near Han River. Jihoon’s old guitar in tow, their portable speaker playing soft ballads, Areum racing between trees with a disposable camera. Y/N sprawled on the mat sketching them both.

After eating, Jihoon sang. His guitar gentle, voice lower than stage level, private.

Areum twirled beside him, feet bare in the grass. Y/N harmonized with soft hums.

A security guard walked by, recognized them, but simply tipped his hat and walked on. Even idols deserved to be Appa, Umma, and Moon.

They stayed until the sun kissed the skyline and Areum yawned against Y/N’s lap.

Woozi could produce a ten-layer synth harmony but braiding hair? That took dedication.

He’d practiced with a doll Y/N bought him until he got it right.

Now, every school morning he braided Areum’s hair into twin plaits. She sat on the bathroom stool, chattering about her day ahead.

“Appa, we have to bring a family photo. Which one should I use?”

“Let’s take a new one,” he said. “Today. Just us three.”

That night, after brushing her teeth and jumping under her space-themed blanket, Areum held out a book.

“This one, Appa. The one where the bear finds home.”

Jihoon read with one arm around her, the other hand in Y/N’s. He gave every character a different voice. When Areum finally drifted off, he didn’t move.

“She’s growing so fast,” he whispered.

Y/N kissed his shoulder. “She’ll always need her Appa, no matter how tall she gets.”

On tour, Jihoon missed them like oxygen.

Time zones couldn’t stop them, though.

Every day, Y/N and Areum sent voice notes. Jihoon responded with lullabies recorded backstage. He wore a charm bracelet with three beads A, Y, and J.

After his solo stage, the staff handed him an envelope. Inside: a crayon drawing of him on stage, a crowd of hearts, and a stick-figure Areum holding a mic beside him.

“So I can sing next time too.”

He cried in the dressing room. Again.

Ten years old.

Y/N decorated the house with moon motifs. Jihoon wrote a song just for her, layered with lullaby melodies and harmonies in the background. They recorded it secretly for weeks.

They premiered it at her birthday party in the living room. Lights dimmed, projector on.

Areum’s eyes filled with tears by the second verse.

“Appa, Umma... this is my favorite song. Forever.”

He held her tightly.

Y/N rested her head on his shoulder.

And the music played on.

Now 16, Areum was taller. Her hair now dyed a soft rose gold. She danced like her uncles, wrote music like her Appa, and had her Umma’s eye for detail.

One evening, Jihoon passed her studio room and paused.

She was recording.

The melody was familiar. The same one he wrote years ago.

“Appa,” she called softly. “Come sing with me?”

He entered, heart full, and sat beside her. She passed him a mic.

And just like that, the lullaby became a duet.

Areum, Jihoon, and Y/N still orbiting, still in harmony.

Under one moon.

Forever.

[burningcheese-merchant]

What songs do you think would fit MysticCacao?

I haven't thought enough about this tbh 😔 which is sad because I have playlists for BurningCheese and ShadowVanilla, but not the other 3 pairs. I am a traitor to the Beast x Ancient community, I will be committing harakiri shortly and nominate one of my mutuals to second me

But I DO have one song for sure. "Daylight" by David Kushner is so MysticCacao core it hurts. A calm and sorrowful piano constantly playing even as more instruments begin to sound out, and the singing, at first low and soft, gets louder and more emotional. Giving and keeping that little undercurrent of regret and melancholy throughout the whole song, which imo fits MysticCacao to a T, both them individually and as a pair

Also these lyrics

Telling myself I won't go there / Oh, but I know that I won't care / Tryna wash away all the blood I've spilt

This lust is a burden that we both share / Two sinners can't atone from a lone prayer /Souls tied, intertwined by our pride and guilt

There's darkness in the distance / From the way that I've been livin' / But I know I can't resist it

There's darkness in the distance / I'm begging for forgiveness / But I know I might resist it

Telling myself it's the last time / Can you spare any mercy that I might find / If I'm down on my knees again?

These are disgustingly MysticCacao-coded. That stubborn need to refute and refuse their connection, despite knowing deep down that it is real and inescapable. The sorrow, the guilt, the shame lurking deep within their hearts over their past mistakes, looming over every decision they make in the future; their shared failures as a friend, as a leader and as gods, Cacao's failure as a father, Flour's failure as a seeker of enlightenment. The eventual surrender to the pull they feel towards one another. Their seeking of the other's comfort and companionship, despite feeling/knowing it isn't (or shouldn't be) right. Being so angry at each other and themselves, rightfully so, for all of this. But nevertheless, they want and need each other. Somewhere within both lies a desperation for understanding and compassion and forgiveness, but does either one have the courage to grant it? Or accept it when it is? Do they really deserve each other? Is there bond meant to be a curse or blessing? Is it both? Will they ever know freedom from it? Do they even want to?

I'm not super sure I conveyed my thoughts properly 😅 the ultimate gist is that this song perfectly encapsulates the vibe of their relationship and I hope to one day make an animatic of them slow dancing to it

[eatmeandbirthmeagain]

Random as heck but can you please do one where the reader is very good at the harp (harp music is so beautiful!!) Like so good people gather around when she plays and Baldwin IV loves listening to her play and it just relaxes him so much. One night Baldwin was in pain and he asks her to play it. Thanks in advance!❤️❤️❤️

♡ The Lullaby Of An Aching Heart - King Baldwin x Reader ♡

♡ Fluff ♡

A/N: Hello Anon!!! This is the first of many amazing requests I have gotten today! I got so exited when I saw this, it is an adorable idea, I love it so much so thank you for sending it in 🫶. I hope it is what you had in mind! As always this is based on the film Kingdom Of Heaven, not the real historical figures. Enjoy!

PS: (EDIT) I re-wrote a lot of this because when I wrote it last night I was sleep deprived after 2 all nighters in a row.. 

TW: Leprosy

Baldwin loved music.

Beautiful, melodic sounds brought him nothing but relief from a life of pain and suffering.

But of all music, there was something special about the harp. More importantly, his wife's harp.

Her music was his favorite, there was really nothing like it. Since hearing it for the first time, no other instrument or musician could even come close to being half as brilliant as her.

In between the notes of her songs, he made a home and did not plan on leaving anytime soon.

Her music was like a warm blanket, wrapping itself around his frail body and keeping him safe from all harm and pain.

Y/n was famous in the kingdom for her music, many gathered to listen to her play. Still, Baldwin was always there amongst the crowd.

He never missed any opportunity to listen to her beautiful songs.

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

One night, the pain was worse than usual. His head throbbed and his body ached.

Baldwin had returned to the royal chambers after a visit to the physicians for new bandages and some medicine in hope to relieve him of the pain.

But for the entire day, there was only one thing on his mind.

The single thing that his tired mind craved more than rest was his wife's music.

Her sweet melodies had put him to sleep on many painful, restless nights. That night would be no different.

As he entered the royal bed chambers, y/n rose from her desk to greet him with open arms, just as she did every evening.

She wrapped her husband in a warm embrace, her hand resting itself on the back of his head.

“How is my beautiful boy?” she asked, her voice softer than silk.

Baldwin only hummed tiredly in response. That told the young queen everything she needed to know.

Y/n sat him down on their large bed and removed his mask, exposing his freshly bandaged face to the cool night air.

Carefully, she helped him take off his day clothes and put on a cotton nightgown. The texture was pleasant on the areas of his skin that still had sensation.

As she was laying him down, Baldwin spoke.

“My love, could you please play for me?” His voice was quiet and filled with pain. It hurt her heart to see him like this. It always did.

“Of course my darling, anything for you” y/n replied, leaving him for a moment to move the harp closer to their bed.

Taking a seat on the small stool, the queen began to play.

The beautiful music filled the room. Baldwin sighed as he allowed the music to envelop him, feeling his aching body relax further and further. All sense of tension released him from its firm grip.

The king desperately tried to keep his eyes open for a little while longer. He wanted more than anything to stay awake and listen to her gorgeous song, but as his eyelids grew heavier with each note, he finally surrendered himself to sleep.

The last thought that went through his mind was of how beautiful she looked while playing. The dull moonlight and candles illuminated where she sat, she looked like an angel.

When the song finished, y/n looked up at Baldwin, half expecting him to request another song. But she smiled at the sight of him, fast asleep, thankful that he was no longer in pain.

She stood and went to sit down on the edge of the plush bed.

Admiring his resting features was always the best part of her day. In wake, the king's mask made him look stern and much older, as did his calm temperament.

But in sleep, he looked completely different.

She could see just how he really was, no mask, no words, no expressions. Just him. Her wonderful husband.

