#'And if for instance you ever love someone just sing a dull song' this one too;_; | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

lettrespromises · 4 years

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> LettresPromises informs you : You have one notification.

💌.anon sent a letter:

❝hi there!:) do you think that i can request a headcannon with nishinoya and akaashi(separated) and how they would react when they find out the reader can sing? i’m sorry if i requested incorrectly!❞

💌.the author’s letter:

❝dear anon,

thank you for both requesting correctly and for trusting me with that wonderful idea of yours— i hope these letter will meet your expectations. take care of yourself!

sealed with a kiss,

nikki.❞

> Akaashi Keiji sent you a letter, would you like to read it?

I do believe that Akaashi has some sense of connection to arts whether it’s literature, music or paintings. He just appreciates various forms of arts as it matches his calm nature and he seeks comfort in art whenever he wants to take a mental break from school and relax.

So, naturally, Akaashi entertains a certain liking for music in particular. He also likes to create links between the emotions weighing on his heart and the musics he’s bound to choose. For instance, his musical genre of predilection when he’s studying is either classical music or lofi music. He just believes that studying whilst listening to music with lyrics will distract him from the dull alignements of sentences inked in his textbook.

It’s one of these moments— when Akaashi is at your place studying with you because you’re a firm believer that group studying motivates you as you’re under Akaashi’s watch. On the other one hand, Keiji doesn’t miss this chance to spend time with you, even if you’re studying.

You just can’t seem to concentrate, Akaashi does regularly use music to focus as his memory offers him the ability to remember things better when he associates informations to sounds but you unfortunately don’t share that.

So you’re just staring at the ceiling, hoping that in a way or another, you will miraculously be able to retain all the information at once.

Spoiler : it never works.

Akaashi, on the other one hand, is living his best life— the lofi music is echoing in the room, he can feel your presence, he has the sentiment that he’s actually remembering what’s on his notes, he even smiles at himself for doing so.

So eventually, you just decide to leave your bedroom with the excuse of saying that you’re going to take a break and have a snack but truthfully, you know you can’t stay in there any longer and need a distraction from this.

As soon as you reach the kitchen and take a mug whilst the water is boiling, you hum to yourself the lyrics of a song you heard on the radio while your fingers tap the surface of the counter to set a tempo.

You don’t know why this song in particular, it probably has the ideal rhythm to be stuck in your head subconsciously.

But soon enough, as the boiling machine rivals the level of sound of your hums, you take it a bit further and apply more pressure on your vocal cords and find yourself actually singing in the middle of your kitchen.

The words leave your lips in a magical manner, as if they were dripping in honey, and the soft sounds of your fingers tapping against the counter and the spoon hitting your mug give you the perfect musical set to continue.

Eventually, you become lost in harmony and continue doing so as you pour the scorching hot water in your mug as the bag of tea infuse and colors the transparent liquid.

And you reach the extent where you become so lost that you don’t even hear the steps hitting the steps of the stairs, one must admit that your voice is covering the noise.

Akaashi stops for a moment, truthfully, he wanted to come down to check on you and perhaps to give himself a little break as well as a form of guilty pleasure. But his orbs grow a gleam in their irises which reflects all the love he has for you and he’s wondering if you can feel how much he loves you just from that stare alone.

He doesn’t dare to interrupt you, he just wants to bask in your glory and soak in the beauty of this instant as he finds his eardrums being blessed by your voice sent from heaven. He finds himself using his palm to rest is head on whilst his forelimb is laying on the ramp of the stairs to enjoy even further the moment.

But oh, as you turn around to put the assortment of teas right where it belonged, your eyes widen in surprise and the melody leaving your lips fades to allow the appearance of a sound of surprise instead. The grip. on the assortment tightens, the tip of your fingers turn white due to the pressure, it’s the sole way you found to evacuate how shameful you were.

“Why did you stop singing all of a sudden, love? I thought you sang beautifully.” Akaashi states and you could tell truth predominated his tone, he tilts his head ever so slightly to the side to emphasize his interrogation.

“Keiji, um-... You weren’t exactly supposed to hear all of this.” You stutter and the words almost die on your lips due to how embarrassed you’re feeling and the rosy tone coloring your cheeks emphasizes that.

“I don’t see anything to feel ashamed of.” He continues as he’s reducing the space between the two of you ever so calmly not to startle you because you look like a deer caught in the headlights. “You have the sound of an angel, has anyone ever told you that?” Akaashi concludes his sentence with a smile, but you don’t fail to miss the genuine love showing through the corner of his smile.

You mirror the same smile in return but felt obligated to hide your face, now burnt by the compliments, in Akaashi’s chest. He considers each time he manages to successfully fluster you as a secret victory.

Akaashi lets his fingertips run through the roots of your hair and delivers a soft peck upon the crown of your hair, it was so light, you thought you had missed it for a second.

“Will you sing for me more often, love? Call me selfish, but I just can’t get enough of your voice.” He asks as he is kissing his interrogation into your skin, and you just hum against his chest in response.

And ever since that day, Akaashi stopped listening to classical or lofi music, he only swears by your voice to study.

> Nishinoya Yuu sent you a letter, would you like to read it?

Now, now, this one is... Less calm than Akaashi.

Out of the two of you, he’s always the one who’s singing his lungs out until reaching the limits of his vocals cords: you can’t count the days where you had to nurse him by showering him in honey and warm milk to soothe his martyr of a throat.

Nishinoya will and can sing anywhere : training, in the hallways of school, at Tanaka’s place, in the shower. His... singing talents know no limit and he feels like he has the duty to share his “talents” with the rest of the world to make this world a better place.

You, on the other one hand, feel a bit more reserved to sing in front of him and always find the excuse that you don’t want to outshine his vocal abilities, something Noya will first pout at then grin in satisfaction.

(He knows he’s a star, it’s just a matter of time until he sells out concert venues.)

So picture this— you’re coming back from practice with Noya, and like every Friday nights, the tradition states that the both of you spend the night together and watch movies while snacking and cuddling, a dreamy program, right?

And like every Friday night, you always take your shower before the movie starts because, deep down, you know you’re bound to pass out as you reach the first half of the movie (and Noya has to carry you back to your room, every, single, time.)

Anyone can agree on the fact that taking a shower equals being alone in the world and pure serenity enveloping you. In other words, the shower is the best stage you could have asked for to reveal your talents in singing.

Your fingertips brush the tip of the shampoo bottle before firmly grasping it, and magically, the plain shampoo bottle turnt into the most sophisticate of microphones.

And thus the concert begins, it’s a medley of all your favorite songs and the purity of your voice embraces perfectly the lyrics as they flow freely out of your mouth, as if you had written the songs yourself.

Your grip tightens on the shampoo bottle until your fingertips turn white, but the passion running through this pseudo microphone echoes to the passion coursing through your vocal cords as you apply specific attention to match the higher tones of certain notes.

However, high notes, especially when they come from a room where the sound is muffled by the sound of the water hitting the tiles, may or may not sound like a scream of distress to a certain someone...

... And by a certain someone, I mean none other than Nishinoya.

The latter slams the door open, the fantasy of being the brave knight in shiny armor and help his significant other is vivid in his head and truthfully, it added more fuel to the motivation of his deeds.

“Babe? I heard you screaming! Are you alr-...!” Noya trails off before being mesmerized by the sound of your voice enveloping his eardrums in pure bliss.

But, that’s when you scream in surprise.

So Nishinoya also screams back in surprise.

“Noya?! What are you doing here? I’m clearly taking a shower!”

“You were screaming and I thought you hurt yourself or something so I came to check up on you, my beautiful significant other for whom I worship the floor you walk on!”

“I was not screaming, I was singing!” And that’s how you threw yourself to the wolves, you secretly thanked the presence of the shower curtain to hide your embarrassment and the growing blush on your cheeks which was certainly not due to the heat of the water.

“Alright then! You take your shower and I’ll sit here while listening to the voices of the angels.”

“Noya, you’re too much...”

And that’s how you spent the rest of your evening by organizing karaokes in the living room, and throwing aside the usual movie night, singing your lungs out until you both reached exhaustion.

Needless to say, Noya was upset you hid this from him, but now he’s so glad he has a singing buddy.

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slashingdisneypasta · 4 years

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Teenage!Chucky x Fem!Reader || Oneshot

Title: There Are Worse Things You Could Do

Notes:

This is, of course, based loosely on the song from Grease that Rizzo sings, ‘There Are Worse Things I Could Do’.

Chitty Chitty Bang Bang is a repressed childhood memory. I know I watched it multiple times, but I forgot everything. This is only barely relevant.

I’m obsessed with teenage!Slashers x Readers... I don't think I’ve written for normal adult Chucky, oops.

Plot:

You’re having an emotional night, when all the things build up and you just feel like crap. And on the top of the list? Why, what everyone else seems to think of you, of course! Its always the way.

Don’t worry though, your no-judgment friend comes to lay out the law. There are worse things you could be doing, babe.