Pressing a kiss to his forehead, y/n stood to pull the covers over his body, tucking him in.

Giving Baldwin one last look, the queen laid down beside him and closed her eyes. The knowledge that he was safe beside her allowed her to sleep easy that night.

[g1rld1ary]

ode to my family ; lockwood x relicman!reader

➻ synopsis: you're a relicman, lockwood is the agent who's trying to recover your stolen sources, but you both might get more than you bargained for

➻ word count: 2486

➻ warnings: swearing, violence, no pronouns but reader is referred to as a girl

➻ wrote this for the anniversary of l+co's cancellation :(( I love this little show and all the joy its given me this year <3

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

Life as a second-generation relic man (or woman) wasn’t easy. Far from it, in fact. A life of dealing with the black market, being on the run from agents and being stuck under your father’s thumb wasn’t exactly the life plan from your vision board, but what could you do? Your father had never let you pursue any training for your talents and you’d never had much education either, so you were more or less stuck in the family business.

Still, you made the best of it. You were dedicated to your job — maybe just because you had nothing else to do — and some point along the way you started to believe that your father might have been right. Why should DEPRAC get the final say on all these sources? As long as they were handled properly, why should all those beautiful old artefacts be destroyed? And as far as your father told you about his trade business, the sources only went to serious collectors with proper protection. So, you were a pretty instrumental hunter in the business, and that was the way you figured your life would continue.

Despite the popular misconceptions about your job; the violence, other ruthless relic-men, near-death experiences, your biggest nuisance was agents. Mostly the other relic men left you alone once you’d staked out a location but agents were so nosy. Like, finders keepers much? They were so aggressive too, always whipping out their rapiers the second they spotted you. You wondered if they’d surrender when they found out you were a girl. You hated the leering looks from the older men you met on missions and your skills being underestimated, so you wore a fencing helmet whenever you went out to pose as a boy. It also helped you get out of sticky situations; more than once you’d ducked behind an alleyway to stuff the helmet in your bag and walk away from the scene unharmed.

Anthony Lockwood hated relic-men, with the exception of one Flo Bones — but that hardly counted. All they did was make his job harder and stop him from getting back to Portland Row and a nice mug of steaming tea. He particularly didn’t like you, though he truthfully had no idea who you were. The sabre mask had given you a bit of a reputation amongst hunters and agents alike; tough, efficient, and deadly with a rapier. Plus, you had a great success rate in beating Lockwood and Co. to collecting a source, waving it around obnoxiously as you slipped out the window and into the night.

Tonight there was something different in the air. Your father had sent you for a major haul, some old source collector had recently died and left their entire collection in an old dusty warehouse. It was simple, get in, grab as much as you could possibly hold and get the fuck out. However, it seemed that you weren’t the only one who’d been alerted to the news. The area was crawling with men you recognised from other missions or auctions, and you knew instinctively the night wouldn’t go how you’d initially planned. Still, you weren’t going to let your father down and come back empty-handed — he’d probably have your head if you failed.

You trudged up the hill to where the building was, cursing the wet grass underneath your feet. In a big plot twist for everyone, it was raining in London. However, the dark clouds made it easier for you to go unnoticed, sticking to the shadows and ducking past the men hanging around. You’d made it inside the warehouse pretty easily and started packing sources into your bag before you realised it was almost too quiet inside — there should be way more collectors around. Peaking out the window you blanched, there were a myriad of agents outside scaring away other relic men (or fighting those who weren’t so easily deterred). You cursed quietly, knowing they’d soon venture inside and find you unless you could get out fast.

You were almost out, just creeping through a backdoor when you spun towards freedom, only to be met with the cocky grin of none other than Anthony Lockwood. You sighed, scanning the landscape for a quick escape route.

“So we meet again,” He said, rolling up one of his shirt sleeves. You refused to glance down and take your eyes off his, knowing he was, annoyingly, a great fighter, and you needed to stay focused. “Will this be the day you finally speak?” He all but taunted, still not reaching for his rapier. You wished he would, it would make the interaction go faster if you could skip the niceties and go straight to fighting. You wouldn’t indulge him and break your cover though, you doubted Lockwood would keep your secret.

“I suppose not,” He mused, “No matter. How about you return the sources you’ve stolen and we’ll call it even, hey?” More silence, you didn’t dare to move, not until you knew you could get away. Only when it was evident that you weren’t going to cooperate did Lockwood’s hand reach for his rapier and you eyed it slowly, hand drifting over to your own.

“I don’t want to fight you,” He tried once more, though you watched the blade slide slowly from its holder, “These sources deserve to be handled with proper care — these people deserve to be laid to rest, don’t you think?” You faltered for a moment. You’d never thought about it like that, it had never occurred to you that these sources really were the very essence of so many dead people. Your father had raised you to think of them as a means for profit, nothing else. Still, if you returned empty-handed your father would kill you, or worse. You had to succeed.

Evidently, Lockwood could tell your intentions, and brought his rapier out in a preparatory position and you did the same, slightly apprehensive for the fight to come. You knew you were good, but Lockwood had impeccable technique. Regardless of your feelings the fight began, and all you could hope was that you could hold your own until there was an opportunity to escape. Lockwood was putting up a significant fight though, which was highly inconvenient. Just when you gained the upper hand he subverted your expectations, putting a foot square into your stomach, pushing you back against the wall of the shed.

You groaned, losing your footing and smacking down against the ground, head hitting the dirt with a dull thud. You didn’t immediately recognise anything was wrong until the finishing blows from Lockwood never came. Looking up at his dumbfounded face you understood why.

“You’re a girl?” He asked, and you hastily grabbed the mask that had fallen off, then stopped when you realised there was no point in putting it back on now.

“Yes.”

“You’ve always been a girl?” You rolled your eyes.

“Yes, Lockwood. I’ve always been a girl. And if you’re too afraid to fight one then can I go?” You looked at him expectantly. He shook his head.

“Sorry, but you’re still holding extremely dangerous sources that cannot be sold. If you hand them over I’ll let you go and keep your secret?” He offered, and it was your turn to shake your head no. You used his shock to switch your positions, your back now out to the world. You didn’t run though, rapier out in front of you. In terms of the limb-to-body ratio, Lockwood had about the same proportions of a Daddy Long Legs, and you knew he’d catch up to you easily if you ran. So you fought, rapiers clanging as you defended yourself against him.

“How old even are you?” He asked and you rolled your eyes.

“Sixteen,” You said, “Why? Do you think I’m a child?”

“No, Jesus,” He laughed, parrying your move easily, “I’m hardly older, don’t be so aggressive. Why are you fighting? Don’t you have a life to live?”

“Obviously not,” You scoffed, “I’ve been trained for this, this is why I was born! I have to help my Dad’s business.” Lockwood grew more bold on the offence and you were struggling to keep up, distracted by your chatter.

“Why not run away? You’re too pretty to be stuck as a pawn for him.” You faltered for a second, stumbling backwards from the compliment, but counteracted it with a harsh hit aimed at Lockwood’s side. He let out a noise of pain but didn’t move, only coming closer to you as you grew more tired, movements becoming sloppy.

“You don’t get it, do you? If I leave I die. I have nowhere to go, and even if I did have somewhere to go my father would hunt me down and probably kill me for betraying him.” You kicked him in the knee and he swore, but he looked more enlivened by the fight than anything else. You supposed he probably didn’t actually get to fight much — with ghosts not being enthralling fencing partners and most relic men actually trying to kill him. And as much as he was annoying you, you didn’t particularly want to kill Lockwood. So here you were stuck in an endless match, blocking and parrying and him trying to convince you to leave the business you’d grown up in.

“Oh my God!” You groaned, smacking the hilt of your rapier into his shoulder, sending him stumbling back a few steps as you similarly retreated towards freedom. “Can you just leave me alone?” As much as you hated to admit it, Lockwood was making a convincing point. You had never truly realised the damage your dad’s business was doing, blissfully ignorant from the explanations he gave you. You had no choice though, no way out of the mess you’d been born into.

Lockwood was drawing closer, his years of technique and experience outlasting your brute force and passion, and you didn’t really know what was going to happen. Surely he wouldn’t kill you, but you’d be in deep shit if you returned home empty-handed, or you could very well be arrested for theft. You were deep in thought about this, as well as trying to keep Lockwood a suitable distance away, which was prohibiting you from being completely aware of your surroundings. This had been working out for you so far until you felt your foot miss solid ground. Your eyes widened, knowing exactly what was happening a moment too late. You’d hit the hill and there was no chance you were finding your footing after slipping the first step down.