And, theirs also romance brewing if you read the bonus part XD

Warnings: Talk of slut shaming, sexual references, swears- a general PG rating though I think? Not worse then How I Met Your Mother I don't think, except it contains more swears.

~~~

“Hey, sexy legs. You’re usually in bed by now aren’t you?” Chucky’s voice calls through your open window and your phone, and you look over to see him there rather then at his home, talking to you on the phone. Your eyes widen from surprise, appropriately. As one would do when someone climbs through your window without warning.

“What are you doing here??” You get up quickly and close your bedroom door. Everyone else in the house is asleep, but you aren’t taking any chances, and lock it as well. You should be in bed, honestly. You’re in your pyjamas and everything -Oversized hoodie and undies, -. You know you would probably feel better about… the world in general, or more specifically yourself in this particular instance… if you did go to sleep for a while. You’re aware. You know this. But… no. Something in you says to just stay awake and suffer through it.

Its lovely.

You two sit down on your bed, getting comfy at the headboard beside each other as he explains, coarsely and shortly, that he doesn’t like talking on the phone. You don’t know why you’re comfortable with Chucky -he’s crude and reeks of bad decisions, -, but… eh. You started talking to him at the start of the year since he was the only other person in one of your new classes that didn’t have a friend there, and he stuck like a bad smell. You are pretty attached to it -him, - though, you guess. Gathering a pillow to your chest and raising your knees up to chin level, you chew the inside of your cheek instead of responding again. You don’t know what to say. He knows how you feel right now- maybe he’ll impart some wisdom onto you.

Peaking over at him and his frustratingly untaken care of hair, you roll your eyes. Yeah right. Chucky cant even take care of his, now, thicket of hair.

When he doesn’t say anything, just looks down the bed at your doona cover, you gather the courage to fish for an explanation. “Why are people so mad that I’m a-a... a… “Suddenly, the word ‘slut’ dies on your tongue as your heart makes a pained yelp about it. Usually, you don’t have a problem with the word. Why should you? Its’ just a word. But… but the looks you get from the people who say it, those hit a different hit a different way. And that’s what has messed you up tonight. Cold looks and disgusted mouths, like you’re a used rag… full of fucking STD’s, or something… Touching your lips instead to the pillow, you shake your head. “Why are they so mean?”

You’ve never hurt anyone. Any guy that you engage with is fully aware what’s happening; You never lead them on to think it’s anything more then just sex. And the last thing you would ever do is make someone uncomfortable- in fact, you probably do too much to avoid that possibility.

But people still… you don’t understand. You don’t understand. Why can’t you just do something you like? What do you have to do to make it okay??!

He rolls his head against the headboard to turn and face you. You don’t shy away from his dull, deadly serious gaze. “Haven’t you figured it out yet? People suck.”

“I, don’t suck.” You press your lips firmly together in a straight line. Even if you are feeling crappy, you wont sink into a puddle of self-despising gruel… even if that is, in fact, how you feel inside. Saying it would only make it real, and some things just don’t need to be made real. Fake it until you make it, cry-baby. You nod to him. “You don’t suck… “Then your lips quirk up a bit, to lighten the mood. “Much.”

“No, see, that’s why I hang out with you! So supportive and encouraging.” He forces a grin for your benefit, looking forward again but this time towards the ceiling. Why is he so down, you wonder?

You force a laugh from your chest. “Yeah.” Closing your eyes, enjoying a little bit the cold of the wood of the headboard against your cheek. “I just don’t understand- “

“Y/N.” The sternness and the steely annoyance in his voice suddenly, cause you to open your eyes and see what’s on his face- ah, it matches his voice. “The only thing you haveta’ understand, is that those people that talk about you because you fuck around, are worthless. Bitch,” You raise your eyebrows and widen your eyes at the name he just called you and he let’s out a dry laugh, looking amazed for a moment as he thinks about those people. Then, leaning into you and talking like he has all the wisdom in the world in his head, he assures you. “There are worse things you could be doing. Trust me.”

Letting out a deep breath and the tension, your roll your eyes and turn forward, thinking about that. Its true, you suppose.

Hugging the pillow tighter and scooching over to collapse into his side, suddenly wanting his affection as well as his words, and because you’re drained, you sigh. “Sorry, I don’t feel much better, but thank you for saying that.” It may have been put kind of crudely… or very crudely… but you’re aware that he meant well. So, you are grateful. Wordlessly, like its somehow the most natural thing in the world, like you’ve done this together before which you most certainly haven’t, Chucky situates himself to make you both more comfortable. Raising his arm so you can fit under it and resting it over your shoulders and shuffling to fit better against you. “You want to watch a movie with me?” Honestly, you just don’t want him skipping off just yet.

Its nice to connect this way with your friend.

You didn’t realise how nice it would feel to spend time like this with him. You would be very, very discontented if he left now.

“Yeah, but I’m picking which fucking one. Leave it up to you in this state, and you’ll put in freaken Sound of Music.”

A few minutes later, after Chucky has thoroughly looked through and critiqued, -and you use ‘critiqued’, very loosely. He mostly insults your five movies, - your small DVD stack and put something in, and returned to the bed and your position from before -even throwing the doona over you both, saying his legs are cold. Which, to that, you give him a slow nod. Yeah right. Sure, - Disney’s opening scene plays, with the castle and Tinkerbelle, and you suppress a snort. But you can’t hide the grin, or stop the words from coming out of your mouth. “’Sound of Music’s bad, but ‘101 Dalmatians’ is okay?” The less you think about your feelings before, the less relevant they seem when you look back two minutes in hindsight. You feel more and more your normal self.

“It was this or fucking ‘Chitty Chitty Bang Bang’, and that’s not happening. Your collection sucks.”

“My collection rocks, you dumbass.”

“Shush, its about to start, No talking during the movie.” His eyes are glued to the screen now, as the beginning credits roll. You grin, but scrunch up your nose too.

“Jesus Christ, you’re one of those? - “A wide, spiteful grin rips across his mouth.

“You betcha! Now shut up, theirs a punishment if you talk.”

Quickly, you turn to the TV. “Oh, jeez.” You shut up as he demanded, at the mention of a punishment.

OPTIONAL BONUS! The next morning- you had to see this coming

Waking up in the morning, you rub your eyes and look over to see Chucky’s blurry figure, still fully clothed from what you can tell including his jacket -hopefully not his boots, - you flash the sleeping boy a courtesy smile for how nice he was to you last night and move your stuff body slowly off the bed and out from under the covers. You imagine your stiffness if from staying in one position the whole freaken night- it was nice, but now your back and your arm are dying.

But… as you put up your hair in a quick ponytail and walk by the mirror, ready to get dressed and wait around for Chucky to wake up so you can see him off, you realise something is… missing, here. Looking down immediately, you realise what it is, and your eyes grow wider then ever before. Like, a full on ‘Oh-My-God-I-Didn’t-Even-Realise-Or-Remember!!’ face and you would have gasped loudly if you hadn’t thought quickly and pressed your lips hard together.

Your underwear. Your underwear is what is gone.

“Goddamnit Y/N, tell me you didn’t… “You whisper, panicking shortly as you pull on some clean ones, and then tip toe around the bed, looking for any sign that Chucky’s pants are anywhere but on him. When you don’t find it, you go ahead and pull up the blanket at the end of the bed and check -not pulling up high enough to see anything but his legs below the knee at first, - that his legs are covered in the pants. You let out more and more of a relieved breath as he continues to be covered all the way up to his waist. If anyone were watching this, they would laugh like a hyena at your antiques and your expression.

But, even as you discover that he still had his bottom garments on, memories come right back to you from the night and you realise how doomed you are.

It happened. It sure did. You and Chucky Ray fucked last night. Oh god! Oh, dear god!

“I mean, thank God I had condoms in here at least?” You mutter to yourself, sinking down on the bed and covering your face in your hands in embarrassment. “Ugh… “

Also, you think as you remember the events, face still in your hands, it was really good. Not the point right now, but you did learn an important thing last night.

It sure ain’t about size- what they say is true. It really is about what you do with it.

Y/N goddamnit that is absolutely not the point here.

“Aghhh, I knowwww… “You whisper back to your own thoughts.

A minute later, Chucky wakes up and you peak over your shoulder at him when he sits up, as guilty as a child with jam on your hands. You don’t actually have any jam of course, but there certainly is a stain somewhere. And a certain sticky sensation still under your underwear. “… Hi Chucky. Do you… happen to remember… what happened last night?”

He but smirks at you.

You respond by deadpanning. Well, in that case, you’re not embarrassed anymore either. Getting up, you scratch the back of your head and move to goon with your day. Shower, first of course. “Okay, well if you’re done here I gotta take a shower and clean up what is probably a nasty mess,” You squint pointedly at him. “That you left, wherever you dropped the condom.” You can’t imagine Chucky was courteous and found a bin for it.

“Goodbye kiss?”

“Wh- “You look back at him from the bedroom door that you were about to leave out of, see him grinning and roll your eyes. Ah, joking. He’s joking. Funny man! Not that you would have kissed him it was a legit request… aha, not at all! You didn’t want that! … hahahaha… “You’re very funny.” Then your eyes widen, and you rush back to your dresser for your body lotion. “Oh! I forgot my- “Focusing on rifling through your dresser, you don’t really pay attention to what Chucky is up to. You do hear him get out of the bed, but you suspect he’s headed for the window. When you find the pretty purple bottle, you go to turn and waive bye to him but end up stuck in place.

He's behind you, and his hands are on your hips again. Keeping you in place this time as you hug your lotion bottle and look like a deer in headlights, vaguely sceptical about this, and find his eyes in the mirror. “… yes?”

“Y/N, I was serious about that goodbye kiss.” A wicked grin catches his eyes that sends a surprising, new feeling down from your heart to… let’s just say another place... “Unless you want me to join you in the shower.”

For a moment you just pause and take in the moment for what it is- very arousing and also the beginning of a wonderful new chapter in your friendship. Then you scoff and smack him gently with the purple lotion bottle. “My parents are awake now, are you crazy? Now go home, I’ll text you later.”

You turn around, as if you’re going to fly past him and out the door but he manages to press forward in time and stick you to the dresser, hands on your waist and knee between your legs now. With the golden morning light slipping through the still open window from last night that he had crawled through, in the perfect light of day and not the secret stars, like you’re actually a couple, Chucky gives you a kiss that you reciprocate all too eagerly. Its just as good as last night, maybe better.

“… Hey Y/N? I have a solution to your problem last night that I think you’ll like. By definition, a slut is a woman who has many fuckbuddies. I have a special onetime only proposition for you babe that’ll grind that number down to just one.”

#Chucky x Reader #Charles Lee Ray #Chucky #Charles Lee Ray x Reader #Oneshot

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the-dead-sea-trilogy · 4 years

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WIP Wednesday: Ophelia and the King’s Madness

expected to be about 100k+ words total, 50% complete

Hi and welcome to another WIP Wednesday!! Today I’m sharing Ophelia and the King’s Madness, which is a spin off from my Hardenshipping Dead Sea Trilogy that focuses on Colress, the novelty third wheel, and his time in Team Plasma.

Ghetsis hires Colress to look after his daughters who, despite being adults, live completely isolated from the outside world. But Anthea and Concordia find themselves smitten with the man who brings so many strange and wonderful things to them. But as their relationship develops, Concordia slowly discovers the truth of who he and her father really are, and must face the choice to leave everything in her world behind.

Hit me during quarantine while I was...... stuck inside all day and couldn’t leave my house........ funny how life does that to you.

There will be mild - but not explicit - sexual themes. But today is just a preview! Colress and Ghetsis dunking on one another.

I ripped this straight off my google doc so enjoy all my typos and funny musings ✨

Link on AO3

Ko-Fi Tip Jar

(Full text below the cut)

Chapter 0.5??? (AT RISE? CURTAIN???)

Colress Achroma had seen every sight there was to see in Castelia City. There was nothing new about the subway station, the cars, the lights, the people, the noise, and even his own apartment. Nothing fulfilling about the bars, the clubs, the drinks, the parties.[---maybe mention something about the people who lurk in the subway station/swers and how weird they are--]

And while it was objectively true that there were perhaps hundreds--if not, thousands--of new things to do--drink, fuck--every day, for Castelia City had no shortage of people like him--nothing felt particularly new. Not since he had moved back from the Hoenn region, where he had completed his PhD, which had grown especially underwhelming in its own regard. While he had certainly missed the sheer expanse of the city in that time--ever since getting his PhD--which had turned out to be nothing but dull barrier after dull barrier--he felt incredibly, painfully understimulated. And so, he sat in the [bleak] alleyway in the dark, grimy underbelly of his hometown, spinning the petals of a white rose in his hand, waiting for something new.

No, he wasn’t there for a hookup. He knew better places than here for that. He knew this underground tunnel system perhaps even better than the subways themselves, even as it ran adjacent to them. Admittedly, the cryptlike sewer system had become something of a second home to him, ever since he was a kid. Here in his favorite corner, for instance, there were still even smears of ash from when he had started a fire when he was 14 and narrowly escaped the police. That, particularly, was the first of what was soon going to become many narrow run-ins with the law. No, he wasn’t here to sell or solicit, even though he was told someone would meet him here.

Okay so when put like that, it might as well have been a hookup.

But as he sat perched up on a ledge, scanning shadows in the dim, yellowy light on the wall--down past the shadows that scooted across the filthy waterways--he saw a long, black shadow emerge from the darkness. [add in the flower ‘he loves me, he loves me not’ thing?]. Although, it was more as if the cloak had pulled off and carried teh darkness with him. The man was large; and wore a long, black cloak; his footsteps, which would have otherwise been almost soundless and serpentine, were interjected with a thud from his cane--forcing him to walk in an uneven, cacophonic rhythm. He leaned into his left, and leaned into it hard. In fact, with the hsape of the cloak, and the way he walked, even from here, it would appear almost as if the man entirely lacked a right hand.

Colress dropped another white petal down from the ledge. “He loves me,” he said, then glanced up at the man and smiled. He slid down off the ledge and stared up at the large man, the grossish yellowish light grossly illuminating his face. “You came.”

“I was told I could find someone here.”

“Well, you found correctly,” Colress said, waving the flower around. “Now, what exactly is it you want? I’m not accepting clients, if that’s what you’re after. But, there are plenty of girls down here who, if you pay them right--”

“Enough,” the man said, spitting on the ground at Colress’ feet. His voice boomed, nearly echoed down the chamber. “I’m not here for a prostitute.”

“The polite term is ‘sex worker,’ actually, but--”

“I’m looking for a scientist, not a whore.”

“Lucky for you, I’m both,” Colress said, smiling. The man stops and stares at him, incredulously, like he doesn’t think he could be serious. Colress flashes some sort of badge at him. “How can I help you?”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Oh I am,” Colress said. They stare off again at one another, Ghetsis is like “Nevermind this has to be a mistake” and starts tot turn to go.

“I thought you might be a little apprehensive, given our location, but I promise, only the best of the best gather in the nighttime here in Castelia City,” Colress said, reaching into his bag. “After all, how would you have gotten your contacts to get ahold of me? I prepared for you my entire CV--” he extended the document to him [basically traps him from leaving]. The man raised his eyebrows, but tentatively accepted it. “Although, you should know this is quite the unusual place for a job interview.” [Colress gives him a devious grin.] “I dig it.”

“Jesus Christ,” the man muttered, scanning over the document.

“What? Overwhelmed and amazed at my outstanding credentials?”

“No,” the large man said. “I had heard the rumors. I just didn’t believe they were fucking true .”

“Ah, so I have a reputation I see! That’s good news,” Colress said. “You should have a clue as to who I am, then. However, unfortunately I’m still not sure with whom I have the pleasure of--” Colress paused, now seeing the profile of the man in the low light. “Wait a moment,” he said, beginning to recognize the face. “I’ve see you before. You’re…” [the memory comes to him] “You’re Ghetsis Harmonia,” he said. “The leader of Team Plasma. All those ones going around talking about all that ‘Pokemon’s Rights’ bullshit--”

“Pokemon liberation.”

“Oh and the airship! Quite a mechanical wonder, I have to admit. I’ve always sort of wanted to get up close and personal with that antigravity machine,” he said. He leaned in to Ghetsis with a sing-song tone. “Are you here to give me a ride~!”

“Only if you’re useful.”

“Useful?” Colress asked. “In what way?”

[is he like a court jester to a king????]

“I’ve already told you I’m not accepting clients. That’s never been my game anyway. Useful? To Lord Ghetsis Harmonia… isn’t that what they call you? My lordship? My king? Leader of a selfless, benevolent organization devoted to the freedom of Pokemon. It’s quite ambitious, I have to say. I’ve never really seen anything quite like it.”

Ghetsis was silent.

“But what could a proud, noble, and upstanding lord want with a--ah, what was it you called me?”

[MAKE SUR EHE CALLS HIM SOMETHING BEFORE THIS]

“‘A sewer rat’ like me…?”

“Research,” Ghetsis said, shortly.

“Oh?” Colress asked. “Of what kind? Surely we didn’t have to meet in such a remote location to go over my CV. We could have gotten lunch. Oh, or brunch--! ”

“Enough,” Ghetsis said, more sternly. “I won’t tolerate this level of [silliness? Pfffft No better word].”

“Then what do you need of me, my lord?”

“I need you for research. A very particular kind of research my own scientists believe you to be capable of.”

“Oh, scientists from down here?” Colress said. “Word certainly does get around. But what makes you think so?”

[Ghetsis hands him some kind of flyer from a battle or tournament or something]

“How’d you do it?” he asked.

Colress raised his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

“Your thesis was about DNA and Mega-Evolution,” Ghetsis said. “And this,” Ghetsis pointed again to the page. “You enhanced its power for competition.”

“I didn’t enhance anything,” Colress said, flatly. The flatness in his voice, however, spelled sarcasm. “The ‘power of friendship’ did that. If I had enhanced anything, that would be cheating, wouldn’t it?” Colress paused. Examines Ghetsis. “Of course, the ‘power of friendship’ in this scenario might involve a few extra nuts and bolts. Nothing more.”

[ Ghetsis like grunts or makes one of his Ghetsis noises. Colress kind of turns and looks at him. Ghetsis maybe says something like [We could pay you well to do it again] or something etc.]

“But what would a noble Lord want with a researcher like me? What would an upstanding and noble, pacifist organization like Team Plasma possibly want to do with Pokemon battling power? And, with you coming to me in such circumstances, I’m beginning to think that you’re either horny, or Team Plasma isn’t exactly what it says it is.”

“We have certain aspects that we keep only to the initiated.”

“Well, it’s a cult, isn’t it?” Colress said. “I mean, Team Plasma is a cult. You all walk around in hats and robes, handing out pamphlets and preaching about love and destiny and higher wisdom. And you at the very helm.”

Pause.

“Well, if this is a personal invitation to join your freaky little cult, I’m afraid to tell you I’m not really religious, and I don’t really plan on ‘being saved’ any time soon--”

“I heard you weren’t satisfied with your day job.”

“Day job? What day job?” Colress laughed. “I don’t need to work for a living.”

“Exactly.”

Long pause.

“I do what I want. I’ve been waiting for the right opportunity to come around.”

“And what exactly is that opportunity, Colress?”

[Long pause. Colress decides it’s time to spill. Something pulls him to know to understand what Ghetsis is there for, air of malice.]

“Have you heard of an organization called Cipher?”

“Faintly.”

“They were a criminal organization responsible for the ‘Shadow Pokemon’ incident that happened about a decade ago in the Orre region.”

Ghetsis raised his eyebrows, interested.

“They operated in secret laboratories in abandoned warehouses scattered throughout the region. Their laboratory director, Ein, was behind the conception of the project,” Colress said. “In his profile, he is described as someone ‘long on ambition and short on emotion,’ something to which I think we both can relate.”

“Mhm,” Ghetsis siad.

“Ein was the pioneer behind the creation of these creatures--Shadow Pokemon. Pokemon capable of entering this hyper-empowered state.”

[Maybe more nods.]

“I always sort of wished I could talk to Ein. But, unfortunately like any other criminal organization, they were eventually found out, and their records destroyed.”

“So what was the point in you telling me all that?”

“Please let me monologue.” [Say something about how like if he’s going to join an evil organization he’s only going to get a chance in this once in his life--also maybe it’s like he’s given ghim a sales pitch??]

They stare at each other.

“What they were doing was highly illegal, of course. Though, I couldn’t stop myself from wondering, if, given the opportunity, I could do better.”

[They have a moment where they’re on the same page.]

“Cipher’s mistake was that the Pokemon were strong, but ultimately uncontrollable,” Colress said. “Their approach, ironically enough, was too emotional. This flimsy control maxed out Pokemon’s power, but brought them into a manic state that made them lash out uncontrollably. This lack of control also made it an easy effect for anyone to reverse. A handful of people were known for doing so. They called it Purification. ‘Opening the door to a Pokemon’s heart,’ that’s what they called it. In fact, that’s even how Ein himself chose to define it,” Colress said.

[Colress turns and then laughs]. “That’s what he called it. Can you believe? ‘Opening and closing the doors to the heart…” what the fuck does that even mean? Some bullshit phrasing they made up to describe the process of divorcing a creature from its emotional integrity. ‘Hearts’ and ‘doors’ aren’t measurable data. It was a chemical they were using. A wave. Cipher’s true methods, as I’ve said, were unfortunately lost to time. But, we do have the work of Professor Krane, who developed a more regimented procedure for purifying these Pokemon,” Colress said, smiling. “It’s a wave. They used EM waves.”

“Congratulations.”

“The way I see it, Cipher’s approach likely targeted the limbs, so to speak, rather than the creature as a whole. This left weak points that Krane and other purification scientists were able to exploit. If they wanted to truly be successful, they would have had to find a way to overrun the entire mind of the creature,” Colress said.

“So success would mean absolute control?”

“Yes,” Colress said. “Precisely.”

“That I can agree with you on.”

Another pause. “Theoretically, one would be able to use the work put forth by Professor Krane to reverse-engineer the way that Cipher created these Pokemon, and then build upon it for their own ends. To do so would be highly unethical, of course, and cause quite a stir in most procedural review boards,” he said. “So it remains a fantasy that I’ve considered, but never fully entertained. The bureaucrats win out again, and for good reason, I suppose.”