Lockwood had evidently realised this at the same time as you, hand reaching out to grab you instinctively. It did little to stop the momentum you’d already gathered, instead pulling him down with you. You both gasped as you tumbled, Lockwood instantly tossing his rapier out of the way and you followed suit — no sense in you both being stabbed because you couldn’t control your limbs.

The fall itself was a blur, you only knew you’d landed because of the dull pain spreading up your back. You’d screwed your eyes tight bracing for the impact, and when you opened them slowly you were face to face with none other than Anthony Lockwood, only inches away from you and breathing heavily from the adrenaline.

For once Lockwood had nothing to say. No charming comeback, no witty remark, he couldn’t even offer one of his trademark megawatt smiles. All he could do was stare at you and breathe, which should have been creepier than it was. Maybe because you were doing the exact same thing. You didn’t know what had come over you but all you could do was look at Lockwood, held up by his forearms, droplets of sweat collected on his brow from the previous fight. You were only ripped from your stupor when you saw Lockwood’s eyes flick down to your lips, so fast you were sure it was unintentional. Still, it did the trick.

“Get off me.” You hated the way you stuttered the first word, still wanting to put up a brave front, but you were tired. And confused. And you really didn’t want to explain to your dad what had happened. Lockwood coughed, instantly rolling off you and onto his back next to you, both of you staring at the overcast sky. You were glad it wasn’t actively raining anymore, but you knew your back would be caked in mud when you stood up.

You were tired, you didn’t want to fight anymore. You got the feeling that Lockwood felt the same since neither of you moved a muscle, lying side by side in silence. You had much to think about. As much as you hated it, you couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d said earlier. Your father’s business was bad, torturing those who wanted to be laid to rest and endangering others — you had a feeling he wasn’t actually checking the qualifications of his clients. And in that case, you didn’t want to be part of it anymore. You wanted to be good. You just didn’t know how. Glancing at Lockwood, he was still staring at the sky like it was a puzzle he was trying to decipher.

You broke the silence.

“Hypothetically, if I were to leave… where would I go?” He was looking at you in a flash, hope and bewilderment clear on his face. “If I leave my father will kill me, I have nowhere to turn.” Lockwood hesitated for a moment, seemingly searching for the right words.

“Well.” He scrambled to stand up, dusting off the front of his pants as if his whole back side wasn’t covered in earth. “You could come with me.” He extended a hand out to you, looking the picture of a perfect gentleman. And honestly, with the little you’d spoken to him, it seemed as if he really might have been. You sent one more cautionary look toward his hand before taking it, being pulled up to your full height before him.

Lockwood didn’t say anything more, merely giving you a smile, a genuine one that seemed to create its own source of light, before leading you away from the warehouse. Your backpack full of stolen sources sat sadly in the grass next to your mask, waiting to be collected and disposed of by DEPRAC officers, laying the poor ghosts to rest for good.

[misguidedasgardian]

Wildcats (The Exterminators Inc)

O. The Exterminators Inc.

A special chapter for Wildcats TWD au

MASTERLIST

Summary: How, against all odds, acquired the skills to survive this long.

Pairing: None for this chapter 

Warnings: Zombie apocalypse AU, living dead, zombies, guts, blood, guns, injures, DEATH, use of heavy artillery, religious remarks, discussions about domestic accidents with guns, might miss some warnings

+18, MINORS DNI

Notes: This is some sort of backstory for the reader, you don’t have to read it though, it might help to understand chapter VI. “The season to mourn”, and chapters VII. and VIII. 

“Guns don’t kill people, people kill people”, he said lightly

“My mom traumatized me when I was young, always telling me this horror stories about accidents in the home with kids and guns”, he hummed

“And they are true”, he answered, he walked towards you, grabbed you by your shoulders, “but now your life will depend on it”, he said with a grave tone, “you understand?”, you nodded, “grab it, grab it properly”. You did, your hands were shaking, it was heavy, our right index finger twitched when it caressed the trigger. You pointed at the target practice at the end of the warehouse where you were hiding

“It’s shit”, you said shakily, you didn’t really know what to say

“This gun”, he said, “it’s what might save your life in the world out there, do you understand?”, you nodded, “do you?”

“Yes”, you muttered

“You shoot it, this piece of metal won’t do anything you won’t tell her to do, alright?”, you nodded, “now take out the safety”, you did, as he had instructed you earlier, “you handle the gun, the gun doesn’t handle you, it’s an instrument, to your will, get it?”

“I GET IT!”, you said, exasperated

“Do it then, again, disarm it, arm it, secure it, take off the safety, and shoot again, and then we’ll move to the AK’s”, he commanded. You watched him walk away from you and to your friends, or rather, teammates

Last weeks had been so surreal you didn’t even know what was going on. You were at a freaking airport when it happened. From a second to the next all the planes were grounded, you had even surrendered your bag to be stored inside the plane, you were in the freaking boarding room when it broke in the news.

They let you leave, or rather, they couldn’t contain all the people, you took a van with several others back into the city, yet, you never made it.

You were stuck in the highway, and you ran again.

You were trapped inside a Bass Pro shop for a week, and it was a well seeked place because it had all the necessary utilities to survive out there,in the wild. Of course, back then you never realized how lucky you had been, nobody really knew what this was about, but you took a first aid kit, some tools, and your beloved ax.

You then end up in a “refuge”, impulsed by the last attempts of a government the US had.

You had a small group of soldiers who rested inside that huge warehouse, rested at night and fought the living dead in the daylight, protected you.

That’s when the army fell, that is when they bombed the city. The Warehouse were in the outskirts, luckily

Everything fell like dominoes after that.

From the group of fifty men only one survived.

Wyatt, he would make you call him Mayor. You had actually befriended him, he was older than the rest, the leader of his battalion. Sergeant maybe.

And soon he was going to become the leader of yours.

The refuge was overrun on the 30th day.

Mayor took you and three more out of there, when the dead took the warehouse as their own.

You were kind of forced to go back to the city. hold up in an abandoned building, clearing them out, until you found the perfect one, the entire first floor had been blown out by the bombs they threw to try to eliminate the threat,

But the second, third, fourth, was completely usable, you held up there.

It was like one of the zombie movies you liked.

The most unusual group, an elderly badass, military man, a badass girl who liked computers and mastered the comms, a big man with a heart of gold… and a dickhead with a love for guns and little scruples, who seemed to be in his element.

“You need to learn, pick your weapon, and get to know everything about it, when you do, you’ll only need to pick it up to know if it’s charged or not, and if you good enough, maybe even tell how many bullets are inside” he kept saying out loud, “this isn’t a movie, you will count your shots, got it?”, he said then, “that might save your life, that might be the difference between life and death, to know how many shots you still got in that magazine”

He had trained the fear of guns out of you.

“Today, we are jumping off of buildings”, he said

“You are teaching us parkour?”, you asked, not convinced

“You are some of the least athletic people I know”, he said, “you need to learn these things, climbing can save your life”

You believed “can save your life”, was the most spoken phrase of Mayor, and you always smiled when he said it.

You were never the star athlete of any group you had been in, including this one, of course Baer would jump up and down and was like a ninja, but you?, you struggle to get up a half wall of 1mtr. You were in deep shit, you had been lucky so far, but things could turn quickly.

It was some of the worst weeks of your life, at the end of the day you felt like your entire body was aflame, but Mayor taught you how to use your body, your weight, in your own advantage, and even better, he told you that life was not only about the X or Y, but Z as well, vertically.

It was amazing. You felt powerful.

You could climb now, and everything was going to be easier, you were becoming stronger, faster, you could manipulate every gun, or at least the most common ones, and you were not afraid of them anymore.

Mayor taught you everything he knew.

You had always carried a knife, a gun and a weapon of your choice, you had your ax. Your friends all carried weapons, and you began to hunt the dead down.

When you overcome your first horrid impressions it became scary easy to take them down, they weren’t people anymore, the souls weren’t there, they were just corpses moving, it made it even more easier the fact that they tried to kill you.

You discovered quite easy that yo I were a fighter and not a flyer.

All of those you encountered you ended. Mayor had all these weapons from the military, which gave you a cool advantage.

“I always wanted to have one of these”, you said with a wide smile, looking at the beautiful white Toyota Tacoma with black fixings, you had found in a garage, full tank and all.

“Let’s mount the machine gun”, Mayor commanded, as you found a huge one that belonged to the army. And the ammo to go with it.

“With this! we are the exterminators INC”, said Baer, you laughed, “you call us and we’ll…”, he stopped himself on his tracks. Then it suddenly hit… nobody was going to call you, you weren’t saving anyone on the spot… you were sort of… avenging the fallen world.