“That’s quite a tale you’ve spun for me.”

“Isn’t it?” Colress asked. “I always thought so. But that’s not what we’re here about, is it? We’re here for you,” [he turns to him and smiles]. “So, Lord Ghetsis Harmonia… cult-leader, king. What is it that I can do for you?”

“By the sound of it…” Ghetsis said, slowly. “Exactly what you want.”

Colress [does something], smiling. “Then, gratefully, my lord, I am ever at your service.” [Maybe kisses rose and tosses it at his feet? → this ties him back to Concordia]

#wip wednesday #the dead sea trilogy #ophelia and the king's madness #colress #concordia #team plasma #ghetsis harmonia #n harmonia #team plasma colress #look i understand this is kind of a weird slash rare pairing ok but look #we dont choose our fics our fics choose us #anthea and concordia #ghetsis #my writing #my fic #this whole thing is one big godiva commercial but a psa against colress

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freckles-things · 4 years

Text

GO Secret Santa

It was a cold, grey and rainy night. One would expect to look outside and see a beautifully decorated street, illuminated doubly by the reflecting sparkles of the snow - it was Christmas Eve after all.

This year however, the gloomy outsides represented the general atmosphere. The year had been hard. And even though it had had its good days and events and had shown just how much kindness and love humanity can carry, people were feeling exhausted by its ups and downs and the mental toll it had taken on many. Those living alone or having family in other countries had to accept that they would celebrate alone.

A certain pair of supernatural beings hadn't had the best year either. While a certain demon had tried to sleep the time of social distancing away (only waking up once a month to make sure the situation hadn't changed), a certain angel had spent a lot of the time alone. In the beginning he had been sad and a little disappointed, but after a good two months he had endeavoured to help his humans during this state of crisis (like he had done in many before) and bring them little slivers of joy.

Today both beings sat in the comfortable backroom of the bookshop. They (Aziraphale) had eaten a simple but delicious meal and were currently nursing their mulled wine.

Crowley had listened as his angel had told him all about what he'd done the last year, he himself didn't have anything to talk about. However, he couldn't deny the slight pang of guilt as he listened. He knew that Aziraphale must have felt lonely during all of this, but he'd always been exceptionally bad at dealing with those situations. In the past he'd taken the credit hell did give him (always for things he hadn't done) and went to sleep, not being able to deal with all the misery.

As he watched his angel talk excitedly, the glow of the fireplace making his face glow even more, a sudden idea popped in his had. They'd never danced together.

With a snap of his fingers a soft melody started to sound through the room.

"What's this, my dear? You could have just told me if I was talking too much", he said while directing a bemused smile at the demon.

Crowley however disregarded the statement and held out his hand.

"Dance with me, Angel."

"What? My dear, you know that I don't dance."

"Please, angel?"

Well, Aziraphale never really could refuse him if he said please, so sighing a little he placed his hand in Crowley's and let himself be pulled towards his lanky frame.

For a moment he stood awkwardly, looking at the demon.

"I don't really know what to do..."

Crowley just threw a crooked grin at him and pulled him even closer, until he was able to wrap his arms around his angels waist.

"Just lay your hands on my shoulders, angel. And for someone's sake, relax! Just follow my movements"

A little hesitantly he followed Crowley's instructions, and they soon started to softly sway to the music.

"When you're still waiting for the snow to fall

Doesn't really feel like Christmas at all"

Outside the rain had nearly stopped, only a few drops still falling onto the ground. And while many windows were illuminated by a soft, warm glow, the usual cheery atmosphere was absent.

Taking his gaze away from the window, Aziraphale let his eyes wander the planes of his shop. Everything was familiar, but it always felt more like home when Crowley was there.

"Up above candles on air flicker

Oh they flicker and they float

And I'm up here holding on

To all those chandeliers of hope"

He was glad to have his demon back. He would never begrudge him his coping mechanism, he knew that Crowley was rather sensitive to the negative feelings of humanity. Once, in the beginning, he had convinced him to help during a human made crisis. Crowley had been miserable, feeling the despair and sadness tenfold. After that, after seeing how much it hurt him, he never asked again. Still, he had helped in many instances. The great flood, the plagues and several wars, just to name a few. And Aziraphale respected and loved him so much for it, he wasn't sure if he had been able had their positions been reversed. Thinking about it, he couldn't help but tighten his grip a little.

Meanwhile, Crowley was thinking along similar lines. He thought about how Aziraphale always had been one of the first to help humanity trough one of their crises, often while Heaven had frowned upon his actions. He'd even acted against explicit instructions a few times, taking his punishment in strides and with his head held high. He often mused over the fact that the humans were very lucky to have his angel's loyalty. As was he.

As Aziraphale's grip tightened slightly, he couldn't help but pull him a little closer towards himself.

"Like some drunken Elvis singing

I go singing out of tune

Saying how I always loved ya darling

And I always will"

"I am so lucky to have you, Angel. I don't think I've ever told you how much you mean to me", Crowley murmured into Aziraphale's ear. A contend hum was his answer until he answered just as quiet:

"I've always known, my dear. I can feel it. Besides, I am the lucky one, really, to be the one to have you in my life. It would be dreadfully dull without you".

Silence fell over the room, only the soft sound of the music filling their ears.

"Besides, the bookshop never quite feels the same when you're not around. It feels more like home when you're in it", Aziraphale confessed after a short while.

A soft "Ngk" was his only answer for a while. He didn't mind, though. He knew that Crowley needed to process what he'd said.

"I don't know what to say, angel." His voice was soft, but a little helpless.

"You don't have to say anything, darling"

"Those Christmas lights

Light up the street

Down where the sea and city meet

May all your troubles soon be gone

Oh Christmas lights keep shining on"

Silence reigned for another few moments, before Crowley opened his mouth again.

"I am sorry that I wasn't around those past few months, then. I just..."

Aziraphale brought one hand up to gently cup his cheek.

"You don't have to apologize, Crowley. I know how hard this is for you. I'd never force you to go through that. It's just something I realized during the last months. It's rather funny, to be honest. I was talking to an elderly Lady, who told me that she'd learned to appreciate the presence of her loved ones during this Pandemic. She said, she noticed that she'd always taken it for granted until now. And I realized that I'd done the same."

He finally looked up to meet Crowley's gaze. Their eyes locked, and the demon seemed to search his face for something he apparently found.

A crooked smile appeared on his face.

"A loved one, huh?"

"Oh Christmas lights

Light up the street

Light up the fireworks in me

May all your troubles soon be gone

Those Christmas lights keep shining on"

Aziraphale could feel the slight blush creeping up his face, but he still kept his eyes locked on Crowley's.

A simple "yes" was his answer.

A blazing grin lit up the demon's face, as he moved his hands to cradle his angel's face.

"I guess that's the moment I should tell you that I love you too".

Warmth cursed through Aziraphale's body, and he couldn't help the stupid little grin that appeared on his face.

Seconds later warm lips pressed against his in a chaste kiss. Both supernatural beings had expected it to be grand and exciting, like a firework going off. However, what the kiss felt like was something far simpler. It felt like coming home.

Laying his forehead against Aziraphale's after he broke the kiss, he hummed happily.

"Sooo, I think I should set up camp in the bookshop then? I mean, I'll probably go back to sleep in January and if you feel better with me being here, I should find a spot where I can sleep. I also think I wouldn't be too grumpy if you woke me up sometimes", he grinned.

The next moment Aziraphale had pulled him back into a kiss, both beings sighing happily and feeling like they'd finally settled down.

Outside the now falling snowflakes reflected the warm glow from the fairy lights. The laughter of children could be heard, as some if them ran outside to greet the snow. Smiling faces looked outside windows to watch the first snow of the season fall.

Everything wasn't perfect, it was far from it. But in those moments they gathered the courage and strength to hold on for some more, in hopes that the next Christmas would be spent amidst family and loved ones again

------

The GO Secret Santa Present for @adhdfangirl (I used my second account to post this (entered with the Secret Santa with @potterheadandsherlocked , so don’t be confused).

I hope you enjoy it! I wish you a very happy christmas :)

(The song is Christmas Lights by Coldplay)

#good omens #Aziraphale #crowley #anthony j crowley #Ineffable Husbands #GO secret santa #christmas #aziraphale x crowley #goodomenssecretsanta2020

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exhaustedfander · 4 years

Note

For the oneshot request, could you please do some soft logince? Maybe Logan's had a hard day and Roman comforts him with some cuddles or smth?

You got it! It’s certainly been a while since I've written Logince, but it’s a ship I've loved for a while and one I had a lot of fun writing again.

a03 link

Word Count: 1,673

A Little Creature Comfort Never Hurt

Logan hesitated to say that he’d had a hard day. Yes, it had been rather tiring. Yes, one of his students had nearly burned the science department to the ground; it reminded him quite a bit of the shenanigans that Roman’s brother, Remus, liked to pull. It was a wonder that he was able to find any humor in the situation. But Logan hadn’t had a “hard day” per se, considering it could’ve certainly gone worse. Even more so, tonight was date night, and Logan intended to put his best foot forward despite his exhaustion.

Roman was making dinner and they were going to watch a movie together. If anything, the evening would be rather relaxing.

Logan sighed as he opened the door to their shared apartment, removing his shoes and placing his briefcase by the door. He could smell the heavy aromas of garlic and chicken coming from the kitchen, his lips upturning in a faint smile as Roman came to the doorway. He was clad in a “Kiss the Cook” apron that Logan had gotten him as a joke last Christmas, having not thought Roman would actually use it. It had been foolish not to know Roman would wear it every chance he had.

“Hello, love of mine,” Roman greeted in a sing-song-tone, walking up to him and throwing his arms around his shoulders and giving him a tight squeeze.

“Salutations, Roman. Dinner smells good.” Roman grinned, pulling Logan into a kiss that the teacher could’ve just melted into, had he allowed himself to do so. Instead he ignored the fact that he was nearly dead on his feet, pulling away and smiling at Roman.

“Thanks, nerd. Should be done in a few minutes. Could you go set the table?”

“Of course.”

Logan still found it odd sometimes, the domesticity that had fallen over his life. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t ever expected to find someone who he wanted to share a life with, he’d considered what his future might entail for years prior. It was just the fact that Roman had taken him by complete surprise. In all honesty, they hadn’t been on the best of terms for quite a while. Roman was a stage actor, a profession that Logan used to know almost nothing about; he still knew very little, but he’d tried to understand as much as he could for Roman’s sake. Logan had never quite understood the ways of the theater. Sure, he could research the great array of plays and performances as well as the rules to how to craft had been perfected as well as the technicality of everything, but that didn’t actually provide him with an understanding of why people enjoyed plays as much as they did.

He’d met Roman through a mutual friend of theirs, Patton, who Logan was fairly sure had been trying to set them up from the get-go. Logan had been sympathetic of the fact that Patton meant well as being as happy as he was in his own relationship with his husband, Virgil, would only want to encourage love in others. But when he met Roman, he was flabbergasted. How could this man be someone Patton could remotely believe to be his type?!

The first several months of being acquainted, many of their conversations devolved to full-blown arguments more times than not. Patton, sweet, sweet Patton, had tried to keep the peace between them but to no avail. It seemed they were destined to argue, and they did just that, any time they spent time with their friends or spent time alone together. Come to think of it, why were they spending time alone together? The question baffled Logan but still he found no answer. Surely, he despised Roman’s company…right?

Signs were pointing to no, considering the moment a quarrel of theirs had found a peak in tension the two of them had connected their lips in a fit of more than mere spur-of-the-moment passion. Logan, as it turned out, had feelings more than just animosity for Roman. All of those instances in which they’d been screaming their heads off at each other he’d unknowingly been becoming smitten with the brash man – and strangely enough, Roman felt the same.

Things didn’t fall into place automatically. There was a gap period where the pair weren’t exactly sure what to label their relationship, considering extensive amounts of conflict continuing between them. But as time went on more of their conflicts found resolutions, or at the very least apologetic make-ups. Roman was much more than the bold, overconfident actor who Logan had initially taken him to be. He came to recognize the kindness his boyfriend possessed that he was working to improve upon as well as how hard-working and determined he was. He was compassionate, and supportive, and far more loving than Logan had ever known.

It pushed Logan a great deal out of his comfort-zone, the affection that Roman was able to provide do freely and willingly. Logan’s relationship with his own emotions as well as human-touch in general was complicated, but being with Roman, he was able to find himself growing to embrace it.

Now here Logan found himself, nearly two years into a relationship with a man so unlike himself, but someone who brought him more joy than even he could conceive. Most of the time, he was deliriously happy in a way he’d never expected to be. He’d even attended a great deal of plays, some of which Roman performed in, some not, to show his appreciation for his partner’s craft. He still had little interest in the theater, but he had to admit that Roman was a spectacle onstage that rivaled the beauty of the constellations. He performed with such gusto, such genuineness and bravado that Logan would have to be a fool not to see the raw talent his boyfriend possessed.

So, to say the least, Logan took date night very seriously. They were both very busy individuals with their work, so some down-time spent together at home was something he cherished dearly. He wanted to express to Roman how much he loved him and adored his company. He was never as spontaneously romantic as his boyfriend was; sometimes Roman wrote him love-letters just for the hell of it, several pages long and sentimental enough to bring a tear to Logan’s eyes. But he could still do whatever possible to ensure that Roman understood that he cared.

Logan and Roman ate dinner and chatted idly about their days. Logan forwent explaining his deep-seeded exhaustion that was beginning to take a tole, determined to make the most of their time together.

It was only when they shut the lights out and Roman put on “one of Logan’s nerd science documentaries” that he liked so much did the weight of the day settle over him. He fought to keep his eyes on the screen, basking in Roman’s embrace but despite how much he willed it, he was dozing off before he knew it.

“Mmm – what?” Logan mumbled in confusion, shifting the blankets around him and realizing he was in bed without remembering how he’d come to be there, his glasses placed gingerly on the bedside table. Roman chuckled, turning their bedroom light out and sliding into bed beside him.

“You started drifting off, sleeping beauty,” Roman teased, “So I brought you to bed. I noticed that you looked tired when you came home but you should’ve said something. We could’ve rescheduled date-night and allowed you to get a few more hours of sleep.” Logan sat up, his mind still somewhat fuzzy with sleepiness.

“I apologize, dear. I’d tried to stay awake.” Roman grabbed his hand, the contact comforting and soft.

“Whatever are you sorry for, my love? You can’t help that you’re tired, you must’ve had a hard day.” Logan sighed. Was it pitiful that the feeling of Roman’s thumb brushing over his knuckles in a steady rhythm was already beginning to lure him back to his slumber?

“I suppose so. A student was messing with flammable liquids without proper instruction and a small fire started. Luckily, it was put out with little trouble, but quite exhausting nonetheless. And then I’d had a staff meeting that was as dull as ever. Did you know they’re talking about cutting this year’s trip to the Science Center? I was appalled.”

“Oh, you poor dear,” Roman cooed in a tone that had it been anyone else, Logan would’ve been positive Roman was making fun of him. Perhaps he was, if only a little, “Why didn’t you say something? I would’ve understood; you’ve put up with me in more sour moods than I’d dare to count.” Logan sighed, relaxing against his boyfriend as Roman ran a hand through his hair.

“I don’t know…I suppose I didn’t want to disappoint you. I enjoy our time together and I didn’t want to sacrifice it, even if I was a little overtired.”

“You could never be a disappointment, mí amour,” Roman drawled out flirtatiously, pressing a quick kiss to the back of Logan’s neck, “And I will always understand if you’re too tired or upset to do something. Just as you preach to me, physical health and mental health are incredibly important things that shouldn't be disregarded."

“Yes, but it’s different when I’m begging you to go to bed when it’s already past 3 am and you’ve hardly had anything to eat all day,” Logan scolded, though the feeling of Roman massaging his scalp took much of the bite out of his bark.

“Ah, but similar nonetheless.” Logan yawned, feeling Roman’s arms wrap around him as he pulled him into a cocoon of an embrace that he was positively helpless to. “Go to sleep, dearest. We can talk more in the morning. I love you with all my heart.” Logan had very little energy for a rebuttal of any kind, instead sinking further into the warmth that was Roman’s hug, closing his eyes and drifting back into slumber.

“I love you too.”

=+=

#logince #romantic logince #sanders sides #ts #sanders sides oneshot #ts oneshot #oneshot request #human au #fluff #cuteness #Logan loves Roman a whole lot but he's sleeeeeby #my writing #Sammy writes #exhaustedfander writes

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hmel78 · 4 years

Text

In conversation with Anthony Phillips ...

1967 – the World watched on as San Francisco experienced it’s ‘Summer Of Love’, and listened on as music reached the dizzy heights of psychedelic rock; Classical music seemed to be drowned out by the screams accompanying The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, The Who … Meanwhile, at Charterhouse school - one of Great Britain’s finest ‘public’ educational establishments in the idyllic English county of Surrey - a handful of budding young musicians, were busily trying to prove to their masters that banning guitar practice as a punishment for missed homework, would not stop the musical revolution that had begun to happen within it’s own splendid Gothic walls! Unsurprisingly, there is a noteable list of ‘Old Carthusians’ – including the composer Ralph Vaughan Williams, amongst numerous artists, actors, poets , sportsmen, TV personalities, journalists, politicians, and Bishops! – but we doubt that they could ever have imagined that they would also nurture, and eventually include in that list, the founder members of a band called … ‘Genesis’. Perhaps you have heard of them?

Peter Gabriel, Michael Rutherford, Tony Banks, Christopher Stewart, and … Anthony Phillips. Despite his departure from the band in 1970, Ant has never strayed from his musical path. His solo discography boasts in excess of 30 albums; in addition to that he enjoys an incredibly busy, and successful career as a TV and ‘library’ composer; and has been involved with a number of musical projects including collaborations with fellow ‘Genesis’ band mates Mike Rutherford, Phil Collins, and Peter Gabriel - but it hasn’t all been plain sailing … Helen Robinson, caught up with him to find out more : HR - So where did your musical journey begin?

AP - I was pretty much self taught at school. I studied music later, but in the beginning I was self taught. I briefly had guitar lessons from a chap who was very impressive. My mum used to buy me the Beatles sheet music, and kindly send it down to me at ‘Charterhouse’ – and this chap would just look at them and read from the piano score, with guitar ‘shapes’ written in fret numbers as opposed to tablature – and he would play the chords and the melody on this beautiful classical guitar. I just wanted to be able to strum the chords to the songs and sing along really, and I think at the time he was a bit disappointed that I wasn’t prepared to go the classical route … Anyway I didn’t. Then formed a band at school – doing Rolling Stones, Beatles, Kinks, Animals, The Shadows - Hank was a big influence - and that took me up to starting to write my own stuff; A lot of it with Mike Rutherford. I met Mike when I was 13 – the other Genesis guys were quite a bit older so we didn’t get together with them for a couple of years. The school band – The Anon - was people more my age. I was the babe of Genesis!

HR - Indeed – and with that in mind, how much input did they allow you to have on the debut album – “From Genesis To Revelation”?

AP - The first album I didn’t do an enormous amount of writing – it was very much dominated by Peter Gabriel and Tony Banks. The second album – “Trespass” - was much more of a ‘group’ album. In fact, myself and Mike were responsible for the basis of 3 or 4 of the tracks on “Trespass”. “Visions of Angels” was my piano track originally. Songs like “Looking For Someone” were Peter Gabriel songs that the rest of us developed the instrumentals around. I had a reasonable amount of stuff on “Genesis To Revelation”, but Mike had very little – we came much more into play on ‘Trespass’.

HR - You’d left the band by the time their 3rd album was released. Did they take any of your ideas forward into “Nursery Cryme”? AP - Actually, I was responsible for mucking about with a few ideas that ended up on the album, way before I left - Mike had this weird tuning of F# which we played about on. That song became “The Musical Box” later – so, yes, a couple of ideas made it.

HR - Do you ever listen back to the first two albums, and hear things that you would change?

AP - I don’t often listen, no - and I haven’t listened to them enough to have any really strong thoughts. I think if you don’t listen for a while then it’s quite pleasant. If you have a period away from these things, you tend to forget what you thought was wrong, so then it’s not so bad – but I must say that when you listen repeatedly, then you start to think “oh dear”, I could have done that differently. We all felt that the business of putting strings on “Genesis To Revelation” - which necessitated reducing the backing track to mono -was a bit of a disaster. Whilst our playing wasn’t the best, the album had a rough, raw power to it which, that process of adding these high wheeling strings to, made it lose something, and anodyne, perhaps. I know that our producer was trying to give it a more commercial edge, which I understand, but I don’t think it really came off - and it was at some cost too!

HR - Would you re-record or re-mix any of it again now, in your own way?

AP - No I don’t think so. I think it is of its time really. The other thing of course is that it’s physically impossible now. That reduction process, means that things were erased, so we can’t get back to the original stages even if we wanted to. That’s all changed now, mercifully, with computers . You can get back to any stage these days – providing you remember to save it!

HR – Ah, yes! The wonders of modern technology. And … NOT saving things! [laughs]

AP - Yes – we’ve all done it!!! It’s all so easily done. We take too much for granted with technology. You can become over reliant on it, and lazy! I do fall into that trap myself sometimes actually – musically. I don’t think enough about original sounds I just tend to buy virtual instruments. T hey are wonderful, but if you think back to albums like [The Beach Boys], “Pet Sounds” and [The Beatles] “Sgt Pepper”, those sounds were created, they weren’t just there at the push of a button!

HR - I know you’re quite experimental with your solo work … Once you’d left Genesis , how easy was it to move into a more classical sound with your compositions?

AP - I found it difficult! I could play by ear, but learning to read music at the age of 18 was incredibly hard to grasp. It was a different discipline of course, of not looking at the guitar or the piano, whilst reading music. My motivation in doing it, was because I wanted the ability to orchestrate ; Not having had that set of skills in Genesis , we couldn’t really have any input into the orchestral approach because we simply didn’t really understand it. Tony Banks did more than the rest of us, although he wasn’t orchestrally trained, but he could read music. So I wanted the power to orchestrate. It wasn’t simply about being able to read music, or being able to play piano pieces – It was definitely to understand notation, so that I could write orchestral pieces. I had a ‘Road to Damascus’, if you like, after I left Genesis, and listened to all sorts of composers. “The Karelia Suite”, by Sibelius, was my epiphany. I suddenly thought “this doesn’t sound like classical music!”. I must have listened to the wrong things, or maybe my ears weren’t ready to listen as a child, so I had a lot of catching up to do. There was a huge ‘pop’ / ‘Classical’ divide as I was growing up in the 60s – it was rancorous between the establishment and the young tear-aways, and hippies. It was a wonderful voyage of discovery though, but frustrating at the same time – technically - I loved doing Bach ‘Chorales’ and things like that, but some of the exercises I had to do, I found quite dull.

HR - Having honed your skills then, did you find that it made a difference to the music that you wanted to write? Did you find yourself wanting to bridge the gap between pop and classical – through a ‘progressive’ angle?

AP - Hmmm, Bridge the gap is interesting. It didn’t make a great deal of difference to me in terms of the progressive wing of my writing – I think I would have grown into that anyway.

With Genesis - There were some moments which were quasi classical, but I don’t think they bridged the gap really, no. Tony Banks was very familiar with the classical repertoire, so you could argue that his chord sequences were classically influenced. What studying did for me, was give me the ability to do - with the more markedly classical wing of things (although you may argue that it’s a fine line to distinguish which bits are prog, and which are classical!) – was cope with them better.

On “The Geese And The Ghost” for instance, having studied orchestration, and knowing how to write the parts, I didn’t have to get an arranger in. I could think for myself and make my own judgments on which instrument to add where. Plus – arrangers inevitably, like anyone else, tend to have their own styles which then reflect on the piece, which might be good, but it might not be necessarily what you want. So it really did help me in that respect.

HR - Genesis certainly didn’t carry any of that vibe forward, into their commercial phase …

AP - No! Well, the post Gabriel group gradually became more and more commercial didn’t they. Phil Collins and Peter Gabriel were quite different animals really - Obviously Peter did some successful commercial things afterwards. To be fair to them [Genesis], it would have been very difficult to carry on that way – especially post punk, and disco eras. There was almost a unilateral, multilateral, Palace revolution, that everyone had to start doing that! It became very unfashionable to be ‘prog’ and have such complicated long and drawn out pieces of music.

My timing was peccable - I’m not sure there is such a word, but I like it anyway! - coming back into the business, because I walked straight into the teeth of punk! Whilst I had nothing against it, in the sense that if I had been 10 years younger I would have been doing the same thing –what I did object to, was being asked to go into reverse gear, and start doing simple pop stuff, because I’d out grown it.

So I think it actually, for the purposes of the market, became very difficult for groups to stay true to their former selves and continue to produce classically based music. I don’t think it was a conscious direction on behalf of a lot of groups to start to simplify their music, they just were not given much choice. It didn’t do England a great deal of credit the way that everyone cashed in on that - there was so much clichéd nonsense around and people were saying “this music hasn’t got any balls!”. In a lot of European countries and the States, different styles were able to co-exist much better, than here in the UK. It was the fault of the record companies rather than a lot of the punk musicians really - they were just happy doing their own thing, but there was a lot of unpleasantness at that time. There were a lot of people who were heroes one day, and then being knifed in the back the day after by the people who had been adulating them! Which wasn’t anything to be terribly proud about …

HR - Not at all! But, something to be proud about is this lovely re-issue of your debut solo album “The Geese And The Ghost”!

AP - Yes! Absolutely! It’s just come out again, and in surround sound too, which is the first time I have had a surround sound album, and they have done a fantastic job with it! Particularly the instrumentals – it really does make a difference to have that experience of surround sound. And they’re releasing limited editions on Vinyl too, which is fabulous because that is when the artwork really comes into it’s own. Vinyl seems to be having a bit of a revival, which is great! MP3s are OK, but the sound is pretty impoverished really one you’ve narrowed the bandwidth of the sound. It sounds like a different album really, with that treatment! HR - When you started work on “The Geese And The Ghost” originally - Did you write it from a fresh perspective or was it something that you had brought forward from Genesis?

AP - It was actually written from a period as far back as 1969 / 1970. Things that Mike [Rutherford] and I had played around with then. There were some additions and refinements made between 1973 / 1974. Recording began in 1974, although the main body of it was done in 1975 – which is actually 40 years ago, isn’t that terrible?! And then, because they were now unfashionable times, we really struggled to get it released - so it didn’t come out until early 1977, by which time some of that material was over 7 years old!

HR - When you were selecting musicians to work with, what influenced your decision to ask Phil Collins and not Peter Gabriel?

AP - Well, Mike and I wrote together, and Peter and Tony [Banks] wrote together - when we came together as a group, that modified a little, but that initial pairing pretty much stayed the same way. So, because Mike and I had all this unreleased music – which was frustrating –at the earliest opportunity ; at a time where solo albums looked like a possibility - we wanted to use this material. We had done a single with Phil in 1973 which ironically was written about the previous Genesis drummer, Jonathan Silver, who was on the first album. I had written this with Mike – a very uncharacteristic kid of loose country song called “The Silver Song” and Phil came down and sang the demo and did such a great job of it. You see, Peter was married, so whenever we had any time off - he went home to spend it with Jill ; whereas Phil was foot loose and fancy free and had tons of energy. The single never got released for various reasons, but when it came to “The Geese And The Ghost” he was the obvious choice because the three of us had worked together before. HR - I’m glad you mentioned Jonathan Silver there – with regards to him, and John Mayhew – were they just hired guns for the early Genesis albums or did they have creative input?

AP - No, they weren’t hired guns as such, but by the same token they didn’t have a huge input, but we did group compositions on all the tracks on those first 2 albums – so whilst they weren’t writing huge swaythes of chord sequences, they were putting in little bits here and there. Jon Silver was full of energy and ideas about arranging and how things were connected. HR - We never really get to know the dynamics of the early stuff, which is why I was curious. It has always seemed to me, that Phil Collins became Genesis … or is that an unfair judgment?

AP - Well he had the big commercial success and I don’t think it would have been easy to keep him unless he had the lion share of the writing credits, although I think they’ve shared the credits pretty well … I think it’s sad to see him fall so far from all of that these days, with the press in particular, but he was colossally successful, and I think the group would have been looking the gift horse in the mouth if they hadn’t run with Phil.

The media can be so cruel. I remember a duel review of “The Geese And The Ghost” being handed to me from the states. One called it a “mellow rock classic”, the other said it was “music to wash dishes to” … and sadly you seem only to remember the bad ones!

And do you know, that it was the album that very nearly never came out?!! It sat on a shelf whilst punk roared away, and I’d given up on it to be honest. It was 15 months between finishing it and it being picked up to be released. For the first 3 or 4 months I was quite hopeful; by new year 1976 I was beginning to lose hope, and by the summer I was definitely starting to think about other things, and applying to go to music college full time.

It was a pretty soul destroying time – I’d spent a lot of time and energy on it; a lot of angst , and thought, apart from hard work, had gone into it … And then right at the 11th hour, while I was going for auditions to music college for the following year - suddenly it was picked up by an American record company. It was never actually released on a formal English record company label - it was released by the Genesis management company with whom I was with at the time – ‘Hit And Run’ – so like I say it’s the album that nearly never was!

HR - If it hadn’t been picked up then, do you think you’d have given it another shot down the line?

AP - No … I don’t actually. I think I would have gone to music college, and ... Good point! What would I have done at the end of it? I think I would have carried on composing, definitely, but I’m not quite sure where I would have come out at the other end, because the progressive scene had long gone, when I finished college in 1979– [laughs] Yes - in a parallel world what would I have done? I have absolutely no idea! I would probably have ended up as a music teacher.

HR - Did you teach, at some point?

AP - Yes … yes I did funnily enough. Whilst I was studying, I taught classical guitar - which helped me a lot. I had always played acoustic guitar, but didn’t play proper finger style - my right hand was quite basic, so I studied classical guitar as well as piano when I left Genesis, and teaching then helped me to pass the Classical Guitar teachers exams (as opposed to the performers diploma). I taught at a couple of different schools. One was Pepper Harrow ; which was like a progressive borstal for kids who were very bright, but who’d fallen foul of authority - not so badly that had to be interned, as it were. A great number of them had come from some pretty horrific backgrounds, but a number of them have gone on to do great things. Some of them were brilliant musicians! I remember wondering what I was letting myself in for initially, but it’s something that I look back on with a great deal of affection. They weren’t just guitar lessons – they were much more - the music was a vital part of these guys rehabilitation.

HR - Sounds like you’d have made a fantastic teacher, had all else failed! Given that “The Geese And The Ghost” almost didn’t happen – did that fill you with confidence to carry on to do the next album straight away, or had it discouraged you a little?

AP - Oh I’ve had more than my fair share of discouragement over the years! The album that came directly afterwards was “Wise After The Event” and I was immediately told that it had to be an album of songs – the writing was on the wall for these straggly instrumental albums - and it was time to crank up the electric guitar into a heavier rock genre, or don’t bother turning up, kind of thing.

“Sides” was originally going to be called “Balls”, which was cocking-a-snook at people for saying that my music didn’t have enough balls! At the time it seemed to me to be so ludicrous to have this blanket approach across all music - so that’s why we had the cover with the table football table on it - But the powers that be, over-ruled “Balls” and we had to change it to “Sides” ; because it did have one side that was more overtly commercial than the other, which is a little more instrumental.

I was lucky at that point, because the “Private Parts and Pieces” idea just came out of the blue really. I had been recording and stockpiling quite a lot throughout the year when nothing was happening with “The Geese And The Ghost”, and I asked if it might be possible, as a foil to this more rock orientated stuff, to be able to release an album of piano pieces, guitar pieces – sort of home recordings, which made up in their atmosphere and mood, what they lacked in technical perfection - and they said yes!

The first X of “Sides” was released as “Private Parts And Pieces” - as a freebie. It wasn’t actually “Private Parts and Pieces I” because it was a one off, but that numbering thing became sort of a generic term for my albums which were more homespun and simple – you know, small scale, as opposed to the more magnum opuses.

Not that I was able to do a Magnum Opus for quite a while! There was the “Invisible Men” album, which had a certain amount of record company backing, but that was again released around the time of the ‘New Romantics’ – more bad timing! I’d just bought my first house, and was under huge financial pressure with about 18 lodgers to pay the mortgage! So there was big pressure on to have hit singles and get paid, and so I didn’t do another full scale album for about another 6 years. I was lucky to still have this ‘outlet’, with the small scale releases, to continue to get some music out there during the 80s - when the climate was very much against the more classical stuff - at least I did continue to get piano, guitar, synth - slightly more imaginative stuff - out there, but all very much on a small scale.

Thinking about it, it was actually a full 7 years gap before I had the opportunity to do another large scale album at the end of the 80s. It was a frustrating time that too, I can tell you. I had rather a chequered career for a while. I was doing a lot of songwriting, and aiming it at other artists. We would keep getting close, but then, the management would lose the artist, or the album was canned. They weren’t collaborations or anything, but we had some placements in the works for Sheena Easton, Roger Daltry and people like that, but they never worked out. We had a song covered by Bucks Fizz – who promptly had a coach crash! So I had a run of bad luck with that really. It was an interesting time – I was trying allsorts of different things whilst my own music wasn’t making much money, and whilst trying to pay for the new house. It didn’t quite come to being a cat burglar, or an assassin, but I did give it some serious thought!

HR - Your celebrity friends could have hired you to assassinate the music press …

AP - [laughs] Yes …

HR - Is there anyone in particular, that you would like to collaborate with? AP - I thought you were going to say Assassinate! I don’t know these days … about collaborations … Mike and I were always a good team but we have gone in different directions now. I’m not sure that he’s interested in doing complicated instrumental stuff any longer. He did ask me if I wanted to be involved with the Mike and Mechanics albums, but I knew that I couldn’t see the whole project through with the touring and everything, which is what he needed. And it’s not necessarily my bag if I’m honest, although I very much respect what he’s achieved. I think maybe we’ve gone too far down different roads now to make anything work. Steve Hackett and I have talked about writing together a few times, but it’s always risky when someone is your friend. Working relationships do change things, and I’m not sure I’d want to risk my friendship with Steve!

With my TV library music, I do collaborate with quite a lot of people then anyway, so I’m not one of these musicians who doesn’t want to work with anybody else.

HR - When are you at your happiest then? When you’re working on solo stuff and you’re completely in control of it (and I’m not insinuating that you’re a control freak!) …

AP - Ha, NO! Actually, a great friend of mine calls my studio the spaceship! And I’m completely happy in there when I’m just mucking about with all the wonderful synth sounds, creating tapestries of colour with sound – Love it!

And also playing guitar, which increasingly seems to happen late at night in front of the TV. Just picking up a guitar – 12 String or Classical – when these ideas enter my head at absurd times of the day. On the recordings you can invariably hear Alan Hansen and Match Of The Day commentary in the background! And I do actually present demos to my library producer, with TV programmes going on in the background.

HR - What sort of boundaries are in place with your Library writing? Can you remain true to your ‘album’ style, or are you tied to a brief?

AP - I have a lot more freedom these days to create some varied pieces – guitar, synth – it’s very varied, and that’s what I love about it, but it’s hugely competitive, and the recession spawned a lot of ‘under-cutting’ - the market is flooded, and the rates of pay have dropped! I feel very fortunate to have done well at a time when it was less competitive, and to have continued to do it. It’s incumbent on me to keep writing as much as possible - I can’t afford to take my foot off the peddle. So when things come up, I don’t ever really have a blank page because of the stockpile of guitar, piano , synth, and orchestral library pieces already down – I have all of this material ready to go, rather than start from scratch. Some of them are slightly rough and would need to be redone, but the mood is there, and if someone came to me tomorrow asking for such and such, I would hope that I have something that would suit. Unless they asked for a bagpipe concerto. I haven’t got one of those. It’s unlikely to happen, but you never know …

HR - So when we end this conversation, you’re going to go and write one …

AP - [laughs]They’re not a pretty sound when people turn them off you know! What they don’t tell you is that when they’re warming up and cooling down they sound like a sick cow! It is a racket! We had a funny incident on the road with Genesis actually. Peter Gabriel was a little bit accident prone, and slightly absent minded on stage, and used to play the accordion in Stagnation, a bit – in quite an unconventional way, not like jolly French stuff with the onions and the beret - but he would put it down during a very quiet section and if he didn’t put it down properly, it would make this kind of squealing noise going off into the distance, and suddenly we would sound like a John Cage outfit! People would look up completely startled! Another thing he would do – he was a good flute player but struggled with an A flat in “The Knife” which was our closing song – and Tony Banks had to remind him before we went on, that you had to tweek the flute to tune it by a semi-tone. Occasionally Tony would forget to tell him, and Peter wouldn’t remember; The lights would dim, and we’d be ready for this lovely moody bit, and BANG! He would come in a semi tone out! That was pretty tense I can tell you! I love all of those instruments …

HR - What’s your favorite instrument?

AP - Ooooh Tricky. I think pushed to answer that, I’d have to say 12 string guitar 1st, followed very closely by piano, Classical guitar 3rd, and underwater sousaphone 4th …

HR - And, may I say you play all 4 brilliantly!

AP - Aww thanks …

HR - I’ll look forward to your underwater sousaphone symphony at some point, amidst the forthcoming re-releases! Were you looking at reworking your back catalog, or was it something that you were approached to do?

AP - They approached me! [Cherry Red / Esoteric Records]. Not to put too finer point on it but I make the majority of my living from my TV music, and the album work has always been a very nice foil to that, but it’s not been my bread and butter, as it were. I’m probably one of the only artists who has ever said to a record company – “are you really sure you want to do this?” And they did, so I was a bit surprised really! I gathered they were in the business of picking up back catalogs– and I hate the world ‘cult’ – but of people who have ‘cult’ followings, and it felt like entirely the right thing to do. It feels a safe place to be, and with a decent company who have their act together; after having had so many years of uncertainty with this stuff.

HR - How much influence did you have over the way that the 2014 anthology “Harvest Of The Heart”, was put together?

AP - Not a lot actually, but entirely by choice. I wrote a little bit for the blurb on the boxset, but as far as choosing what songs to include – I couldn’t make the decision. It was too difficult – I mean, I dither anyway, at the best of times! And I’m not in any way trying to imply with arrogance that this is all so wonderful, but it was just too hard for me to decide. I’m not a good judge of what other people would have wanted, and to be frank I don’t like listening to a lot of it anyway, once I have done it, otherwise I start to pick it all apart and convince myself that I could have done better … So I was very happy to leave it up to Jonathan Dann, who runs my website ; and Mark Powell (Boss of Cherry Red), who went through all of it. He deserves a medal for that!

HR - I know it’s unfair to ask an artist what their favourite piece of their own music is, but – do you have one?

AP - The albums I’m most proud of , would be “The Geese And The Ghost”, and an album called “Slow Dance” ; which was the first album that I did when I came back after that 7 year hiatus in the wilderness, as it were …

HR - Was that [Slow Dance] released under your own steam outside of record label jurisdiction?

AP - It was actually! I did that off my own bat, and once again ended up having a bad time of it! We’d done an album called “Tarka”, and there was a bit of an upturn in the 80s with the ‘new age’ boom. I’d been doing what was effectively ‘new age’ for a while, but suddenly people realised that, after about 5 years! So I borrowed some money from my management company to crank up my gear, in order to enable me to do a larger scale record. This was in lieu of a small advance from the record company, who then went bust! So the rights to my songs were impounded, under US laws, and my catalogs were frozen (as assets) in the states for a number of years and I couldn’t get them back - so it was a pretty chaotic period in terms of America, but also I had to finish what I had started here! So I pressed on with this album, very much in debt, because I’d bought the gear, but then hadn’t got the advance to pay it off! Looking back I’m not sure how I kept going really because the record was very complicated … But I did have an ulterior motive which was to try and secure a publishing deal with the then’ Virgin Publishing’ under Richard Branson. I don’t to this day think he realises what he let go of when he sold it on to EMI – it was such a wonderful company to be a part of. Ultimately, I got a deal, which got me out of the mire; I finished what became “Slow Dance” and then Virgin came in and released ALL of my albums onto CD for the first time, so I was very fortunate then. I owed a lot to that record in the end. But it was a real blood, sweat, and tears album, and it wasn’t just mentally painful to listen to afterwards – it was literally physically painful too ; I would writhe around and cringe listening to it because I spent too long on it, and it sounded awful to me. It tried to do too much. It’s quite filmic, and unabashedly lyrical - It’s very orchestral at times and some of it is artificial; the sounds at that stage weren’t particularly brilliant and in hindsight it would have benefitted from more real orchestra. I think I could listen to it now … There is a two year rule – don’t listen for something you did for two years, and you’ll forget what was wrong with it!

HR - Would you re-record it, now?

AP - Well – it’s one of the things that will come up for discussion, funnily enough, because we are planning to release some more in surround sound, but it has to be practical to do because it’s a very expensive process, and Cherry Red are very fair, but they know we possibly won’t sell a million copies. I would like to do “Slow Dance” yes. I think any of the orchestral albums would really benefit from being in Surround Sound. The bigger it is, the more there is going on, and the more you can throw around the room. The re-release schedule is a bit torturous actually. Up next is “Private Parts and Pieces” with a bonus CD of material from the time, and … I don’t want to give too much else away really, but we will be doing more … maybe “Tarka”, eventually.