It took the five of you to do so, to install the huge machine gun, and finally, you had wheels now, to wreak havoc on the dead, and take back the city of Atlanta.

“The world is for the living”, Mayor would say.

Soon you had a reason, a goal, to rid cities from the dead, to give the living a chance, you’d realize that it was you VS them, the living against the dead, to needed to wipe them out, to start fresh, to eliminate the threat as it were.

You’d watch the dead, their behaviors, soon, they started to go on herds, they could enter this state of hibernation, but it could be quickly awaken, and other interesting facts, that seemed too obvious at first, they were attracted by noise, specially noise, and smell, and sudden movements.

You started by the suburbs, killing every fucker that you encountered, it was some sort of training ground so you could move onto the big city, downtown, the real deadzone.

You felt like in one of those cool action movies.

Until you bite more than you could chew.

You were finally moving inside of Atlanta, right in the thick of it.

You were camping in an apartment building that night. You felt like this is the last day you were going to be on this earth, tomorrow you go to hell mouth, in a silly attempt to kill all the dead from the city, at least those who were on the streets anyways.

Amy Jun, the only other girl on the team had found an old city map and was drawing strategies for where to go, and exit routes especially

Mayor actually had made dinner this time, a very protein filled-meal (canned protein, but still),

You were sharpening your ax and cleaning your gun.

Baer was reading an old playboy magazine you found, chuckling every three second. You tried not to pay much attention to him.

And Pope… well…

“For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted; a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; a time to throw away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing; a time to seek, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to throw away; a time to tear, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak; a time to love, and a time to hate; a time for war, and a time for peace”, you heard him mumble, reading his bible by the fire you had set inside a trash can.

“Shut up!”, called Baer, “who are you, the pope?”, he asked angrily. feeling some sort of Catholic guilt you’d supposed?

“Let him read”, you said, as you always found it peaceful, and he read the most meaningful passages anyways.

You got up and exited the apartment, and you went all the way to the roof, to stand some sort of guard

It was surreal, the new world you’d live in, you were in the biggest cities in Georgia, and it was so quiet, you could barely hear some grumbles in the far streets. Everything was in the dark… all of it, the whole scene, was haunting.

You felt Mayor coming near you, you barely looked at hi,

“I don’t understand what am I doing here”, you said quietly, “I didn’t know how to wield a weapon, I could barely shoot”, you mumbled, “before you saved me and trained me”, it was true, in the shelter there was so many people “eligible” for the job, for surviving, for thriving in a world like this.

“You know why I chose you?”, he asked proudly, “I saw it in your eyes…there is something poetic…”, he said, slowly and carefully, “something almost mythical, tragic… about when a good person it's made to do terrible things, with no choice but to execute them”, he said slowly, the words sinking into you, “they say when a good man goes to war… even the devil clenches it’s buttcheeks” , you both kept looking at you and then you both just broke into laughter

“Who said that?!” You said with a grin.

“I did, just now”, he said unapologetically, “All the devils go on the run… when a good man goes to war”, he quoted the real phrase, although you liked the other one better

“I saw it in your eyes”, he echoed, “the resignation”, he said, “the resignation of having to go to war for your very right of being alive”, he said, “that is why I chose you”, he placed a hand on your shoulder and left you.

The very next day was going to be one of the most adrenaline-filled, unbelievable days of your life. The exterminators inc. were in full swing, Baer, as he was the biggest and strongest one, was shooting the machine gun, while Amy, Mayor, and you were shooting your guns and. You were at it for hours, as the loud noises of the guns draw even more fuckers.

It was a very good first day of cleaning. You found a tank, surrounded by fuckers, you cleaned it all up and found good ammo and a couple of granades. That you were going to use the very next day, to draw them out and kill some more.

Although the city was mostly sacked, you still could find some interesting things.

But things went south pretty quickly. they caught you in a close street, you were running low on ammo, the trucks a few blocks away, you had advanced more then you thought and soon you were surrounded.

You opened a hallway to scape the herd, but Mayor he… stood back, screamed for them to get him, and when they did… he blew himself up.

You had played the scenario over and over in your head, wondering time and time again if anything you’ve done could have been done differently, to obtain a different outcome of the situation, but you couldn’t.

The group unraveled after his death

Bear wanted to take over the leadership, but you didn’t trust him, he was immature, he was violent, he wasn’t as smart as he thought himself to be.

The second to go was Amy.

Of course Baer’s strategy was to go guns blazing into that military warehouse, you’d never think you’d find the whole battalion turned.

Again you didn’t have the truck, you were running low on ammunition.

You barely made it out alive

You lost Amy, you could still feel the phantom grip she had on your wrist when they sank their rotten teeth into her.

Baer just thought about her an extra mouth to feed, not that he fed you anyways.

“We can’t keep going on like this”, said Pope, “we need to be more careful”

“This wasn’t my fault!”, muttered Baer, even if nobody said anything, you’d thought about it, “she was careless”

“We were careless” you said, “we went in there blind!”

“We still got ammo”, he defended childishly

“But we lost Amy”, you whispered

“Is not like she did much”, she grumbled under his breath, you felt pope’s eyes on you, watching your reaction, scared of the coming fight

“She was the one who always made sure we have plans, and contingency plans, and escape routes!”, you said, “if it wasn’t for her we’d all be dead already! She was the brains on the team”

“oh yeah?”, he said, with a cruel look on his face, “and what are you?”, the heart you’d thought. But you got quiet. He only laughed cruelly

“You know why he took you with us?”, he asked leaning into you, “because you have a good ass, that’s all”. You punched him so hard in the face he actually stumbled a couple of paces back, grabbing his cheek. You walked away from him, into your room, leaving the door open, you started to pack a bag with your essentials. He followed you in

“What are you doing?”, he asked, enraged

“I’m out of here”, you said quickly

“People like you don’t make it out there”, he mocked, “where are you gonna go?”

“I’ll take my chances, anywhere’s better than here”, you bit out. You saw Pope, watching you from the corner, “you coming?”, you asked him

“I…”, he stuttered, calling your name in an apologizing manner. He was a bit cowardly, he was, and that was alright, but that mistake might cost him, “we will never make it”, he said apologetically

“Yes we will”, you said, “we will never make it with this prick!”, you said, pushing Baer out of your room.l, but he grabbed you, roughly, you swore you felt your life pass in front of your eyes, a ringing in your ears, when you saw him making a fist with his other hand.

Pope grabbed him, quickly. Making him stop

“Why don’t you make us a dinner, uh?”, Baer said, “make yourself useful”

He only chuckled, walking away.

He wouldn’t believe you'd do it.

You looked at Pope wide-eyed

“Don’t go”, he said, and you truly regret leaving him, not Baer, but him

“I will not stay, you, cannot stay”, you said, convinced

“We can go to Grady Memorial, ask for sanctuary there”, he said

“They’ll never take us”, you said back, you had encountered them a while back, “and even if they did, I don’t roll that way”, you did not want to commit yourself to voluntary servitude, thank you very much.

Baer was drunk, fast asleep when you sneaked out, after Pope basically begging you to stay.

But you couldn’t, you were afraid of Baer.

You took everything you could carry in a medium sized backpack, your gun, silencer and ax. And you abandoned the office building where you had been holding up.

You’d thought about taking the truck, but that would be too much.

Baer would hunt you down and kill you if you did.

You found another car instead, but you weren’t the only one, a man got inside it, while you were on the drivers seat, he pointed a gun at you, told you to leave your pack, to leave the car.

You didn’t

You shoot first.

And drove off

Maybe you were downplaying what happened, it’s been weeks, months in which you wondered if you did what was right, abandoning them, leaving to uncertainty, to nothingness, living on your own. Exclusively depending on you, alone.

The only comfort was yourself, your active imagination, your memories, it’s what kept you going, and for some days you found peace in solitude.

But you were growing tired.

You had been going through the woods for weeks on end, some days you couldn’t even find food. You could hunt for shirt with a knife, ax or gun.

Until you found a couple of houses. You found a good bounty, you found… or rather… they found you.

ACN: I don’t know if I managed to accomplish what I was looking for, but stil, enjoy.

[reynahendrix]

┊ ┊ HELLTOWNFMS EVENT: TWO

┊ ┊ N I G H T M A R E : S L I P P I N G ....

you should save your eyes. a thousand voices howling in my head. speak in tongues. i don't even recognize your face. mirror on the wall...tell me to stay away.