HR - Would you like to get any of your compositions to a point where an orchestra could perform it live? AP - Oh You bet! I’d love it!! There was a performance of “Tarka” in Australia, but it was with a scratch orchestra, so a rather mixed affair. It’s quite hard [Tarka] although it’s not an incredibly difficult score, but it needs some very good players to do it justice. These things are just so incredibly expensive to put together though, aren’t they?

HR - Yes, they are! Do you ever perform?

AP - I don’t … no. My experience with Genesis made me very tentative about performing, but to be honest - the thing that I enjoy most is composing. I’m a terrible practicer! The process of playing something over and over again, just bores me to tears!

HR - How about conducting then? AP - Gosh no, I’m not a good enough conductor – I did study it for a while, briefly, but I’d be much better on a bus! I know the moves, and the beats, but it’s that business of making the left hand totally independent of what’s going on with the right hand – that’s really difficult. It’s an extraordinary art! And when I go to see an orchestra, the conductor always seems to be so far ahead, that I can’t ever put it together!! When I was first studying I used to get the orchestra seats behind the Albert Hall proms, which are the ones behind the Orchestra where you’re looking directly at the conductor – and some of the conductors seemed to be so far ahead of the orchestra, that we used to joke that the conductor would be in the dressing room toweling down, whilst the orchestra were still finishing off! I don’t understand it!! It’s one thing that I do regret in life actually – I would have loved to have been in the middle of a big phat orchestra when something like the “Rites Of Spring” [Stravinsky] or “The Planets” [Holst] is being played. That must be amazing! Even to just play the triangle or something! I’d love to do that …

HR - There’s always time! What about your life outside of music? Do you ever divert from your musical routes?

AP - [laughs] It would seem not to the untrained eye eh? I have a lot of friends and probably spend too much time socialising, and eating out, so I burn the candle at both ends too often. I spend a lot of time with my nieces and nephews, and God-children – I don’t have kids of my own but keeping up with all of them makes life pretty full! It is a difficult balance to keep because I really can’t afford to fall behind with work stuff and that involves an endless amount of mind boggling admin with the album career, and for composing for the library - I have to keep up with all the new technology in the studio, and the new sounds – endless changes! I love sports ; all sorts of sports … I’m a big film man - love films. Probably my favourite music is in film scores these days. My big musical heroes are film composers – amongst many, my favourites are Ennio Morricone : particularly ”Cinema Paradiso” and the wonderful ”Gabriel’s Oboe” from ’The Mission; John Williams, ”Schindlers List”; George Fenton , ”Shadowlands”; Thomas Newman , ”Shawshank Redemption”; Hans Zimmer, James Newton Howard, Alan Silvestri and many others … so, yes! How do I actually find time to work? That is the question ... Not too long after we’d had this chat, Ant got the opportunity to work on a re-release of “Slow Dance” ; here’s the verdict ... HR : So the ultimate question is, forced to listen to it again, have you grown fonder of Slow Dance during the re-mastering, for this re-release?AP : My own view in general, which I appreciate may be very different to that of other musicians, is that when you come back to an album not having heard it for ages, it has novelty value and you think ‘that’s not bad at all’….! That’s why i prescribe the ‘two year rule’. Don’t listen to a piece, album, whatever, for a while and you will forget what it was that you are aspiring to that made you feel dissatisfied with its original outcome !Alas, repeated listens gradually bring back the issues that worried you at the time ! And the more time spent on an album (in my case Slow Dance, Geese were particular long campaigns) the worse it is. QBG and I flew through PP3 in the lovely summer of 1981 and it all remained fresh and therefore untarnished in one’s memory. This naturally makes us completely unobjective when it comes to judging our work ! Slow Dance was such a painstaking haul that when I finished it I found it excruciating to listen to.You have a mystical image of how a piece should sound and capturing this remains tantalisingly elusive ! Perhaps this very frustration is what drives you on to try and do better …?So yes, at first pleasantly surprised, with a few reservation, then gradually I began to feel ‘could have done that better - in many instances !But there are sections that I am still quite proud of and I know it is a piece that has been a moving experience for number of people……. HR : When last we spoke, You were enjoying the opportunity to take your recordings into the surround sound arena - has this one surpassed your expectations?AP : The Surround was a tough one : the toughest of all the re-releases thus far….Perhaps not harmonically but certainly in terms of the arrangement, the album was in parts very intricate and both the balance and flow hung by a thread. Any slight change and the wheels would come off. And they did ! It presented an almost insurmountable challenge to Simon Heyworth and Andy Miles, as there were effects on outboard gear (now either absent or defunct !) that weren’t recorded to tape and therefore had to be somehow ‘reconstructed’. On the other hand instrumental albums such as this and particularly 1984 ( a feast for the guys with all the weird, tricky sounds lending themselves well to sonic spatial manipulation !) do benefit from the size and ambience that 5.1 affords. So my considered view is that the more ambient, floaty parts benefit greatly whilst other sections slightly less so….But what does the musician / composer’s view count…..? It is only the audience’s opinions that ultimately counts ! I am happy that we try to give anyone repurchasing these albums enough extra material to make it feel worth it !

#genesis #modern classical #anthony phillips #ant #cherryred #cherryredrecords #esoteric #prog rock #prog #classical #composer

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technicolor--dreams · 5 years

Photo

Judy Garland and Gene Kelly on Screenland, may 1948

the novelized version of The Pirate published on the magazine is under the cut

BACK in the hotel room were the laces and embroideries, the crinolines and the silks and satins for her trousseau which had come all the way from Paris. But here standing on the great sea wall looking down on the blue Caribbean was real romance, something much dearer to her heart than the plans for her marriage. For the Caribbean had been the home of the man Manuela had dreamed of since her childhood, Macoco, the pirate. These were the waters he had sailed, the ships he had plundered. He had moved over their surface like a dragonfly, glittering, uncapturable, a man who struck terror into the hearts of other men and romance into that of an imaginative child. Let others grieve at the sorrow he caused, her young heart could only find rejoicing that there was a man so daring and fearless and dazzling in a commonplace world. It was ten years now since Macoco's wild battle cry had been heard, since his cannons had opened fire on helpless merchantmen. It was in 1810 that he and his men and his cutlasses and grinning death's head flag had disappeared. Now he lived only in the songs minstrels sang of his exploits and in the grown-up Manuela's heart. And it was because even to look at the waters he had sailed meant so much to her that Manuela had persuaded her aunt, Donna Inez, to meet the ship bringing her trousseau here at San Sebastian, on the pretext that the dressmakers needed to alter them would be so much more expert than the ones in their own town of Calvados, where even bridegrooms were so less thrilling than those in other places. But she would not think of Don Pedro now, she decided. She would forget that in just a week she would be marrying the gross, middle-aged man Donna Inez had picked to be her niece's husband, because as mayor, Don Pedro was not only the most important man in town, but the richest one as well. "Macoco," she thought desperately, her brown eyes staring into the distance. "Where are you now? What seas do you travel? Is it sunset or sunrise where you are?" She closed her eyes and it was almost as if the waves as they broke on the shore were whispering Macoco, Macoco, Macoco, as if the seagulls as they cried were crying it, too.

Then suddenly another voice, a real voice cut across her thoughts. "Who are you?" it said, and as she turned she saw a man standing beside her. He was young, with eyes that could be both bold and tender, and which stared at her admiringly now.

"Tell me, what is your name?" he begged as she said nothing, "it is as vital to me as the beat of my heart. Tell me, are you married?"

"No," Manuela said imperiously, then a look of elation swept across his face, head lifted. "But I shall be this time next week." And turning she began walking quickly away, terrified by the sudden pounding in her heart. She had never felt it before, not even when she dreamed of her pirate.

"Senorita!" The stranger was at her elbow, following her. "Don't marry that pumpkin! For any man who lets you out of his sight, even for a moment, must be a pumpkin."

Manuela wished he hadn't used that particular description for it brought to her mind Don Pedro's round, swarthy face which, with just a little imagination, could look like a pumpkin. "My affianced is a very noble, pious man," she said indignantly, forgetting it was just those qualities. in him which made him so very dull, too. "He doesn't smoke, he doesn't drink. And he certainly would never annoy a young lady he -"

"You bewilder me," the young man sighed extravagantly. But then everything he did was flamboyant, even the way he circled around her as they walked, viewing her from every angle. "A young girl like you, with beauty, youth, enchantment, throwing yourself away on a lump like that. If he had any sense he would step aside for someone who would appreciate you. Someone like me, for instance."

"Don't be silly," she sniffed.

"I love you," he said. "And love isn't silly. Aren't you interested in love?"

And then as she tossed her head, he looked at her almost pityingly. "In America and England they have a strange custom. The ladies pick their own husbands and they marry them for love."

"It's a very stupid custom," Manuela said breathlessly, and picking up her flounced skirts began running.

But he kept pace with her. "Don't tell me you don't ever long for a prince instead of a pumpkin!" he whispered. "I know that underneath your prim exterior there are depths of emotion, romantic longings, unfulfilled dreams! For I can read your mind, your innermost thoughts. I can tell you your past, your present, and your future. It's my business." As she stared at him he gestured proudly toward the tent which had been rigged up in the street near her hotel. "Come to see me tonight and youll find out. I'll leave a ticket for you. Just mention my name, Serafin!"

So he was an actor, and a strolling player at that, one of those silly, lighthearted vagabonds who sometimes visited her village, pitching their tents and marching the streets in gaudy parades. She looked at him horrified, and ran to the shelter of the hotel and the protection of her aunt. She was so appalled at herself she could scarcely look at the beautiful gowns and underclothes her aunt and the dressmaker were spreading before her. At the same time her heart was keeping up a terrifying rhythm, as if a bird had been caught in it and was beating its wings frantically. Even later when she had gone to bed, she felt that wild fluttering so much she could not sleep. And then as she laid there the music came and the voices. It was a strange music made up of drums and bagpipes. The voices were strange, too. "Step in and see the show!" one of them shouted. "The wonder show of the ages! Magic! Mesmerism! And the only chance, ladies and gentlemen, the only chance to see the great Serafin in person —Mesmer's favorite pupil, who reads the past, the present and the future! Hurry, hurry, hurry, the show is starting!" Manuela tried to shut her ears against it, but suddenly she was getting out of bed and running to the window. Then, almost without realizing it, she seized her cloak and as she wrapped it around her, the drums and the pipes became one with the beating in her heart. Only when she saw Serafin on the makeshift stage whirling a wooden cage that held a many-sided mirror did she realize how wantonly she was behaving, coming to a common street show with only a silken cloak covering her night dress. Then he was smiling and coming toward her, and as she gazed at his twirling mirror, suddenly it was as if she had begun to dream, enveloped in a misty haze. "He's hypnotized her!" someone shouted. But she did not hear it, for only one voice came through to her now and as it asked her questions she answered in a hushed voice which did not sound like her own at all. She told him her name and the name of her village, and when he asked if she loved the man she was to marry she answered that, too, in a single emphatic negative. Serafin's eyes glowed as he looked at her.

"You love someone else, don't you?" he said softly, and from the look in his eyes there was no doubt who that someone was.

"Yes," her voice came in a sigh, as she told the secret she had never before told anyone. "I love Macoco, Macoco, the pirate, the dazzling, the fabulous, and some day he will come like a hawk and carry me away."

"No, no," Serafin said imploringly. "No, Manuela, you don't mean that. Think again, gracious lady, who is it that you—"

"Don't call me gracious lady!" She wrinkled her small nose distastefufly. "It irritates me. Underneath this prim exterior there are depths of emotion, romantic longings— "

Suddenly she was casting aside her cloak and singing, and as he held his hand out to her she began to dance. It was as if they had found some far cloud over which they tripped gaily and she was forgetting everything and everyone—most of all Don Pedro and his ring on her finger—until suddenly over the music came a violent sound of thunder, waking her out of her trance, so that she stood Ihere in amazement, staring at the audience clapping their hands in a frenzy of appreciation.

"That's for you," Serafin smiled, "for your singing and dancing."

"Singing and dancing!" Manuela echoed in a dazed voice. Then as she stared down at herself, seeing herself dressed only in a nightgown, the dream suddenly became a nightmare. With a cry she was gone, not even waiting to find her cloak. As she reached the hotel, she went into her aunt's room and awakened her, insisting they must go home that very night, that very minute. But the dream remained, both sleeping and waking, so that time seemed to stand still until the morning she awoke and knew it was her wedding day. It seemed ended as she dressed in the lace of her bridal mantilla, her head felt as if it could hardly support the weight of the veil though it was fashioned of the sheerest of laces. Then as they left her, she thought she was dreaming again for there was the wild strains of the drums and pipes again coming nearer and nearer, and when she ran to the window she saw Serafin marching gaily at the head of his strolling players. In that instant, he looked up and saw her and before she realized what he was doing he had flung a rope up to her balcony, lassoing one of its posts, and was climbing up to her window. There was the terror then, coming more from her fear of herself than of him. Picking up a pair of scissors she leaned over and started to cut the rope. But she couldn't. As he saw her faltering, there was exultation in his eyes as he leapt into the room and caught her in his arms.

"Are you real, or an angel!'" he whispered. "Am I on earth or have I climbed all the way into heaven?" Her hands beat against him, trying to push him away, but his hold tightened. "You can't marry that man. Manuela. come with me. We'll tour these islands, then on to Paris, Rome. Madrid. We will sing alJ our lives through. You don't know what a thrill it is. You were in a trance before. You didn't hear the audience."

The shame she had been unable to forget until this moment came back again at his words and she tore herself out of his arms. "Do you call it a thrill to live in a tent?" she demanded. "To go hungry? To be a vagabond, hounded out of towns, looked down on by all decent people?" She stopped appalled as she heard her Aunt's and Don Prdro's voices outside her door. "Quick," she whispered desperately, pointing to the window. "If Don Pedro should find you here, he would kill you!"

But the man already knew the intruder was there, for even as she whispered the door swung open and there he stood, his hand clutching the evil whip he lashed out at Serafin who leapt nimbly out of its way. "Don't harm him!" Manuela cried. "He didn't mean any harm—he—"

Don Pedro flung her out of the way as she tried to come between them, his voice roaring as he advanced on the younger man who moved so gracefully he seemed to be dancing as he avoided the deadly lash.

"You mountebank!" he roared. "You thieving vagabond! You scum, sneaking into a lady's room! This is a respectable community. We do not entertain the scum of the cities, the thieves, the blackguards such as you!"

"Don Pedro, please!" Manuela pleaded, but even as she spoke her aunt took her by the arm and pulled her out of the room.

Manuela crouched on the stairs unmindful of the wedding guests crowding around her. For despite the hum of their voices all she heard was the lashing of the whip, until suddenly it stopped. That was even more terrifying, not knowing what had happened. Then the door was flung open but it wasn't Don Pedro who swaggered out, it was Serafin, and the whip was in his hand now and the other followed him like a whipped dog, or a man who had seen ghosts, Manuela could not be sure which. First there was shocked silence. Then as the men of the wedding party began swarming up the stairs.

Serafin held up his hand. "Stop where you are!" he ordered in a thundering voice. And then as some of the more timid among them rushed toward the safety of the door, his voice came again.

"No one is to leave this house without my permission!" Donna Inez' proud head went up at that. "What right have you to give orders here?" she demanded.

"The right of any man!" Serafin said, and though his voice lowered it was as authoritative as before. "Self-preservation. The thing I have feared for years has happened. My true identity has been discovered. But," his eyes went coolly toward his cowering adversary, "Don Pedro will keep my secret. I have seen to that. But I should like some assurance from you. I fear the price on my head may be too great a temptation."

"What are you?" Donna Inez demanded scathingly. "A pick-purse or a chicken thief?"

Serafin swept her a deep bow. "My depredations. Madame, have been on a somewhat grander scale. I," he paused impressively, "I am Macoco, the Pirate." Manuela stared at him wide-eyed.

"Macoco!" she whispered breathlessly.

"And you," Serafin turned to her, an amused smile playing about his lips, "you thought I was a strolling player, didn't you? That is indeed a tribute to my acting. But now I demand even a greater one from you. Manuela, are you ready to come with me? I have engagements on the seven seas and I demand that you keep them with me. Otherwise, my men, who are only waiting my signal, will come down from the hills and put your town to the torch!"

"Manuela!" Don Pedro cried hoarsely. '"Do not listen to him! He is lying!"

Serafin turned threateningly. "Are you accusing Macoco of lying? think twice before you answer, Don Pedro, or whatever you call yourself!" He turned scornfully to the others. "This fat pumpkin was travelling on a ship I captured once. I spared his life. But I may not be so kind this time." His eyes went back to the other's terrified ones then. "A word from me, you know, and you'll be hanging from a gibbet."

"Please," Don Pedro's tongue touched his dry lips nervously. "I did not know you intended this—if I could see you alone, just for a moment?"

"I have no time for snivelling cowards." Serafin cracked his whip threateningly.

He turned to Manuela now and his voice was more imperious than it had ever been before. "Well, what is your answer? Unless you come with me now, your village will lie in ruins, your friends and your relatives will be scattered to the winds, not one house shall be left, not one stone upon another!"

There was a wild outburst of weeping from the women and even the strongest of the men raised their voices in a desperate plea that she should spare them. So what could Manuela do but listen to her friends, especially with that wild fluttering coming in her heart again, so that it seemed that not just one bird but hundreds of them had taken refuge there? She went to him, her trembling hand accepting his offered arm, and walked through the path the others made for them to the street where his men waited. How could she ever have thought them just silly vagabonds, Manuela wondered, as they led the way to the Mayor's home itself, since it was by far the largest and most beautiful in the village. As Serafin paused for a moment on the balcony to assure the anxious villagers who had followed them that they were safe because of her sacrifice, Trillo, one of his men, led her into the house and into the room where the tables were spread for what was to have been hers and Don Pedro's wedding banquet.

"Well," Trillo smiled, "this is what you have dreamed of, isn't it?" And then as she looked at him bewildered, his hearty laugh came. "Don't you remember, that's what you said at the show last night, that you were in love with Macoco and that you dreamed some day he'd come like a hawk and carry you away."

"I said that?" Manuela looked at him incredulously, and it was then the first dawning of her suspicion came. "I said that to him?"

' "Sure," the man grinned, and no pirate cut-throat had ever grinned in such an idiotic way. "That's what you said to Serafin—I mean Macoco."

The color swept into her face realizing how she had been tricked. For she saw it all now that the clue had been given her; the way Serafin, the mountebank, the silly, capering actor, had finally managed to win her by taking advantage of her dreaming. But she'd pay him back, she thought, as Serafin swaggered toward her. And she was even more angry when she saw how she relished this new role he was playing. He wasn't even a good actor, she thought contemptuously, overplaying his part like that.

"Why did you think you had to threaten to get me here?" she asked in pretended awe. "Didn't you know that you had only to stretch out your hand? Please, don't move, I want to gaze my fill at you! That sinister brow, the hawklike glance of your eyes! I can see you now in battle, the clash of swords, the roar of angry cannon, and you, Macoco, standing there with lightning breaking around you, dominating everything! And to think," she looked at him wonderingly "I thought you were just a silly little actor." If she had stuck a knife into his heart he could not have looked more stricken.

"A what?" he demanded, his swagger gone in his hurt vanity. "What was that you said?"

If she had needed any more proof, his words would have given it. "How could I have been so gullible?" she mused, knowing how her words were striking even deeper into his heart. "I should have known the moment I saw you on the stage that you didn't know anything about acting."

"Just a minute," Serafin said coldly, "tell me just what was the matter with my acting?"

"Your what?" Manuela laughed mockingly and then pretended seriousness. "Don't speak of anything so disgusting, so degrading! I despise actors. You don't have to pretend before me. I love you for what you are, ruthless, cruel, taking what you want! Fearing no one!"

"Manuela," Serafin protested unhappily. "I have a confession to make —"

"You don't have to confess anything to me," she said, and then as he looked at her pleadingly, she stopped the little game she was playing, and her humiliation took refuge in her sudden fury. "So you'd trick me, would you?" She seized a vase from a table and flung it at him. "You'd make a fool of me, would you?" But the last word ended in a sob as she saw him collapse and fall to the floor. And as she ran to him, she knew that her anger had been only a counterpart of her love for him. "Speak to me, Serafin," she whispered as she knelt beside him. "I didn't mean what I said. You're a good actor, you're fine. Oh, if I only hadn't been such a silly, little fool, mooning over some silly pirate, you wouldn't have had to pretend, you wouldn't have —"

She was in his arms then and he was holding her close and it didn't make any difference even knowing that he had only pretended unconsciousness. But even as he held her, she heard the shouts out side, and then before she realized the meaning of them the door burst open and Don Pedro came in followed by a company of soldiers.

"Surround him!" the captain in charge ordered, and smiled sternly as he faced Serafin. "I must say, Macoco, you are very satisfying. The other members of your profession, whom I have met officially, have looked more like bookkeepers than pirates. But you fill the eye."

"But he isn't Macoco!" Manuela protested desperately. "It's only a joke a silly joke. He is Serafin, an actor, who knew I had an admiration for Macoco So he pretended. That's all it was."

"I am sorry, senorita," the captain said "this is no silly joke." He turned back to his men. "Put him in irons," he ordered, "and issue a command to erect a gallows at once. We'll forego the formality of a trial."

They were gone then and Serafin was gone with them and for all that remained of the afternoon she heard the sounds of the gallows being erected in the village square. Then when evening came and the hammering finally stopped, another more gruesome sound took its place, the measured sound of soldiers' marchin feet and the cries of the villagers screaming for justice. She could not stay away and even knowing the dire scene that awaited her, she ran to the square to make one last appeal for his life.

"You cannot hang him like this, without evidence," she pleaded, not daring to look at Serafin already standing on the scaffold. "You can't, you can't!" It was the captain who showed her the evidence that Don Pedro had discovered among Serafin's theatrical effects, the casket overflowing with fabulous jewels. And as she stared at them, recognizing in a necklace the same intricate design as that which fashioned her bejeweled betrothal ring, she realized it was Don Pedro who was the real Macoco. Everything that had happened was so clear to her now. Serafin had recognized Don Pedro as the pirate in her room that morning, and that was the reason the pompous little man had been so terrified knowing the reward for his capture. It was because of her that Serafin had not denounced Don Pedro but had played this little game instead, in his fear that her childish adoration of Macoco would make her idolize even the dullard he had turned out to be.

There was nothing she could do, for how would any of them, knowing she was in love with Serafin, take her word against that of the eminently respectable Don Pedro? But, wait! There was something else she could do. Couldn't she appeal to his vanity as a pirate, even as she had appealed to Serafin's as an actor?

"Macoco!" she cried, and running to the gallows she climbed to the scaffold, putting her arms around the bewildered Serafin who could only think she was betraying him: "I ask so little," she cried, "only to be allowed to worship at your feet, Macoco, my prince of pirates. For they may do with you what they will, but your spirit, your legend will live on through the ages. And I will always worship you for your immortal deeds, your fearlessness, your daring. I shall carry your image in my heart forever and ever and — "

"But, Manuela," Serafin said, and as she looked at him she saw his bewilderment was gone and that now at last he realized what she was trying to do. "Remember you are to marry Don Pedro, the most pious, the most virtuous—"

"The most piddling of all men," her voice cut in scathingly, "a namby-pamby who doesn't dare leave this village, a catchpenny who is afraid of the sea."'

It was too much for the vanity of the man who had once been the uncrowned king of all the rogues in the Caribbean. Screaming the blood-curdling cry which had been Macoco's battle song, he leapt to the scaffold and tore her out of the other man's arms. "I've had enough of this!" he roared. "This marionette," he stretched his finger mockingly at Serafin, "strutting around pretending to be me, the fearless one! Do you think a runt like this could handle a crew of cut-throats? Do you think real men would risk their necks to serve under him? No, it was I who was the terror of the Caribbean for / am Macoco, the most feared and hated man who ever sailed —"

Only then, as the crowd roared and pressed forward, did he realize the confession he had made. But as he turned to run, the soldiers pressed in around him, covering him, hiding him from the girl who trembled now as Serafin's arms went around her. And even then, with the horror not entirely erased from her eyes, the new peace and the joyousness, which was only a forerunner of the joy to come, of the laughter and songs and lighthearted gaiety when they would roam the roads of the world together.

#judy garland #jgfans #gene kelly #the pirate #classic hollywood #old hollywood

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onyour-right · 5 years

Note

12 & 132 for the dick kori prompts???? I love them

Firstly, thank you so much for these prompts, anon. I love them too.

I don’t know whether you wanted them combined or not, but I kinda did them as two whole separate scenarios. I hope you enjoy and please let me know what you think xD

12. “Cute, but still fucked up.”

Dick’s in his office in the apartment, eyes shut and fingers pinching the bridge of his nose as he fights the tiredness and the dull ache in his head threatening to completely take him under. He thought having a day to work from home would somehow help ease the stress of his job, but if anything it’s making him even more annoyed; that he’s having to deal with the idiocy of people in a place he likes to keep separate from all the bullshit.

After a few minutes of silently pulling himself together and steering himself up to dealwith the seemingly never-ending list of emails awaiting him, he opens his eyes and begins furiously tapping at his laptop keys. He doesn’t know how long he stays like that for, maybe it’s minutes or maybe it’s hours, but the silentconcentration is suddenly broken when he faintly registers the sound of a key turning into a lock and the front door opening. His brows crease in confusion as he glances up at the clock; it’s way too early for it to be Gar or Rachelback from school, and Kory wasn’t set to come back this early either.

One part of him itches to grab the weapon he keeps in his top drawer, but the other part of him, the more rational part, realises the likelihood of a bad guy breaking into the apartment using a key is very low. He’s just about to get up from his seat and investigate the sound when the door to his office swings opens suddenly and then Kory appears. Even though Dick feels like he’s seconds away from crashing, his eyes instantly roam over Kory’s figure carefully and intensely, scanning her for any visible wounds or signs of distress that might explain why she’s home so early.

“Hey, what are you doing back? You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she says, waving away his concern as she moves towards him, “might have told a little lie to leave early though.”

His brows raise up at that. In all the time he’s known Kory she’s never once lied to himor to anyone, she’s the type of person who is so honest it’s almost hurtful sometimes, so the fact that she’s lied to someone is new to him.

When she finally reaches him a somewhat sheepish expression claims her features as she leans against his desk opposite from him. Her close proximity makes it even harder for him to focus, because she looks like a vision; even dressed in a standard white blouse with black pants and a pair of heels that add height to her already tall frame.

“I killed off my sister.”

Confusion momentarily clouds his face at her words, he’s way too exhausted to try and decipher what she means and he thinks she realises that because she breaks it down for him even further.

“I told them my sister had died so I could leave early.”

“Kory!” He chastises, trying to reign back on his twisted sense of humour that makes him only slightly amused at the whole situation.

“What?” She answers indignantly, beginning to feel a little slighted at his scolding tone and expression. “She might as well be. Plus, I was tired and wanted to come home and spend a bit of time with you.”

He’d be lying to himself if he said it didn’t fill him with a sense of pride at hearingthose words come from her, if the words didn’t act like a soothing balm to his scars, especially with the day he’d been having so far. Dick breaks out into a little teasing smile and reaches forward to grab her hand, intertwining their fingers as he pulls her towards him and into his lap before letting go and snaking his arms around the curve of her waist. He pulls her close towards him, so close he can smell the scent of the perfume she’s wearing.

“It’s kinda cute, I guess.”

Kory snorts, rolling her eyes as she lifts her arms up and wraps them around his neck. “Cute, huh?”

“Yeah, cute, but still kinda fucked up.”

132. “That was kind of hot.”

Kory saunters out of their kitchen and into the living room where Dick is sat waitingfor her, a wide, child-like grin on her lips that illuminates her whole face as she carries out a bottle of rum and gives it a playful shake. “Look what I found,” she says in a sing-song tone, her brown eyes blazing with excitement.

He fights back a snort of amusement and continues to watch her as she makes her way over to him, clad in nothing but a grey oversized shirt of his, her magenta curls bouncing with every stride she takes. It doessomething to him and touches somewhere in him, something that he can’t quite name yet and a place he never thought anything or anyone could ever touch, to see her act so freely like this. To see her act so freely with himlikethis.

It’s hard for Dick to forget that she’s not human; it’s palpable enough in the way shecarries herself - with elegance and strength, in the way she speaks and the way she acts – with unwavering and refreshing honesty, the way she instantly draws out respect and attention from anyone she comes into contact with, even thoseshe’s going against.

But it’s hard for him to remember how young they both are, how burdened. As much as they love what they do; fighting bad guys and simultaneously protecting but allowing Raven and Gar the freedom to grow into who they want to be, it’s extremely draining at times. It leaves them with very little time to do anything else, to be anything else – a young couple who enjoy each other’s company, for instance..

Kory sinks into the space beside him, a soft sigh falling from her mouth as she twistsherself round so that she can throw her long and exposed legs over his lap and cross them at her ankles. It’s something she loves to do when it’s only the two of them and she can be more open with her affections, it’s something Dick secretly loves when she does.

“You’ve ordered the food, right?” She asks, her playful expression morphing into aserious one as she arches a well-shaped brow and waits for his reply. If there’s one thing that she absolutely doesn’t mess around with, it’s her food.

Dick feels himself breaking out into a smile, he drops a hand down to her thigh, his thumb drawing slow circles into the smoothness of her skin as he reassures her. “Of course, should be here soon.”

Satisfied, and trying to ignore the sparks his simple action ignites inside of her, sheelicits a soft hum before lifting the bottle of rum to her mouth so she can unscrew the lid with her teeth and pour them both a glass. It’s only when she’s halfway to pouring out the intoxicating liquid that she realises Dick is eyeing her with a weird look and his movement against her skin has stilled. It makes her self-conscious in only a way he can.

“What?”

He shakes his head and stays quiet, but the intensity of his gaze on her indicates otherwise. She narrows her eyes and prods her red, manicured nails into his side, causing him to let out a yelp even though she knows it hardly hurt him. “Tell me.”

Dick sighs defeatedly, rolling his eyes as if he’s exasperated but in reality they both knowthat he’s anything but. “It’s just, that was kind of hot.”

Her face creases in confusion at what it is she could have done that could warrant such areaction from him, but then quickly it dawns on her and the frown on her face is swiftly replaced with a mischievous glint.

“You like what I did with my mouth, huh?”

Dick’s whole face splits into a rare grin; a grin that takes years from his age, a grin thatmakes Kory’s heart ache because it reminds her of the young boy who was never allowed to just be, a grin that’s reserved only for her. “What can I say? That mouth of yours is a gift.”

Kory’s answering bark of laughter fills the room and warms Dick from the inside out, it makes him want to pen poems about the warmness of her laughter even though he’snot that kind of guy.

“And don’t you ever forget it, Grayson.”

#G writes #writing prompts #dc titans #dick grayson #koriand'r #kory anders #dickkory #one of my otps

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velvetgons · 6 years

Text

insecurity

junkyu x gender neutral reader

genres; angst, fluff

word count; 6.2k

song recs; home - seventeen and bloom later - jesse !!

warnings; mentions of cheating, insecurity, self-doubt, pls don’t read if you think this could make you feel insecure or bad abt yourself!!!, copious amounts of fluff, kissing (is that a warning?)

requested; yes!! thank you angel :) [requests are open]

a/n; not much angst because uhh i am not so good at writing long angst oof

gif credit; hynsks on tumblr!! please tell me if you’d like it removed at any point :)

His footsteps receded into dull thumps as you remained sprawled across the surface of the sofa in your living room. The TV continued to blare on in front of you, your eyes trained forward on it as you could already feel yourself begin to miss the presence of him beside you. You huffed softly, focusing on another mindless action sequence mid-way through a movie you didn’t care about, squinting as you watched the lead drop multiple stories of stairs to land perfectly on his feet. A scoff passed your lips as you mumbled out a realistically too-loud-for-when-you’re-alone, “Is that even actually possible?”

“Is what even actually possible?” You heard Junkyu’s voice call back in response, your head twisting to see that he must’ve been yelling from the kitchen, the living room still devoid of him.

You dropped your head back toward the screen in disappointment before yelling back a quick, “Do you think you could drop down six flights of a stairs and be, like, totally unaffected?”

You received a loud laugh in response, “I can’t even walk upstairs, so, I’d say no.”

Biting back the laugh bubbling up in your throat, you huffed dramatically before re-wording. “No, not you, I just mean, like, a person.”

“Am I not a person?” Junkyu called back, multiple clanging sounds as he attempted to put dinner into the oven for you both meeting your ears in harsh jolts.

You hummed just loud enough for him to hear, “Barely,” you called in a sing-song tone, hearing him gasp in response, “anyway, who cares about that, answer my question.”

He laughed again, a bright grin turning your lips up at the sound, almost wishing he wouldn’t actually stop to speak just yet. “I care about that,” he began, before another banging sound resounded through your apartment, “but, hm, yeah, I do think it’s possible.”

A far louder, more offended scoff passed your lips then, “Seriously? I don’t.”

“Obviously,” you heard him call in response, your grin spreading across your features as you heard the oven door finally open, “check, so I can finally be right about something.”

Your hands dropped onto the soft cotton of the sofa, fingers splaying out as you swiped your hands around in an attempt to find your phone. You lifted your hips off of the sofa in an ungracious check to see if it’d ended up underneath you, finding nothing again. Double-checking the coffee-table, you remembered rushing upstairs only twenty minutes ago to charge it after it’d died while you’d been showing Junkyu dumb cat videos you’d found late the night before.

“Can I use your phone?” You called back in inquiry, knowing already he’d say yes like you both always did.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be, like, two seconds, but go ahead.” Part of you felt suspicion bubble up at whatever he was still doing in the kitchen, the slight worry that he’d broken another almost impossible-to-break appliance hanging over you as you picked his phone up from the top of the table. You typed in his password without really thinking, his phone opening up to the picture of you and him from earlier that year, making you groan softly at the sight. It was one of his favourites – for evident reasons – he looked absolutely perfect, dressed well and smiling brightly at the camera; while you were wearing an oversized shirt of his, your hair messy from the day spent lounging around with him and Yedam, and you were caught off-guard, staring at him as if he was some kind of alien being.

Quickly moving onto opening the internet, you waited patiently for the home-page to load up, tapping your fingertips against the back of the phone. The sound of his text notification noise going off made you jump slightly, an embarrassed laugh passing your lips as you realised what it was. You’d usually ignore them, swiping them away as not to invade any sense of his privacy, but the sight of an unknown number peaked your interest. You pulled the text down to be able to read the whole thing, feeling your chest tighten at the words.

[19:28] unknown: I had so much fun today :) we definitely need to do it again soon, text me when she isn’t there and we can make more plans?

You breathed in sharply, feeling annoyance burst through you at yourself for jumping to conclusions. Breathing in deeply, you re-read the text, knowing it was probably nothing. It was probably a friend with a new phone, they probably weren’t doing anything bad, it was just bad timing to be catching one of their texts out of context.

Opening the message thread, you saw no more texts from the same number, sighing as you could already feel the likelihood of you obsessing over this growing. Just as you were about to close it and seek out Junkyu to get the asking him over with, another text came through.

[19:30] unknown: Just make sure she doesn’t find out!! We don’t want her knowing about this :) x

Junkyu dropped onto the sofa beside you, just as you closed the message thread to go back to the internet, your fingers stuttering over the keyboard. “So, who’s the smartest in this relationship, then?” You heard him ask, looking at you with raised brows.

You forced yourself to laugh in response, immediately feeling confusion at why you did that afterwards, “Wasn’t sure what to type, really.”

He laughed brightly, slipping the phone out of your hands before stopping and speaking again, “Oh, did I get a text? Thought I heard my phone go off.”

Humming softly you shrugged, “Uh huh, I clicked on it accidentally, but I went off it as soon I did. Sorry,” you mumbled softly, wondering if this would prompt him into anything.

He just shrugged, nodding, “It’s okay,” before his thumbs began tapping against his phone-screen again, “now, let’s see who truly is the intellectual here.”

That had been a week ago now. You’d told him when he’d texted to tell you he’d gotten home safe that you weren’t feeling well, so you’d go to bed early and couldn’t respond to his texts. He hadn’t seemed to have noticed anything, telling you he hoped you felt better soon and to tell him if you needed anything.

Suffice to say, you weren’t feeling better soon. You’d been using this sudden and strange illness to avoid Junkyu and all of your other friends for the entire week, only daring to leave the safety of your apartment to go to school and work, grabbing small amounts of shopping on the journey back and forth. Rationally, you knew that isolating yourself and allowing your mind to spin different versions of a story you truly didn’t know any detail of would only aggravate the issue. But it was like you couldn’t stop yourself; the second he’d stepped out of that door, you’d began picking at the possibilities like a scab, trying to dig past the surface and figure out by yourself what was going on underneath.

Clearly, it had been slow work, the pressure of beginning to imagine and picture your boyfriend in a relationship with someone else behind your back had gotten to you enough to make solitude feel like the best option. Before, in the unusual instance of you and Junkyu arguing, you’d seek out a mutual friend, you’d rant and they’d know him enough to give you suggestions on how to fix it. It was the exact same thing he did in response to arguments with you. That was one of your favourite things about the two of you, the fact that you were able to put your stubbornness aside and figure things out together. This time just felt different. It didn’t feel like a matter you could take to a mutual friend and ask for an un-biased opinion on.

Slumping further back into your sofa with the blanket bound around you, you groaned in discomfort, feeling like your head had a heartbeat as you attempted to figure out what had to be the hundredth theory you’d come up with. This is, you noted, where things had evidently gone very wrong, turning in a direction you had first thought was unattached from the beginning picture of him cheating on you.

Every day when you woke up now, you’d feel an ever-growing and ever-painful need to stand in front of the full-length mirror and pick yourself apart, piece by piece. Over these seven sessions going in-depth on why Junkyu must no longer love you and be attracted to you and therefore feel a need to cheat on you, you’d come to conclude that perhaps that was a lot more wrong with you than you’d first imagined. Even when you’d been at your lowest with insecurities, you’d never thought that you weren’t worth anything. In fact, you were all about things being about more than looks, that was a thing you always spread around within your friendship group.

Now, though, things felt more difficult than they ever had. You stood in front of that mirror and stopped seeing a person worthy of love and respect and care, a person with worth and meaning. All you saw now was someone made entirely of flaws and imperfections, someone who didn’t have a single redeeming quality that someone could fall in love with.

You were sure that by now you could write someone a numbered list on all of the things that must have made Junkyu fall into someone else’s arms. You had decided that there was something wrong with your hairstyle, your eyes, your nose, your mouth, your cheekbones, your neck, your chest, your stomach, your arms, your hands, your thighs, your calves, even finding a way to choose multiple flaws in something as minuscule as your temples.

It was overwhelming, the constant crushing weight of feeling yourself rationalising the possibility of somebody cheating on you, on top of trying to give a timeline to events you couldn’t even be sure were genuinely happening. Your phone went off, alerting you both that someone was trying to get in contact with you again and that you were, indeed, crying again. Sniffling softly, you picked your phone up from the sofa, turning it over to see if it was Junkyu again.

[17:40] yedam: :(( are you still sick? If you are pls let me bring you some medicine…you’ve been sick for so long now

You felt your heart warm softly, the slight concern for making someone as sweet as Yedam anxious weighing down on your chest for a few small moments. Swiping at some of the tears still falling down your cheeks, you supposed that you should probably check the other constant loop of messages you’d gotten from friends – and namely, totalling up to over twenty from Junkyu – that you hadn’t responded to. Worry bit into you, although you couldn’t find the energy to give any of them a coherent response, you figured if you just told one of them they could circulate it around themselves and be content again.

[17:42] to yedam: yeah, i’m still not the best :(( sorry bub, but i promise i’m 100% fine!! i got myself some medicine today, i’ll be ready to go in a couple days

You sighed softly, preparing to drop your phone back face-down onto your sofa and go back to binge watching movies you’d already seen to make yourself feel better, however the sound of your phone dinging again you decided to check it again.

[17:43] yedam: Oh my god!! A response!! I feel so special :)

[17:43] yedam: Anyway…Junkyu’s been really stressed over this…maybe you should…you know, text him back

You felt the dramatic side of you flare up again, telling you that you should explain the situation to Yedam and have him help you in any way he thought he could. However, the rational side of you told you that he’d go right back to Junkyu to tell him everything you were thinking of. You felt like all of those people who said they were at, ‘the end of their rope,’ and you couldn’t even fully explain or figure out why you were so wound up.

More tears dripped down your face as you gave in, letting yourself lift your knees up onto the sofa and curl into yourself. Soft sobs left your lips as you reminded yourself that crying loudly was okay, because there was, as per usual nowadays, no one else here. Your phone dinged again, and again, going off a few times while you gave up on counting them, your sobs growing in volume. You let yourself continue on like this, feeling your breathing finally begin to even-out again as you reached over to curl your fingertips around your phone.

Lifting it closer to your face so you could check what the collection of texts had been. Your breathing that had just finished slipping back to a good, steady rhythm, it suddenly went off again, feeling as if your chest was being pressed down on again.

[17:48] junkyu: you’re still sick?? is that why you haven’t been responding??

[17:50] yedam: Okay I’m sorry but I told Junkyu you’re still sick

[17:52] yedam: He’s just gonna come check up on you, ok? Don’t start worrying about how you look again bub I’m sure you look fine :) ily

[17:57] junkyu: hi babe i’m kinda uh gonna be at ur place in 5 so pls open the door 4 ur favourite boy!!!

Coughing softly in an attempt to quicken the process of evening out your breathing, you checked the time, seeing it was already 6pm. You yanked yourself up to your feet, rushing down the hall to your bathroom and checking your splotched face. You fumbled, hands shaking as you gripped onto the cold steel of the cold tap and spun it, hearing the water splash against the sink as you closed your eyes and focused on pulling full breaths back into your lungs.