┊ ┊ BLACK OUT DAYS... I DON'T EVEN RECOGNIZE YOU ANYMORE.

stay away. i'm hearing voices all the time in my mind. they're haunting my m i n d

sterile. the unforgiving hum of fluorescent lights droned above, gnawing at the edges of reyna's concentration. their flicker disrupted the fragile stillness that clung to the room like a shroud. she had stood here countless times before — surgical instruments meticulously arranged on a steel tray, a scalpel gleaming under the harsh glare, waiting for use. her clothes cloaked in bland turquoise and black, safety and protocol smothering any sense of individuality. this was a space for postmortem examinations, a realm where death lingered like a shadow.

the table gleamed, pristine and devoid of its usual grim occupant. reyna stared at her own wavering reflection on its cold, polished surface, her features fractured by the sterile sheen. empty. why was it empty ? why was she looming over it, hands hovering uselessly above a vacancy meant for the dead ? her reflection felt distant, unmoored from her body, like a stranger bound by invisible threads tugging her toward unspeakable acts. her mind teetered on the edge, weary from resisting the voice that clung to the recesses of her thoughts like rot. perhaps the table was empty for a reason — an invitation for her to lay upon it, surrendering to the voice that demanded her ruin.

reyna's jaw clenched as static crackled through the room. the sudden intrusion made her breath hitch. slowly, she turned, gloved hands hovering in the sterile air, unsure whether to reach or recoil. the sound emanated from a walkie-talkie perched on a nearby counter. it looked eerily similar to the one emery had given her when she'd abandoned common house to seek refuge in the cinema. through the fizz and crackle, a voice struggled to break through, fragmented yet seething....

“... you failed...”

reyna's chest tightened, breaths quickening, shallow and erratic. the voice...

“... you will pay...i told you what would happen...”

her knees wobbled as the radio spat venom once more.

“... they will pay...”

the final syllable lingered in the charged air, heavy with menace. then came a new sound — metallic, sinister. one of the body lockers unlatched with a jarring clunk. the heavy steel door creaked open, its groan reverberating through the room. reyna's muscles tensed, heart racing as if trying to escape her ribcage. a cold, silver gurney slid forward, bearing a form draped in a stark white sheet. pale feet protruded from beneath the fabric, a tag swaying gently from one toe.

"... look what you've done..."

the voice hissed through the walkie-talkie, insidious and unforgiving. reyna’s breath came in ragged gasps as dread clawed its way up her spine. she wanted to turn away, to unsee the nightmare unraveling before her, but her feet remained rooted to the bloodless tile. she knew she had failed — failed to protect those she loved, failed to submit fully to the demands of the voice that haunted her every waking moment. the gurney trembled. the sheet fluttered violently before flying off altogether, revealing emmett’s cold, lifeless form. his skin, pale as moonlight, gleamed beneath the lights.

“no...” reyna’s voice fractured, trembling as she stumbled backward, knocking over the sterile tray. surgical instruments clattered to the floor, sharp metal skittering across the tile. her eyes remained fixed on emmett’s body as blood began to seep from his closed eyelids, ears, and mouth, thick rivulets staining his frozen features. his eyes shot open, wild and glassy. his lips parted in a grotesque gasp, coughing up torrents of crimson that splattered onto the silver bed, overflowing until the white tile gleamed red beneath a slick coat of gore.

"... they will all die because of you..."

another locker door unlatched, swinging open with a menacing creak. then another. and another. one by one, gurneys slid forward, each bearing a body reyna recognized. charlie. joel. shaw. dayn. jude. emery. more.. and more... her vision blurred, the room spinning as she fought to remain upright. blood spurted from their corpses, soaking the floor until it reached her ankles, warm and sticky. she wanted to scream but found her voice strangled by terror. memories flashed through her mind — laughter, embraces, whispered promises. all shattered by the grotesque scene before her. “no !” reyna shrieked, lunging toward the bodies, frantically checking for pulses that didn’t exist, shaking their cold forms as if sheer desperation could breathe life back into them.

"... it's too late..."

the voice curled around her like smoke, suffocating. the final locker door creaked open, revealing one last gurney. blood pooled across the floor, a dark ocean of despair. reyna's legs trembled as she forced herself toward it, heart hammering against her ribs. as the bed slid forward, her breath caught in her throat. she stared down at the corpse — herself. cold. lifeless. pale as death. one of the body's eyes fluttered open, milky and ruined, the other a gaping void of injury. she had hardly recognized herself anymore.

the corpse’s hand shot upward, fingers curling around reyna's throat with unnatural strength. she gasped, clawing at the icy grip as darkness bloomed at the edges of her vision. the hand tightened, dragging her down onto the gurney. metal groaned as the bed retracted, sliding back into the dark void of the locker. the door slammed shut, sealing her inside with the horror of herself.

reyna jolted awake, gasping for air, drenched in sweat. her chest heaved as she blinked, eyes wild and disoriented. the room stood as it had been — silent, and familiar. taken by the night. ...it was just a dream. just a fucking dream.

[chorusfm]

Mumford and Sons – Rushmere

The fifth studio album from Mumford & Sons, and the band’s first new album in nearly seven years, called Rushmere, gets its name from the pond located at Wimbledon Common in London, where the band first met and began the process of wanting to make music together. The band looked towards their beginnings to find a spark in their music, and create their first new taste of music since Delta. The overall sound of Rushmere recounts the humble beginnings of Mumford & Sons on 2009’s Sigh No More, with more experience under the band’s belt in crafting their desired artistic direction. The set was produced by veteran hit-maker Dave Cobb (Sturgill Simpson, Jason Isbell) and was recorded partly in Nashville, and also in the band’s home studio in Devon, England. Rushmere takes all of the stage and life experiences that the band members have had, and gets the ship pointed in the right direction. The next phase of Mumford & Sons career looks bright. The album gets off to a cautious start with a quietly strummed guitar by Marcus Mumford, before his voice gradually gets louder in his delivery. “Malibu” was the second single to be released from the set, and it ends up being a nice re-introduction to the band. In the chorus of, “You are all I want / You’re all I need / I’ll find peace beneath the shadow of your wings,” Marcus Mumford regains his footing and makes for a memorable opening statement. The banjo is prominently back in the forefront of Mumford & Sons musical delivery, and it makes sense in the placement of the instrumentation here. “Caroline” follows the nice opener with some more forceful vocals from Marcus Mumford, while the rest of his bandmates rally around the music template set forth early on. The second verse of, “For years we’ve secretly been dreaming / But the words you write have lost all of their meaning / You wanna pour me out then drink me up off of the floor / So you can say you’re a saviour, but I know you’re a fraud,” features some nice lyrical wordplay, and a comfortable reminder of the band many of us adored finding out about in 2009. The title track was an easy choice of a lead single since it captures the overall vibe of the record in just one song. The chorus of, “Light me up, I’m wasted in the dark / Rushmere, restless hearts in the end / Get my head out of the ground / Time don’t let us down again,” finds the frontman re-discovering the magic in his band’s music as he gets back to the place where it all began. The key track in the set gets back to what the band has always done best, and they write a nice, honest song here. ”Monochrome” is a quiet song that never really accelerates to the finish line. Instead, the track adds some more context to the vibe the band was going for on Rushmere, and provides the “campfire” moment in the set. Luckily, the band doesn’t get too comfortable in this sound as they beef up their approach on “Truth.” This particular song would’ve fit well on their Wilder Mind record since it features a more rounded out rock type of track that sounds bigger than what most of the band’s catalog does. When the full crescendo kicks in after one of the last choruses, you can tell that the band is very cozy in this type of rock song that still has its roots in indie-folk. ”Where It Belongs” is structurally similar to “Monochrome” with its chorus of, “When you speak, do you think you could do it kindly / Or does your anger overwhelm? / When you’re weak, do you ever think of living wildly / And let your anger go to hell / Where it belongs?” and ends up not covering too much new ground. “Anchor” follows the quiet song with a bit more bass-heavy sound, but the band once again gets too comfortable in this sleepy track that is over before it can really go anywhere. ”Surrender” allows Mumford & Sons to pick up the pace in a much-needed way as the second verse adds in some lyrical context as Marcus explains, “I cry havoc / Before you could know / Now I’m ready to pay the debt that I owe / And it’s violent work / There’s some… https://chorus.fm/reviews/mumford-and-sons-rushmere/

[cursedreverie1945]

Goebbels, Bormann, and Jodl (l-r)

Screw the other two, let's talk about Jodl.

Alfred Josef Ferdinand Jodl was born Alfred Josef Baumgärtler. No really exciting reason, he was born out of wedlock and didn't assume his father's name until he was about 9-10 years old when his parents did marry.

Jodl really (to me) isn't all that interesting. He was a career military man that served in both WWI and WWII.

Jodl spent most of WWII at the Wolf's Lair, Hitler's command post in East Prussia. On 1 February 1944, he was promoted to the rank of Generaloberst ('colonel general', a four-star rank).