You took handfuls of the water and threw it onto your face, scrubbing it into your face and sighing when you saw the little it was doing to help clean up the evidence from crying on your face. Sparing a glance down to your outfit, you wished you could find the time to change, but you could already hear him knocking at your front door.

Heading back toward the front door, you could physically feel your heart moving up into your chest, your eyes clouding over with tears again of their own accord as you pulled the door handle down. Pulling the door open to reveal Junkyu, you almost let yourself cry again, feeling the mixed emotions clang together inside your chest and throat. Part of you wanted to cry at the relief of finally seeing him again, knowing you’d missed him more than you were ready to accept over the week, but the other part of you was reminding you that this was the boy who was going to break your heart.

“Baby!” He shouted, stepping into the apartment as he immediately swept you into his arms, locking them around your waist tightly as he tugged you impossibly close to him. “I wish you would’ve told me you were still sick sooner, I would’ve come.”

A pang of guilt ran through you at the sentiment behind his words, the feeling of knowing that he still cared for you rushing through you. Although, you pondered, could someone truly care about you if they were cheating on you, if they were doing something that would hurt you in the long run. You hummed in response, your arms curling themselves around him of their own consciousness.

He pulled back from you, his fingertips meeting yours and linking your hands together as he dragged you back in the direction of the living room. Seeing him navigate his way through the place you called home so confidently and naturally made an entirely different feeling wash over you, one of nostalgia and slight shame at the notion that you were lying to him purely because you doubted him so entirely. You weren’t entirely sure of what to do with yourself now that you had any lingering – or constant and overwhelming – negative feelings directed towards him. You’d never been caught in a position like this with him before, and now it left you wondering over how you were expected to act around the person you had definitively decided had cheated on you.

By the time you got far enough away from your thoughts to look at him confidently, you saw him smiling back softly, observing the way your face scrunched up in discomfort with worry ghosting on his features. “Do you think it’s a virus?” He began gently, keeping his voice low and whispered as if not to disturb a headache you didn’t really have.

His actions made you double-guess yourself, thinking back to what could now be construed as completely irrational threads of thought if he debunked them for you. The feeling of his hand coming to clasp yours warmly, gripping it within his own as he leant across to press a quick kiss to your cheek as if he was deeply concerned for you in your silence. Every piece of his actions made you desperate to flinch away, maybe in disbelief that this boy who was – in acceptance of the cheesiness of such a statement – literally made from honey with how sweet he was could possibly hurt you like this, or maybe more so for the belief that he’d see things you thought he’d fallen for, when in fact they could have been what ruined you. You could feel your hand begin to tremble as you felt the first salty trail of tears begin, wishing against all reality that they would just stop in their tracks before he noticed them.

Seven days’ worth of insecurity and shame smacked against you, washing over you like a wave and swallowing you up, spreading across your chest from the inside. You suddenly felt as if you were far too exposed, as if a hundred eyes were pointing at you like you had become some kind of exhibit. The examples of things to fixate on and hate about yourself suddenly sprung themselves to the forefront of your mind, your eyes shutting tightly as more tears fell against your mental protest. Insecurity had never, in all honesty, been something you had been good in any way at dealing with – perhaps, though, what you’d found comfort and honesty in before had been the things surrounding you, which, to your current dismay, must have always included Junkyu.

The weight of an arm wrapping around your shoulders and tugging you to be pressed safely against a sturdy chest made your heart speed up. Butterflies had been something you found yourself experiencing a lot with Junkyu, the knowledge that there was so much emotion and tenderness behind the small mundane actions always making you feel so swarmed with love. Now, though, the butterflies slammed against your rib-cage and made you feel like your head was pounding with some subdued panic you couldn’t fight.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he soothed softly, pressing a flutter of feather-light kisses to your temple in order to calm your sobbing, “does it hurt?” He pressed forward, all the while tracing calming circles and minuscule hearts onto the skin of the hand still linked with his.

Your immediate reaction was to nod, and you found yourself doing so as your hands tightened around the fabric of his shirt, burying your face into his chest to avoid the fear of him seeing you looking worse than you already pictured yourself. Your mouth opened and then closed again, and you found yourself scrambling to form a sentence of some kind that would summarise how you felt, what you were thinking, all the questions you had wanted to fire off at him since he’d left your apartment a week ago. But you just couldn’t find it within yourself, you couldn’t find the ability to question him when you were so sure you already knew why a boy like him would do this to a girl like you.

“Can I get you something, baby? Where does it hurt? Do I need to call someone?” Junkyu’s voice had risen slightly, making you wonder if you’d missed something he’d said in a haze while you fought to keep yourself hidden despite his protest. He seemed to be trying to figure out how bad you were feeling from looking at your face, but the panic that rose within you at the prospect of him doing so made your hold around him tighten.

His rush of panicked questioning only made the pit of confusion in your stomach open up further, and you couldn’t quite find a safe conclusion for all the things you were feeling at once. For a moment, his movements completely stilled, before he softly pushed you away from him, your body not having the strength to cling onto him any longer. As you slipped away from his body, his arms still firmly locked around your waist, you kept your eyes trained downwards, avoiding ever catching his eyes directly.

“Baby,” he began cautiously, “is…is something really wrong? Are you, like, badly sick? Do I need to definitely call someone?” The pure fear and apprehension tightened behind his words made the knot form itself back up in your throat, threatening to cover over the previous track of tears once again.

Shaking your head lightly, you knew that you didn’t have any room to manoeuvre a story in your favour anymore, that it was time to finally confess what was going on in your head to him. A searing jolt ran through you then, seeing the words tumbling past your chapped lips acting as a kind of finish line, as a brick wall on everything you’d built with Junkyu for the time ahead of you both.

“I’m not…Junkyu, I’m not sick.” You choked out, making sure to avoid looking into his eyes, knowing the moment you did would be the moment you lost all the strength to continue this conversation with him.

He tilted his head at you, eyebrows scrunching together in confusion, “What’s, what’s been wrong then?” For a moment, he stopped to wonder over something, before one of his hands found their way to cup your jaw, tilting your head upwards to look at him, “Why couldn’t you tell me there was something wrong?”

This question, although he didn’t know the meaning you were reading behind it, slapped you across the face. In all honesty, you knew you couldn’t be angry with him if he walked away from this, even if he had been entirely faithful, even if you were broken down by now, you couldn’t be angered by any reaction he had if he wasn’t at fault, because it was a painful thing to be accused of. You wondered what was worse – being accused of cheating on the person you loved most and were entirely faithful too, or feeling the need to accuse the person you loved most and trusted entirely of cheating.

“I’d have helped, whatever it was, you know that, right?” He questioned, his voice filling the silence and the hollow in your chest. At this, you searched across his face, trying to see if there was anything that could give you an answer before you dived head-first into the deep end of a conversation you didn’t ever want to have with him.

You exhaled softly, closing your eyes and willing the lump in your throat to just disappear, or maybe you were just wishing someone somewhere could give you some kind of extra emotional strength in that moment. “Junkyu, I, can I ask you a question? One that’s probably not…the nicest, I guess. I just…I need you to be completely honest when you answer me.”

Watching him intently, you observed the way he seemed to hesitate at the request. This immediately came across as a bad sign, a red flag that whatever his answer was it had to be picked at, it had to be torn apart until you could twist it into something you could believe. However, he nodded afterwards, swallowing thickly as his hands adjusted to slip more of your balled up fist into it, allowing you to feel the warmth of his palm as he tightened his hand back around yours.

You basked in this action, wondering if it would be the last time you’d get to feel his hand in yours. “Okay, I…” you sighed, moving your free hand to rub at your tired eyes before beginning again. “Are you cheating on me?” Once the words had actually left your mouth, the notion of not finding the confidence or the will to say them beforehand seemed almost comical. The easiness and fluency behind saying such a simply string of words and not thinking about the weight the order of them held was almost too funny to imagine being a difficult task.

At this, Junkyu recoiled, his mouth dropping open as his eyes narrowed at the space around, as if the words had become a physical thing he could see floating tauntingly in the air around him. “I, am I what? Why would…why do you even believe, for a second, that I even could do something like that to you?” The words left him in a jumbled, loud mess, but you knew what he was getting at.

How could you ever actually accuse him of cheating on you? What had made you believe that he had the ability to complete such a cruel act in the first place? If you were going to bring up the texts, you knew it had to be then. It was strange thinking about the concept now, your only proof and backing behind such a bold idea being two short texts that had popped up on his phone, that you could easily have asked him about seconds after you saw them. And now, you sat across from him, an entire week later, spewing a question that had so little to hold it up directly to his face.

“Junkyu, I, I saw some texts on your phone, from this…unknown number. And I get it, you probably think I’m overreacting, but they were weird texts, and I didn’t feel good about them.” You rambled, your empty hands now knotting together to tug at the fingers of each other in an attempt to escape the sheer anxiety building up inside you.

He looked confused for a moment, like he truly didn’t have any idea what you were talking about. “What, last week?” You nodded in response, dropping the eye contact as he huffed in response. “It’s been seven days! Why didn’t you just ask me about them if you felt weird about it? I would’ve answered!”

“You’re not answering now!” You scoffed, finally finding the courage to look up at him as he tilted his head at you in a lost manner again. Something about his actions made him seem almost childlike, as if there was no way possible he should be involved in a moment like this one.

He raised his hands to push his hair back out of his face, “Okay, okay, fine, I just, I don’t,” he paused to breathe in shakily, “you told me you didn’t see them.”

“Would it have been better if I didn’t? Are you…actually hiding something, Junkyu?” Your voice cracked at the end, the foreknowledge that he’d start crying soon under the pressure and strain of the argument starting to get to you.

You heard a small sniffle before he continued, “Well, I mean, yeah, but not for the reason you think it is, I…you, just, you lied to me, you know? I wish you would’ve just told me, baby. This isn’t…it’s not what you think it is.”

Having watched a lot of drama movies in your life, you knew that line was straight out of a cheater’s handbook. But, as he’d said earlier, looking at it in a full picture, did you really believe that Junkyu was genuinely able to do something like that? You weren’t so sure anymore, but the insecurity and fear inside of you was beginning to nip at your skin again, leaving you in an uncomfortable position of not even understanding your own logic.

“Then, what is it, Junkyu? I know I…I lied to you, I know, I just, I was scared. And I know you are, too, but if you did it…I get it, okay, I really do.” You breathed out, feeling a few stray tears escape to make their way down from your eyelashes only to be swiped at by the sleeve of your jumper.

At this, he seemed to jump as if you’d yelled at him, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled to string together a sentence. “What are you talking about? You’d get it? Why…why would you understand someone doing something like that to you?”

“I didn’t say someone, I said you,” you began softly, a bitter laughing bubbling past your lips, “you’re, you know, you, and I’m, well I’m not exactly anywhere near your level, am I?”

Junkyu visibly startled, staring wide-eyed at you, looking more offended than when you’d posed your initial question. “I…baby, okay, um, let’s, take this one step at a time, alright?” You looked at him sceptically for a quiet second, nodding your head softly as he swiped harshly at the first tear to slip down his cheek.

“I didn’t cheat on you, okay? I wouldn’t. I’m, to be honest, I’m a little offended you think I’d ever do that, but, it’s, I can understand why it looks bad.” He fumbled about in the back pocket of his jeans for a second, pulling his phone forward so you could see it, skimming to tap in his password before re-opening the message thread again. Briefly, you wondered if this was something you actually wanted to see, but you knew you’d have to put your faith back in Junkyu as some point soon. He swiped up from a couple of messages, allowing you to briefly see the name had been changed to a saved contact, but you couldn’t read the screen from the angle you were at.

He turned the screen toward you, prompting you to read whatever was on it, as you took it from his hands. Your eyes skimmed across the messages as you felt your stomach rise from the pit it had been slumped into for the week behind you, although the guilt at your actions seeped into its place soon after.

The contact name simply read, ‘Mashi ♡.’ The texts underneath the one’s you’d seen all followed basic format, with normal day-to-day conversations and dumb jokes, Mashiho always finishing off the texts with little kisses or smiley faces. You were sure, from knowing him a while beforehand, that he did this with nearly everyone at some point or another during a conversation.

Your eyebrows scrunched up, “What…what was he talking about, then? It, just, I’m sorry, I just, I don’t understand, am I missing something?”

Junkyu chuckled softly, his eyes watery as he looked directly at you, “Yeah, uh, I wasn’t really supposed to tell you but, given the circumstances…we’re kind of, planning a surprise trip for you.” He shrugged, eyes leaving yours in an almost boyishly shy manner that you wouldn’t have expected to see from his earlier demeaner.

“A what?” You asked, a blush curling up to your cheeks as you looked down, unsure if the sudden bashfulness within you was from the embarrassment at your accusations or the sweetness behind their actions.

Junkyu hummed again, “You’ve just been stressed a lot lately, you know? So, we wanted to give you a break, take you somewhere nice, but…I know you hate planning trips, so we wanted to keep it a secret so it didn’t make things worse.”

You dropped your face into your hands, guilt flooding through you as you noticed just how kind both him and Mashiho were being about a situation you had no idea about. “Mashi just got a new phone, he, he asked me to give you his number but I forgot and then you got sick and I, I was gonna give it you when you were better.”

His ramble made you look up again, seeing his swipe at his cheeks again as he noticed the tears falling freely down your face for what seemed to be the millionth time that week. His hands moved to quickly cup your face, thumbs swiping tears away as he shook his head, “Don’t, don’t cry, it’s, I’m not angry, I’m a little upset, but, it’s okay, we’re okay, okay? Can you…can you tell me it’s okay? I just wanna fix this.”

Seeing his tears fall faster, you moved the fabric of your jumper to cover your hands and moved them to mirror his actions, swiping the sweater paws to catch the tears as they fell. He laughed lightly, smiling at you as grinned back at him, your head falling onto his shoulder at how ridiculous the situation seemed now. “There’s nothing to fix, I…I should’ve just asked, I’m so sorry, you know, I, I should never have let myself believe you could do that to me, or anyone.”

At this, he cleared his throat, rousing you from his shoulder and back into his line of sight. “We need to talk about what you said earlier, yeah?” You swallowed nervously before nodding, feeling his hands tug you up and into his lap. “I…can’t even begin to explain how wrong you are,” he mumbled, “how long have you been thinking like this?”

“Not long, I promise,” you began, watching as he seemed to breath out a sigh of relief, “I just, ever since I saw the texts, I guess. I just feel like I’m never gonna be able to be on the same…level as you, you know? I’m never gonna be good-looking enough for you, or have the perfect enough body type for you, I’m just never gonna be enough for you.” You said softly, your voice dropping into almost silence as you spoke.

Junkyu stayed quiet for a few minutes, as if trying to process and then understand the words being spoken to him. “No.” He said after you could feel the air begin to grow thick with apprehension of his answer.

You rose your eyebrows at him, “No?”

“You’re wrong.” He concluded, nodding once at you as if to lock the fact into your brain.

Unsure of how to argue with him on this, you simply sighed, “Junkyu, I, it’s okay. I’m okay just, being with you for as long as you need to find someone who’s…enough.”

Junkyu jolted underneath you, his hold on you seeming to tighten as his face curdled in disgust at your comment. “Baby…” he began against, his voice laced with weighed down sadness and panic, “that’s not, you shouldn’t ever lower yourself to think that way.” Just as you opened your mouth to confirm that in your mind, this was just a line in the sand, something you wouldn’t be able to cross with him for however long he stayed with you.

“No,” he interrupted your thoughts again, even gentler than before, “just, listen for a second, hm?” He waited a beat for you to nod in confirmation before beginning, “You’re enough. Not just for me, though, okay? You’re…hard-working, strong, smart, determined, kind, and…so, so much more, I don’t even have the words to begin describing you, you know? You just…you inspire me so much, and you don’t even know it. Everything you do is so beautiful and powerful and, don’t even get me started on your looks because I could talk all day. If you’re enough for yourself, then you’re far more than enough for me.”

You knew you were crying by the time he finished speaking, his hands had began flailing to hammer in just how specific he was being, his eyes shifting all around the room. When he finally looked back at you, a soft and shy smile turned the corners of his mouth up, his hands moving to swipe your tears away.

“Happy tears?” He checked, stooping his head down lower so he could finally look into your eyes again.

You nodded at him, a laugh falling past your lips, your head dropping further into his palm pressed to your cheek, “Happy tears,” you confirmed softly.

A bright smile lit up his features as he leant himself upwards slightly, his hand resting on your jaw bringing you close enough that your noses were touching, lips hanging centimetres apart from one another. “I know you say I don’t have to this anymore,” he began, making a laugh tumble past your lips again, “but, you know, can I kiss you?”

You nodded, your lips falling from their smile as he pressed his own against yours. The kiss was soft, his lips moving slowly and sweetly against yours as he dropped a single hand from your face to grab at one of the hands laid flat against his chest, curling his fingertips back around it. You felt his lips move upwards into a small as you squeezed his hand in response, you mirroring his action as he tightened his hand around yours in response.

#ygtblbr #i haven't put the link in my bio to the library yet...oof...i'll do it as soon as i have time to figure out how to do that!!#yg treasure box scenarios #yg treasure box imagines #yg treasure box reactions #ygtb scenarios #ygtb imagines #ygtb reactions #junkyu scenarios #kim junkyu #writings//

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candidcanine · 6 years

Text

A Sadness Runs Through Him

I listened to this song right here and was gross sobbing at the thought of 2D dedicating this song to a certain bassist. Couldn’t help myself; had to write a fic inspired by the lyrics of this song. Enjoy I guess :P

Fic Summary: 2D has always had a front-row seat to the self-destruction of Murdoc Niccals.

You're Stuart Pot, and you can't make heads or tails of the man named Murdoc Niccals.

Your story starts off with your typical weekday shift as a minimum wage store clerk in a music shop: no customers in sight for hours on end. You've done nothing but stock shelves for the day. You're dangerously close to nodding off when a group of passers-by outside the shop scatter in panic like a herd of wild gazelle.

Then it happens.

The bright glare of car headlights blinds you. There's no other warning; just a millisecond-long flash of a driver's sharklike grin behind a steering wheel. The bumper of a battered Vauxhall Astra shatters the display window of your shop, colliding painfully with your skull. Your vision fades to black.

The next thing you know, you're waking from unconsciousness with your face pressed to the pavement and both of your eyes hurting like no pain you've felt before. Slowly you sit up, finding yourself sitting in a circle of strangers gaping at you in shock. Your confused gaze lands on a car with a broken windshield whose driver side's door opens. A strange man steps out of the car and saunters toward you.

He stops right in front of you and appraises your appearance openly.

Your world slows. Your vision is muddy, your joints are screaming for reprieve, and you are missing teeth you swear you still had the last time you checked, but the man standing in front of you is wearing such a hungry look in his eyes that it grabs your full attention despite your immense pain. You assume you look about as good as you feel right now, but he's staring at you like you're a celebrity who's come to personally give him a winning lottery ticket.

"Little Stuart," the stranger drawls, hooking an arm around your waist. "Finally back in the land of the living, I see. You look great with both of your eyes in the same color again."

He tells you that ten months had passed since you were last awake. That you were in a car accident that put you in a coma. That you were in another car accident that put you out of said coma. You don't question how he had known your name or why he was so nonchalant while giving you these details because you're caught off guard by the cheeky smirk that's on his face.

"If I hadn't had your head smashed in again, who knows when you would've woken up?" he said. "Be grateful I didn't leave you a vegetable for too long."

Then he pats your back and walks away like he's expecting you to follow.

You're instantly starstruck.

You naively assume he had saved your life by waking you up, and he does nothing to dispel the notion. Instead, he takes to the farce like a newly hatched duckling takes to water, stealing your misplaced gratitude and returning it by (barely) tolerating your existence and responding to your adoration with well-timed punches to the gut. He humors you at first, likely interested in you because of your unique pair of onyx eyes and blue hair, but gets so tired of your endless babble that he tells you that his "community service" has been "rendered" and he doesn't need to "babysit someone who clearly needs to be checked in a psych ward."

But then you sing for him in a last-ditch effort to gain back his interest, and he discovers exactly how musically talented you are.

His personality does a quick 180. He starts entertaining you again, showing you a charming side to him that you had never seen directed at you before. He subtly compliments your skill. He mentions that he had been in a few bands with keyboardists that didn't even have a fraction of the talent you have. He rambles about a band he wants to put together, which is sadly lacking a vocalist that it desperately needed.