He was also among those slightly injured during the 20 July plot of 1944 against Hitler, during which he suffered a concussion.

On 6 May 1945, Jodl was awarded the Knight's Cross of the Iron Cross by Grand admiral Karl Dönitz, who had succeeded Hitler on 30 April 1945 as head of Germany and its armed forces.

Following regional surrenders of German forces in Europe, Jodl was sent by Dönitz to respond to the demand for "immediate, simultaneous and unconditional surrender on all fronts." It was Jodl who signed the German Instrument of Surrender on 7 May 1945 in Reims on behalf of the OKW. The surrender to all the Allies was concluded on 8 May in Berlin. On 13 May, on the arrest of Generalfeldmarschall Wilhelm Keitel, Jodl succeeded him as Chief of OKW.

This is where it gets slightly more interesting.

Jodl was arrested, along with the rest of the Flensburg Government of Dönitz, by British troops on 23 May 1945 and transferred to Camp Ashcan and later put before the International Military Tribunal at the Nuremberg trials. He was accused of conspiracy to commit crimes against peace; planning, initiating and waging wars of aggression, war crimes and crimes against humanity.

The principal charges against him related to his signature of the Commando Order and the Commissar Order, both of which ordered that certain classes of prisoners of war were to be summarily executed upon capture. When confronted with the 1941 mass shootings of Soviet POWs, Jodl claimed the only prisoners shot were "not those that could not, but those that did not want to walk".

Additional charges at his trial included unlawful deportation and abetting execution. Presented as evidence was his signature on an order that transferred Danish citizens, including Jews, to nazi concentration camps. Although he denied his role in this activity of the regime, the court sustained his complicity based on the evidence it had examined, with the French judge, Henri Donnedieu de Vabres, dissenting.

Jodl pleaded not guilty "before God, before history and my people". Found guilty on all four charges, he was hanged at Nuremberg Prison on 16 October 1946. Jodl's last words were reportedly "I salute you, my eternal Germany" ("Ich grüße Dich, mein ewiges Deutschland").

Was he a nazi? Yes. There is no doubt about that.

Did he deserve the death penalty? Hell if I know. The death penalty is not something I approve of. I have been staunchly against the death penalty my entire adult life.

What it came down to, in my ignorant opinion was the Commando Order. Commando Order was found to be a direct breach of the laws of war, and German officers who carried out illegal executions under the Commando Order were found guilty of war crimes and sentenced to death, or, in two cases, extended incarceration. By that, yes.

What was the Commando Order? Wellllll...

The "Commando Order," issued by the German high command (OKW) on October 18, 1942, authorized the summary execution of captured Allied commandos and similar personnel, regardless of whether they were in uniform or attempted to surrender, in retaliation for alleged Allied "methods which contravene the International Convention of Geneva".

Well, what the hell does THAT mean?

The order was issued in response to Allied commando raids and operations behind German lines, which the Germans perceived as violating the rules of warfare.

The Commando Order stipulated that any captured commandos, agents, or saboteurs, regardless of their status (uniformed or not), were to be immediately handed over to the Sicherheitsdienst (SD) for execution. Jesus fuck Heydrich, didn't you have enough to do? Oh wait. You were dead by then, nevermind.

The German high command claimed that they had evidence that Allied commandos were instructed to kill unarmed captives and otherwise violate the Geneva Conventions.

The Commando Order was widely condemned as a war crime, and its implementation resulted in the deaths of many Allied personnel.

While the order was officially in effect, its implementation varied. Some German commanders, like Erwin Rommel, refused to carry it out, even burning the order in his command.

The raid against the Glomfjord hydroelectric power plant in Norway, where seven commandos were captured and taken to Sachsenhausen concentration camp and murdered, was one of the first instances of the Commando Order being carried out.

Thus, he was executed with the others at Nuremberg. For the record? The man was 56 years old when executed. He looked ancient. My modern eyes would have guessed closer to 70.

[istherewifiinhell]

Doing the name song thing from that joelle and rory did. god this is TOUGH. was anyone gonna fucking tell me my url was my favourite number amount of letters long. thats so long....

(hey boss isnt this playlist like half austin wintory tf the movie/vince dicola music) Yes?? ur welcome??? anddd???

youtube linked tracklist for u. other people

I - I was Born for This - Journey Soundtrack (Austin Wintory)

S - Skotschne - Everything Returns by Black Ox Orkestar

T - Triangle - Rumble of Thunder by The HU

H - Hunger - The Transformer: The Movie Soundtrack (Axe Kick)

E - Eye Know - 3 Feet High and Rising by De La Soul

R - Relimerence - Concentrate by The Happy Fits

E - Elasmosaurus Platypus - ABZÛ Soundtrack (Austin Wintory)

W - Waving Flags - Do You Like Rock Music by Sea Power

I - Instruments of Destruction - TF:TM Soundtrack (N.G.R.)

F - Foreword - Variables by Alfa Mist

I -Instrument of Surrender -Disco Elysium Soundtrack (Sea Power)

I - Impetuous Beast - The Pathless Soundtrack (Austin Wintory)

N - Never Coming Home - Live the Dream by Ramshackle Glory

H - Hell Car - Ant Farm by The Zells

E - Eugene - Purple Haus By Bear the Mammoth

L - Love's First Explosion - COUNTER/weight soundtrack (Jack de Quidt) is not available on youtube, please enjoy this amv instead

L - Legacy - TF:TM (cut song)/Saturday Morning RPG Soundtrack (Vince Dicola)

Below is bandcamp links with 2 covers for the tf movie songs and im gonna have to rb for the second half. jesus fucking christ

(Cover)

[vgtrackbracket]

Video Game Track Bracket Round 3

Instrument of Surrender from Disco Elysium

vs.

Battle! (Trainer Battle) from Pokémon Omega Ruby/Alpha Sapphire

Propaganda under the cut. If you want your propaganda reblogged and added to future polls, please tag it as propaganda or otherwise indicate this!

Instrument of Surrender:

THESE HORNS ARE SO ICONIC

[coolbeanzeaglbones]

Chapter for beatles fanfic. I can't remember the details of the movie so just bear with me

The submarine went along through the sky, the Beatles decided to talk to the people from the colonies, “So, how’d you get to the sea of science?” John asked, leaning over the seat that Ricky was sat on, “Oh, um, we used the battletram to dig under the traffic so we could get to a gig.” Ricky said as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

“What?” Young Fred sounded horrified.

The commander laughed, “Yeah, then we kinda killed a little mushroom man’s friend and they got mad and brought us to queen Susan,” Jimmy continued, “Who in turn incased us in a crystalline structure,” Crash took over after that, “And then they threw us in lava.” John’s eyebrows knitted together, “Lava?!” The bats nodded, “Yeah, but it must’ve been magic, because we got to a place and that’s how we got here.” Eaglebones finished, staring up from where he was sitting cross legged on the floor.

The Beatles just stared at the Aquabats before Paul broke the silence, “That’s a neat guitar, never seen anything like it.” He said, gesturing to Eaglebones’ guitar, “Yeah, it’s pretty cool.” He said, “Lemme me hold it for a while.”

“Eh…”

“I’m gonna fight you if you don’t.” Paul said. That got eaglebones, “Oh shut Billy Shears, you’re not even Paul McCartney.” A spasm of panic flashes collectively across the faces of the Beatles, “How the fuck do you know about that?” John questioned dangerously, grabbing eaglebones by the front of his shirt, “Come on, everyone knows that in the 2000s,” he chided, holding his hands in a surrender pose.

The Beatles looked to the rest of the bats, who all have sounds of agreement. The rest of the submarine ride was silent as the submarine floated backwards, the propeller clearly broken. Jeremy began talking nonsense as they landed. They all got out of the submarine, “Mcthingamabob.” Jeremy took the propeller off.

“What?”

“Chewing gum should do the job.” He stuck it back on with the gum and the submarine started back up, “Yeah!” Then the submarine began to fly away, “I can’t stop it, h is for hurry, e is for urgent, l is for love me…” the sound got so far away they couldn’t hear, “P is for, goodbye.” John waved his hanky at the submarine as it left, “Urgent is spelled with a ‘u’” eaglebones said, staring off at the dot in the distance, “No, it’s ‘e’” the commander said, irate, “It’s spelled with a ‘u’!”

“No it’s not!”

“Yes it is!” As the commander and eaglebones argued, the Beatles were talking to the other three, “Do they argue a lot?” Ringo asked, scratching his head. Jimmy shrugged, “Only over stupid stuff, where are we anyway?”

“Looks like the foothills.”

“The foothills of where?”

“The foothills of the headlands.”

Then music began to play and John started singing. As he was singing, Paul had gotten fed up with the yelling and just straight up punched eaglebones in the face so hard he fell to the ground, “What’s your problem, dude?”

“Shut up, and I’m taking this.” He grabbed his guitar and fiddled with it. Eaglebones rubbed his face where he was hit, “That’s mine, Billy.” He said, dusting himself off.

The commander sniggered, “Yeah billy, give it back.” He said, voice on the edge of laughter, “No, it’s mine now, we need instruments to save pepperland.” He was still looking at it, “Never seen a guitar like this before. Lefty too, nice, I’m keeping this.”

Eaglebones was about to haul off and smack the shit out of the Beatle, but John was done singing, “Maybe we would ask for directions.” The ten of them made their way to a group of heads, “Hey, can you tell us the way to pepperland?” George asked.

The heads projected a completely unfollowable way with arrows, “Thanks.” They just continued going forward. The commander zoned out, but he did hear Jeramy say, “This is a condiment.“ he was cut off by Ringo, “Condi-“

“A spice.”

It was pepper to be precise, making a few of them sneeze. Which in turn made the heads sneeze so hard that they knocked them forward.

They all flew down a slide and landed in a roaming field, a sea, of holes.

[preblesboys]

Caroline Myss Archetypes: William Bainbridge

His highness adjured that I do him next in which I felt obliged to do.

From my understanding of William Bainbridge, I perceive him to be the Magical Child, and not because some evil fairy or imp gave his cradle a visit during infancy either. Coming from a sound home and because he had three other brothers, William’s grandfather requested that he raised the young boy sensing great potential in him which the father agreed to. Born in 1774, too young to partake in the great sea battles of John Paul Jones, Stephen Decatur Sr. and John Barry, the tales of these glorious fights was what inspired William to become a mariner. Going from a merchant’s ship to the US Navy when it was created, Bainbridge had high hopes for this establishment and was confident that his seafaring skills would be a major contribution to it. The strangest thing is, it seemed the more dedicated he was to serve the navy, the worse his luck would get as he was the first and second navy captain to surrender his ship to the enemy. William Bainbridge even went on to call himself “The Child of Adversity” and was filled with contempt when his contemporaries namely Stephen Decatur gained laurels from his misfortunes. Towards the end of his life, this quote from a letter Bainbridge sent to a friend sums up his disenchantment with the service he was once committed to full heartedly, “the more I see the world, the more I am confirmed in this belief. Man, instead of being as his Maker intended him to be- the noblest work of God-is a machine, molded by and yielding to, the baseness and groveling of his lowest fellow….I am becoming a misanthrope.”

Now for the individual archetypes.

First and foremost we’ll start with the King……I mean what else is there to say besides the way William Bainbridge carried himself that his very aura demanded respect! His ship (or Navy Yard) was his kingdom and it would behoove you to follow his orders. His school of sailing was in the cutthroat merchant services and distinguished himself quickly in his teens that he was more than capable to captain a ship and he would do it with an iron fist. If his men didn’t despise William Bainbridge, they at least feared this captain from Princeton New Jersey. He trained his crews so much, so well that that a few fellow captains claimed the crew under Bainbridge was the best they’ve ever seen. Eventually Bainbridge gave a little bit of leeway running his ship but his authority was still there.

After that is the Dilettante. Bainbridge may have been one of if not the most cultured Preble’s Boy. Sure being in the merchant service was a huge factor but William Bainbridge dedicated time and energy dabbling in different subjects that opened many different doors for himself. With so many interests, it was quite easy for him have a long, long list of pen pals. Speaking of pen pals-

What a Networker! It’s great to “know a guy” amirite? Not ideal for this example but when he was a prisoner in Tripoli after the capture of the Philadelphia, the Danish Consul N.C. Nissen was instrumental in making the Captain and officers’ lives bearable by providing books and advocating for treatment on their behalf. A couple of years later after the Americans were released but the Navy got budget cuts, Bainbridge applied for a furlough and went back into the merchant business. On his way to St. Petersburg, Bainbridge was halted at the Danish Sound. The Danish Consul Bainbridge befriended in Tripoli just so happened to be opening a package that contained a fine silver bowl the American Captain sent him. When he heard of Bainbridge’s whereabouts he immediately came through to renew their acquaintanceship. Another example is after his victory of the HMS Java, Bainbridge kept a lifelong correspondence with lieutenant general Hislop; every opportunity in his life, Bainbridge used it to add people to his network.

Mentor. Listen, as long as you don’t piss William Bainbridge off then he’d be more than happy to take you under his wing James Biddle! During their time together in Tripoli the two bonded rather quickly as Biddle saw Bainbridge as a “father figure” (😒🙄). That’s a tactful way to create a “minion” if you ask me. Okay fine. I’m not being fair; Bainbridge did have a lot of knowledge to offer which inspired David Porter to self educate himself in order keep up to par (which turned him into a lifelong student). James Biddle decided to model himself after Bainbridge (consequently having that “aristocrat air” about him).

Thanks to him and Charles Stewart confronting President Madison about utilizing the puny US Navy, that make’s Bainbridge a Visionary. He knew what his brother officers were capable of and at that ball in Washington on December 8th, the then Secretary of the Navy Paul Hamilton shouted “Never forget that it is Captains Bainbridge and Stewart that you really owe these victories!” Should I mention him tampering with Joshua Humphrey’s drafts while building Independence? Not good results but hey, I guess William was opening his mind to new ideas how a ship should sail.

Funny thing about being the Athlete is it matched his King so well. Here’s a description of him from his late teens that basically stayed with him the rest of his life. “At this time Bainbridge looked a good deal older than he was; stood five feet eleven, had enormously broad shoulders and was well muscled like a gorilla.” His physique made it easy to knock mutineers on his merchant ship back in line with his humongous fists. Numerous times. That’s just the physical aspect of it though. An athlete requires discipline; which he gave plenty of. And because he had high expectations of his crew, accomplishments were made. I was actually surprised to find that Bainbridge didn’t know how to swim…

Ever heard someone call another “a thief of joy”? Bainbridge was more than that and let me tell you why. Doesn’t matter who you were as long as you weren’t William’s superior (and he still felt contempt for most), you were absolutely beneath him and therefore deserved to be miserable. His reputation as the “unlucky Captain” did not help the situation either; makes me think of his jealousy of Stephen Decatur. William Bainbridge lacked the charisma and presence that drew admiration from subordinates and contemporaries so his conclusion was get rid of that meddlesome rival be Decatur’s “friend” in the duel that killed him. Worth mentioning that it was Isaac Hull who suggested building boat houses to protect the navy’s vessels not Bainbridge but who got the credit? And he made it nearly impossible for Johnston Blakeley to supply the Wasp of necessities and marines so the younger captain had to make do with what he had and proved to be successful to a tragic end.

If Isaac Hull was the victim of the Vampire, William Bainbridge was the nocturnal creature sucking the life force out. Oh. My. Gosh. You ought to see the “woe is me” letters he wrote to Edward Preble as a prisoner in Tripoli because I can almost guarantee you Commodore Preble looked at the camera as if he was in The Office multiple times! Then the newspaper wars with Isaac Hull Bainbridge was writing letters to his friend David Porter who happened to be on the Board of Commissioners. Listen, if Porter was your friend he would somehow find patience in his otherwise nonexistent well of goodwill and graces but even that well dried up for Bainbridge. This man just needed his “entourage” *glares at Biddle* to stroke his ego and tell him everything will be alright.

[musicverse11]

Inside the Mind of a Genius: The Musical Techniques of AR Rahman

AR Rahman is more than a name in the music industry; he's a phenomenon, a pioneer whose work has continuously pushed the boundaries of what music can achieve. His approach to composition, production, and sound engineering set him apart as an innovator and creative genius. Often described as a "Mozart of Madras," Rahman has not only transformed the Indian music industry but has also introduced the world to an entirely new sound that bridges various musical traditions. This article explores the distinctive techniques and unique approach that Rahman employs to craft his mesmerizing compositions.

Blending of Genres and Cultural Sounds

One of AR Rahman’s hallmarks is his seamless blend of genres and sounds from across the globe. His compositions often incorporate elements of Indian classical music, jazz, electronic, rock, and Western classical music, creating a fusion that is unmistakably his. This diversity in sound is not just a matter of adding different instruments or tones; Rahman’s technique lies in blending these elements in a way that feels organic and cohesive.

For example, his famous song “Chaiyya Chaiyya” from the movie Dil Se includes Sufi-inspired vocals and percussive beats layered with orchestral strings. By pairing these distinct elements, he crafts a piece that feels both ancient and contemporary, bridging traditional and modern sounds. His music reflects India’s diversity, but its universal appeal transcends geographical boundaries.

Use of Layering and Complex Arrangements

Another essential technique in Rahman’s music is his intricate layering of sounds. He doesn’t merely rely on one melody or a repetitive rhythm; instead, he carefully arranges layers upon layers of sound, creating a rich, immersive auditory experience. In many of his tracks, listeners can hear different instruments and harmonies emerging with each listen, revealing hidden textures and subtleties.

In his song “Taal Se Taal Mila” from Taal, he uses a combination of tabla, electric guitar, and flute, interwoven with choral harmonies and vocals, all arranged with precise attention to detail. Each layer complements the other, resulting in a composition that is almost orchestral in its complexity. The layering is done in such a way that it doesn’t overwhelm but enhances the listening experience, allowing listeners to immerse themselves fully in the world he creates.

Experimentation with Unconventional Instruments

One of Rahman’s distinguishing factors is his willingness to experiment with unconventional instruments and sounds, creating novel auditory experiences. From using electronic sounds to African djembe drums, Rahman doesn’t limit himself to traditional Indian or Western instruments. His song “Jai Ho,” which won an Academy Award for Slumdog Millionaire, features a mix of orchestral elements, electronic sounds, and Indian percussions, creating an uplifting anthem that resonated worldwide.

In Lagaan, for instance, Rahman incorporates instruments like the tambourine and tabla but also uses synthesized beats and sounds to elevate the film’s period feel. He often experiments with obscure or ethnic instruments, making them accessible to a global audience and proving that music, at its core, is a universal language.

Creating Emotionally Resonant Melodies

Rahman’s genius also lies in his ability to create emotionally resonant melodies that connect deeply with listeners. His compositions are often designed to evoke specific emotions, blending technical expertise with an intuitive understanding of human emotions. Whether it’s the haunting sadness in “Lukka Chuppi” from Rang De Basanti or the joyous energy in “Mukkala Mukkabala” from Kadhalan, Rahman’s music has an unmatched emotional depth.

In “Kun Faya Kun” from Rockstar, Rahman employs Sufi-inspired melodies that invoke a sense of devotion and surrender. The repetition of lines and subtle crescendos creates a trance-like effect, immersing the listener in a spiritual journey. Rahman’s ability to convey emotions through melodies alone shows his remarkable talent for connecting music with the soul.

Digital Innovation and Sound Engineering

Rahman has consistently embraced technology, positioning himself as a leader in digital music production in India. He is known for his state-of-the-art recording techniques, and he was one of the first in India to adopt computer-based recording setups. His work with digital audio workstations allows him to layer tracks with pinpoint accuracy and blend electronic sounds with acoustic ones, producing a polished, cinematic quality.

Rahman’s use of electronic tools also allows him to manipulate sounds in ways that create a unique auditory landscape. For instance, his album Connections incorporates electronic beats and digital reverb, adding a futuristic quality to his music. His technical skill, combined with his musical expertise, allows him to produce tracks that sound fresh, even after repeated listening.

Working with Vocal Layers and Harmonies

Rahman’s approach to vocal arrangements is another aspect of his musical technique that deserves attention. He often uses multi-layered harmonies to enhance the emotional impact of his songs. By layering different voices, each with its tone and texture, Rahman adds a depth that amplifies the song’s overall effect. He is known for creating complex harmonies, especially in songs where he works with choirs or multiple vocalists.

In songs like “Vande Mataram,” Rahman combines voices from different ranges, blending them seamlessly to produce a powerful anthem. This layering technique can also be heard in his work with playback singers; he knows precisely when to add backing vocals and harmonies to enhance the lead singer’s voice without overpowering it.

Conclusion

AR Rahman’s musical techniques are as diverse as they are masterful. His approach—combining genres, layering sounds, experimenting with instruments, and using innovative recording methods—has redefined music for generations. Rahman’s work transcends traditional music-making; it is a deep, immersive experience that appeals to listeners worldwide, irrespective of language or culture. His compositions are not only groundbreaking for their technical excellence but also for their emotional impact, making Rahman one of the most influential composers in modern music.

[rivyuus]

The Smashing Pumpkins - Bury Me (Song Review)

The Smashing Pumpkins, heralded for their blending of alternative rock, post-grunge, and dream pop, released their debut album Gish in 1991. Among the album's standout tracks is "Bury Me," a song that encapsulates the raw emotion and ethereal soundscapes that define the band's early work. In this review, we will examine the lyrical content, musical composition, thematic elements, and overall impact of "Bury Me," revealing how it resonates with listeners both in its personal exploration and broader existential inquiries.

Lyrical Analysis

At its core, "Bury Me" is a meditation on love, identity, and the complexities of familial relationships. The introduction immediately sets a contemplative tone, with the line "Bury me in love" serving as both an invitation and a surrender to the depths of emotional experience. The duality presented in the phrases "Bury me in love" and "Bury me in blood" suggests a juxtaposition of affection and the darker, more visceral aspects of human connection. This duality is a recurring theme throughout the song, encapsulating the intricate balance of joy and pain inherent in love.

The lyrics in Verse 1 introduce a deeply personal reflection on the speaker's relationship with their sister. The use of phrases like "Chain, unchain" implies a sense of both attachment and desire for freedom. This duality is further emphasized with the line "I'm a jack of all trades," suggesting versatility and adaptability, yet also a hint of existential angst in trying to contextualize one's existence. The call for the listener to "bury me" becomes a plea for understanding and acceptance of these layered identities.

The repetition of "hide, hide" in Verse 2 introduces a feeling of isolation and concealment. The speaker grapples with the notion of identity and the fear that arises when faced with the truths one cannot hide. The desire for connection is evident in the plea “If you see her, tell me why,” revealing an internal struggle to reconcile the self with external perceptions and the longing for visibility.

As the song progresses to its final verses, the poignant repetition of wanting to see “her” born inside enacts a desperate yearning for clarity and authenticity. This encapsulation of desire to reveal the hidden aspects of self is deeply relatable and speaks to a universal human experience. The cyclical nature of the lyrics enhances the emotional weight, as the chorus returns to the resignation of “bury me” — suggesting a tragic acceptance of those buried truths and suppressed identities.

Musical Composition

Musically, "Bury Me" combines a soaring and haunting melodic structure with dynamic shifts, characteristic of The Smashing Pumpkins' signature sound. The song opens with an ethereal quality, underpinned by a soft instrumental arrangement that allows Billy Corgan's distinct vocal style to shine through. Corgan’s vocals traverse a landscape of tender melodies juxtaposed with moments of raw power, echoing the emotional turbulence depicted in the lyrics.

The instrumentation complements the lyrical themes with an ebb and flow that mirrors the internal conflict described. The guitar work throughout the track is particularly noteworthy. Strummed chords build a foundation of melodic depth, while interspersed lead lines create a sense of melancholy that aligns seamlessly with the lyrical narrative. Additionally, the use of dynamics in the song heightens the emotional impact; softer passages yield to more intense instrumentation, creating an atmosphere that reflects the tension between concealment and revelation.

Thematic Exploration

Thematically, "Bury Me" grapples with concepts of love, identity, and the complexity of human relationships. Its introspective nature invites listeners to delve into their own experiences of love, loss, and enlightenment. The line "Bury me if it hurts" suggests a willingness to embrace pain in pursuit of deeper connections, which sets the tone for the entire song. It raises poignant questions about the sacrifices we are willing to make for our relationships and the emotional burdens we carry.

The recurring motifs of birth and rebirth intertwined with the notion of burial imply a cycle of life, whereby the fullness of existence encompasses both the joys and tribulations. This duality resonates particularly strongly within the context of familial bonds; the speaker’s relationship with their sister suggests an exploration of love that is as intricate as it is profound. The desire for understanding and connection is palpable, mirroring the deeper struggles many people experience within their own families.

Conclusion

"Bury Me" is a profound exploration of the human condition, encapsulated within The Smashing Pumpkins' unique sound. Its lyrical depth, combined with a masterfully layered musical composition, establishes it as a standout track on Gish. Through introspective themes of love, identity, and the desire for authenticity, the song speaks to listeners on multiple levels, inviting them to reflect on their own experiences while immersed in the haunting beauty of the music.

Ultimately, "Bury Me" is a compelling and resonant piece that showcases the band's early artistry and sets the foundation for their future explorations of the human experience. As it seamlessly intertwines emotion and sound, it continues to captivate audiences, inviting them to confront their buried truths in the labyrinth of love and identity.