He had to have you on board his still-nonexistent band. Never mind that you had a life, a home, and a family; never mind that you had plans for the future that did not involve music in any way, shape or form. You were useful to him, so you had to go, no questions asked. His perseverance is anything if not unparalleled. Soon enough, the conniving smooth-talker convinces you to pack your bags, nod to your skeptical parents, and set off to build a future with someone who was barely an acquaintance at the time.

It isn't completely his fault: you had chosen to go of your own accord, completely dazzled by his endless theatrics and his impenetrable personality. He is a man so confoundingly contradictory— from his blasé attitude to being threatened with bodily harm, to his intense need to be recognized for his talents by virtual strangers, to the way he seemed to simultaneously attract and repel people with his mere presence— that you, a fresh young face at twenty years old, couldn't help but idolize and desire to get close to him. Even when all signs had pointed to him being an individual more unpleasant than first meets the eye.

He dangles the promise of fame as your motivation to join his band. He thinks you want the same things he does— it's as if it never occurred to him that anyone would want otherwise. Fame and fortune is all he thinks and dreams about. You never cared much about fame, though, instead you care more about getting into the skin of the man who "saved" you; to befriend this interesting person who seemed not to know if he wanted other people to love or hate him. He craves recognition yet loathes commitment; he is aimless in direction yet focused with his goals. He seems to you like a man just tiredly going through the motions, like a puppet strung along on strings forced to dance the scripted beat of an unknown master. It's so fascinating that it made you want to take him apart and see what made him tick.

You want to understand him.

"If you want t'get famous, don't you have to make people like you first? Maybe don't be so... you, and start trying to be... likeable?" you suggest to him hesitantly. You cringe away from his returning glare.

"The day I change my ways is the day I start praying to God. Why in hell's name would I change to ingratiate myself to some cocks who I don't even know?" he informs you. "Why make people like you when you can get them to worship you?"

When Russel and Noodle later join the band they give you the same advice: stay away from him, whatever drivel he feeds you about owning your soul shouldn't be an excuse for the daily abuse he lays on you. But you don't listen. You're unconvinced. He was rough around the edges but you had thought that maybe a good friend would dull them and bring out his shine. So you stick by him, expecting that your loyalty would be enough to get him to stop treating you like shit.

It isn't.

You're Stuart Pot, and you're starting to get tired of Murdoc Niccals.

Years have passed. And as the seasons change, so too do you hope he would. You hope that time would quell that rage in him that always caused him to lash out unexpectedly at the nearest available, convenient target (which, more often than not, happens to be you). You hope that an intelligent, street-smart man like him would learn to apply his goddamn knowledge to social situations and stop pissing off the wrong people. You hope that when, finally, he had fulfilled his dream of worldwide acclaim for his music, he would sooner or later stop finding unexpected ways to drive your opinion of him down further into the dirt.

But he doesn't change. Instead, he disappoints you. Every. Single. Time. He disappointed you when he took your girlfriend Paula away in a show of spite, he disappointed you when he got himself arrested during the time Gorillaz had broken up, he disappointed you when he chose himself, time and time again, over the band that he claimed to prize more dearly than his life. He wears his newfound fame on his sleeve; uses it as an excuse to be even more self-centered and vicious. Gorillaz' release of two record-albums, widespread global appeal, and a movie deal that almost comes to fruition hardly hampers his destructive tendencies.

Your patience wears thin. And that little spark of something that you feel for him before becomes tainted, ever so slowly, by the very aspects of his personality that you were so fascinated by in the first place: his capricious attitude, his magnetic attraction to every single thing that hints at trouble, his admirable skill in provoking other people into action... his instinct to hurt people who get too close to him. There was no use being friends with someone so determined to make you their enemy.

You wanted to give up. But, like you always did, you soldiered on.

And then, eventually, you come to be aware of one simple fact.

In the years that you've known this man, you've never heard a single thing about his past or his family. Not one thing. You're straining to remember even one instance of when he had brought up the subject voluntarily. He never mentions them, and if he does, it's with a strained sort of flippancy that's obviously staged. As if he's hiding something.

So of course, upon this observation, you wonder: Was he hiding anything about his past? Maybe it held the key to understanding anything that went on in that mind of his.

You want to find out.

He regards your burgeoning curiosity with guarded suspicion and deflects attention from his past with practiced ease. He's a steel barrier, a wall of defense mechanisms and layers of hostility and snark. When all else fails, he simply gives in to an anger so intense you shy away from asking him the right questions.

But there are cracks; he's not as thorough as he believes. After many failed attempts, it got you thinking. When he empties those liquor bottles he loves, the alcohol loosens up his tongue so much that he scarcely seems like his sober self anymore. So if sobriety prevented him from divulging any details, would his drunk self—?

You take advantage of this one evening after a Demon Days concert, when he's plastered enough to lure you into his Winnebago under the impression you were one of his fans. He begins to reminisce.

You learn about the 'nice' diner lady he knew at age nine. You learn about his mother who abandoned him at birth. You learn about his apathetic brother. You learn about his friendless, bully-ridden childhood spent cowering in empty rooms and hiding in supply closets. You learn about his violent and larger-than-life father, who he spoke of with so much fondness that it made you sick to your stomach when he recounts the 'fun' times he had spent with him.

His shared memories paint such a bleak picture of neglect that it had been no wonder to you that he subconsciously adopts the traits of his abusers, even seeking similar people out and perpetuating an endless cycle. It was no wonder that he had initially despised you; he had probably seen himself as a child when he first came across your seemingly amicable, simple and defenseless personality. You were, to him, a mirror for the easy target that he once was before he had been hardened from years of living.

"You know how to listen," he slurs, oblivious to your realization. He stares at you with melancholic eyes and wraps his arms around you tenderly like you were a lover who he hadn't seen in years. "You're not like the other birds. Thank you, I needed this."

By the time morning comes he had seemed to have forgotten the whole night, refusing to meet your eye as you attempt and fail to strike up a conversation on the topic. You move on from trying to confront him and instead go for a more indirect approach. But still he shuts down every time you stretch your hand out to him in a show of kindness and understanding. The harder you try to draw closer to him, the more he did his best to pull away from you.

He knows that you had cracked his mask.

But you think he appreciated your gestures, in his own way. He seeks you out instinctively when he's in one of his fouler moods. He touches you often enough, gently enough, that it gives you the urge to wrap him in a consoling embrace. He gives an infinitesimal smile at you whenever you laugh at his jokes or praise his keen attention to detail in music. It's such a nice change of pace from your normally volatile dynamic that you seek it out like a crazed addict.

To you, everything was different now, you knew why he acted the way he did and you knew what was responsible for his nature, you could understand him now, and maybe you could steer him into getting the help he needed. But everything was also the same, because he still treated you the way he had always treated you, he made no effort whatsoever to acknowledge that there might've been anything that he needed help for. It was okay, it was alright. He clearly needed time and a bit of prodding. You'll be there with him, as his friend, and maybe you could work things out...

If Noodle didn't die in the aftermath of El Mañana, and you didn't remember who had angrily insisted that she did the shoot.

He did not show remorse at the news.

You feel your faith in the man finally shatter into a million pieces.

You're Stuart Pot, and Murdoc Niccals is someone you don't know anymore.

Russel had disappeared off the face of the Earth mere weeks after Noodle's death. You know why he had gone so quickly— being constantly reminded of the death of someone who was like a daughter to him would not have been a good idea. It was alright though; you didn't mind him leaving since you follow hot on his heels. There's no use in staying in a band with most of its members gone, and you would sooner grow your brown hair back than stay and be reminded of what had happened to Noodle. So you set off on a journey, a retreat of sorts, to clear your head of the fiasco that was Demon Days. Goodness knows you deserved it.

As for him, you have no intention of knowing. He had left before you could even hold a funeral for Noodle. You don't want anything to do with the man and would be content to never hear from him again for the rest of your life. It was all ancient history to you now.

Until it wasn't.

One moment you're basking in the view of Beirut, the next moment you wake up groggy, lightheaded, and shrouded in complete darkness. You emerge from the dark confines of a suitcase, oxygen-deprived and seasick, and are graced by the baffling sight of a plastic island painted in an eye-searing color of hot pink. A terrifyingly familiar face smirks at you, with an expression that you instantly read as a mixture of derangement and malice. The expression on his face is so foreign and disturbing that you feel a shiver crawl down your spine.

"Welcome to Plastic Beach," he greets you, grabbing a fistful of your shirt collar and pulling you down to his eye level. You didn't feel very welcome.

What followed were some of the worst months of your life. He locks you in a tiny bedroom beneath the ocean, with no way to entertain yourself save for learning the sheet music he threw at you and forced you to practice. There's a keyboard in the room, a bed with warm blankets, and so much junk strewn on the floor, but nothing else that seemed to indicate that he expended more than the bare minimum to prepare this prison as a temporary home for you.

You've never gone so many days without your painkillers, but this time you go weeks without your precious meds dampening your experience of this nightmare-turned-reality. Your insomnia worsens by the return of your migraines, your rare sleeps are plagued by nightmares. But why would you want to sleep, anyway, with the ever-present eye of a monstrous cetacean lurking outside the porthole of your room? So you cease sleeping. There's no meaning to your nights and days, anyway, save for when he occasionally yanks you out of your room to record the vocals for his new songs or force-feeds you after you attempt a hunger strike to protest your living conditions. He sends that hunk of metal that was an insult to Noodle's memory every damn time he had to fetch you from the bowels of Plastic Beach, and the instant you hear her metal hand knocking on the door you automatically freeze up in fearful anticipation.

He becomes more cruel. So very, very, cruel. Whereas before, he had chosen to hurt you with offhand remarks on your intelligence and personality, now, his insults have become barbed with the real intention to humiliate and degrade you. If before, his beatings were done with little to no ill intent (if not done with the goal of amusing himself or others), now, his strikes and punches are heavily laced with meaning, as if screaming that this was all your fault, you caused him to hit you like this, why hadn't you stayed away?

You bleed more from the sharpness of his insults than the bluntness of his fist. He's not just a barrier anymore, he was a fortress, completely fucking impenetrable and armed to the teeth with a brusque and vicious attitude tailor-made to drive other people off. You can't even begin to place how he was doing mentally anymore; every single time you talk to him guarantees you of the surety that he had gone off the deep end and was left to fester in the confines of his ruined mind.

So you try to distance yourself from him for your own protection. You shut yourself off to him, you try to allow yourself to feel your own resentment and anger that had been simmering quietly beneath the surface, you try to refuse even the tiniest urge to empathize with him whenever he looked at you with those goddamn eyes that were still filled with a quiet melancholy. You focus on delivering the vocals for his songs, hoping that with the completion of the album, he would grant you your freedom and you could put the whole ordeal behind you.

But then you read, really read, the lyrics to "On Melancholy Hill", and you're left awestruck for the first time by anything he's written since your reunion. You get your hands on "To Binge", and you're left staggering by the loneliness practically wafting from the song. He shows you "Broken", and its imagery was so telling that it left you contemplating everything you knew about the man.

He wrote like a lost man who fell in love and was bitterly trying to change for a person who was no longer around to appreciate it.

You don't know what to feel. Did he fall for someone while the band was broken up? Maybe he fell in love with a(n) (un)lucky person after you and Russel had left him. Maybe that was why he had become so unfailingly cruel. The mystery lingers at the back of your mind. You begin to take your assumptions as fact. You start resenting this mystery person, hating them, even, for breaking his heart like this and leaving you to be the one to pick up the pieces. You keep silent, but your suspicions grow with each passing day until you couldn't take the agony of not knowing anymore.

You confront him and steel yourself for a beating by asking him point blank who it was for. At first he reacts the way you expect him to, by punishing you with imprints of bruises all over your body, but he relents one night after you had steadily chipped away at his defenses by sheer persistence.

"Tell me the fucking truth, because I deserve to know," you yell at him in frustration. "because I'm singing your damn love songs. Last time. Are these songs about someone, and are they the reason you've gone off your rocker!?"

"Sod it," he curses after downing a whole bottle of rum and gripping your neck. "I don't care anymore."

He kisses you.

He tastes of tobacco ash and alcohol and spice, but you don't pay attention to this because holy fuck, he's kissing you. He's kissing you and you don't know how or why or what had prompted him to do this. Your mind goes blank. You freeze up like a deer in headlights but he doesn't even notice; he keeps his lips pressed to yours until he loosens his grip after a mere five seconds. But the damage is done, five seconds is enough to upend your entire world view. He watches you stutter uselessly while reaching out to caress your face, then says to you with an indecipherable look on his face:

"It's not that hard to guess, faceache. Yes, it's about someone. I wrote love songs about someone I used to know. See, I didn't value his friendship enough and took it for granted. I used him for years."

His thumb grazes your cheek. "This pillock had insisted on getting too close to me, even after I tried aaaaaaall the ways I could think of to get him to leave me alone. But he never let up. So I got too comfortable. Started to enjoy having his annoying face around me. When I started to... feel things for him, I couldn't take it. I locked those feelings right up like some hormonal bird does with her private diary. So when I disappointed him by committing the biggest fucking mistake of my life, I panicked and left him. Do you understand?"

You do.

And you're petrified.

So you run away from him, and barricade yourself in your room for so long that he had to have Cyborg Noodle drag you out.

You never bring up the incident and he obliges you by sharing your silence. The two of you never speak of it again. He starts treating you with more care, letting you roam around the island freely now, but he also avoids you like you've got an incurable disease. The sudden change makes you so conflicted that you almost prefer his old self. You aren't used to such a quiet side of him; aren't used to going entire days without being called down to his studio. At least he had spoken to you and you could guess what he was feeling, but now you don't get the chance. You barely even see him anymore.

You're confused, your heart was in shambles, but you were forced to drop the thought because you both soon find out that Noodle was alive, she's at Plastic Beach and back from the dead; Russel was back, he'd arrived at Plastic Beach too and he was fucking enormous for no reason. They are alive and you are happy; so, so, happy that your friends are back after all these years. They both hug you and laugh and ruffle your hair playfully, and you are overjoyed. Your worries are banished from your mind.

A lot of things happen and all of you leave Plastic Beach together. Almost like a family. For the first time, you're unbothered by the kiss that had overshadowed your mind for weeks.

You think that maybe this time if the four of you would be able to last some time together. You think that Gorillaz might have a bright future ahead. You think that a few days back in the company of other humans might be enough to clear your head, maybe help you understand what exactly it was you did to make him fall for you and why exactly you weren't so opposed to that idea.

But you hadn't noticed a certain someone shattering your hopeful reverie, ripping himself away from the group, until he's already vanished as quickly and as quietly as waves rolling over a plastic beach.

You're Stuart Pot, and Murdoc Niccals had once again crashed into your life like a car into a music shop.

He shows up at your steps after nearly a half a decade has passed. He had seemed more subdued. Not quieter, not more thoughtful, and certainly not less vulgar, but more...stable. You don't know if the years he had spent by himself had been enough to unspool the massive tangle of issues swimming around in his head, but his new demeanor had been a complete 180 from what you were used to. You were stunned into silence when he asked you— instead of ordered you— to work with him on a new Gorillaz album. He gives you a slight smile as he waits for your reply, as if he had already anticipated the "no" that threatened to slide past your lips.

He immediately lights up when you accept his request instead.

You gather the rest of the band and quickly set to work, all the time observing him as he interacted with you and the others. You felt like you had time travelled back to the early 2000s again with you, him, Noodle, and Russel all in one house, together again, and working on new songs to unveil to a fanbase that hasn't seen you in years. So many things had changed, and others had not: you had gotten a lot older, a little more tired, but your passion for music remains the same. He's no different from you in that aspect. He's genuinely happy to work on creating new music for the band again, vibrating with the energy and enthusiasm of someone half his age.

You debut your album to overjoyed multitudes. The world may have kept turning after Gorillaz had gone on another hiatus, but it certainly did not miss you any less because of it. The four of you soon announce a global tour, formally kicking off the Humanz era. Your fans go wild.

The tour reignites your love of your profession. It's always been intoxicating to you and always will be. You own the stages of your concert venues with an aura that your twenty-year-old self would've envied, filling stadiums with the hypnotic sound of your voice. Your body slips into the beat with calculated grace aimed at a euphoric crowd; drives them into near anarchy. You lure entire audiences into a trance and listen to them sing the lyrics back to you. You're the ringmaster, the showstopper, the conductor of this beautiful orchestra. You're the frontman of your band, and you are born for this role.

He's always at the corner of your eye, plucking away at his bass as he watches you charm your fans with each and every song you sing. He doesn't attempt to hog the stage like he used to and instead goes for a more muted presence; a far cry from his old self.

Occasionally he directs a smile at you with a strange mind-numbing tenderness that whispered of an unplanned confession, a hand wrapped around the back of your neck, and the feeling of dry, chapped lips on your own. Whenever that happens, you zone right the fuck out and almost miss a verse of the song you're singing. Then the moment is gone; he's wearing another, more devilish smirk and directing his attention elsewhere.

He still hasn't brought up that night.

You wonder if you would ever get any closure on the subject. You two continue to dance around each other like you're both threading on eggshells; you attend interviews with him and pretend you're fine, you shoot music videos together with the band and think you're fine, Noodle and Russel start noticing and you both gesture that you're fucking fine.

But no, you're not fine, you're both lying to everyone, each other, and yourselves without saying a single word. You're frustrated and you know he's frustrated that you both can't seem to restore your relationship back to something that even resembles the casual (albeit abusive) one that you had in the past. But what can you do about it? You're terrified and he is in denial. So you choose the next best thing to addressing an elephant in the room:

Addressing a slightly smaller elephant in the room.

"What happened to you after El Mañana? After Noodle almost died." you inquire one day, taking the chance to bring up the topic when you had both been left alone in the house.

He raises an eyebrow at you. "What a completely tasteful and subtle segue to a delicate topic, Dents."

"Just answer the question."

"I left."

...when I disappointed him by committing the biggest fucking mistake of my life, I panicked and left him, the Murdoc in your memory echoes back to you. You banish him from your mind.

"I know you left," you enunciate slowly, knowing he was being deliberately difficult. "But why did you leave? You didn't even stick around for her funeral. You just up an' went, like you didn't even care."

His eye twitches. "I did care. Just didn't think it was worth sticking around when there's more useful things I could be doing."

"If you did, you woulda manned up and stayed. Instead you left like a coward."

"Shut up," he says with restrained anger. "Don't start spouting off nonsense. You don't know shit 'bout what I went through."

"You didn't even cry," you accuse. "Even when you were the one who made Noodle do it. Even when those people in the helicopters came after her because of you. I saw you hours before you left, you didn't even look sorry, you didn't even want to talk to Russel an' me—"

"SHUT UP!" he yells so loudly that you're stunned into silence. "Just fucking shut your gob before I do it for you."

He exhales, then, as if bracing himself for something, starts slowly. "I get it. I fucking get it. I was a prick for leaving you and Russel like that. But I didn't mean for anything to happen to Noodle. I didn't think that she'd be in any danger. I've done a lot of idiotic things, got in hot water with all kinds of unsavory blokes, but I'd never had someone I cared for killed because of me. I've never fucked up to that extent."

"Still doesn't explain why you bolted."

"I'm getting to that, D. When she died, I was in shock. I tried to wrap my mind around the idea. But I couldn't accept it. I couldn't attend her funeral knowing we hadn't even found her body from wherever the fuck she died. I tried everything I could to bring her back. Or even know where her soul was. Even went to hell, y'know? But I found nothing." There was a faraway look in his eyes. "I think that's what made me go mad. Just the thought of not knowing. Then couple that with you an' Russel both hating my guts and our band breaking up again. It just broke me. I'd just started warming up to the idea of having you all around, after our band broke up the first time. And just like that, I was alone. Again. Like I was back in that sodding prison in sodding Mexico—"

He stops abruptly.

"I've always known I've got a few screws loose," he continues tiredly. "I know I'm sick. But that doesn't mean I'm heartless. I'd missed Noodle terribly and if there was a way for me to turn back time and stop her from ever doing that damn shoot, I would. But it happened. It's done. And that's the biggest regret of my life."

"Are there... any other things you regret?" you ask hesitantly. The sensation of a gentle kiss tingles at the back of your mind.

He stares at you like he's seeing the exact same memories play out in his head.

"No. Maybe. I think I regret being a complete git to you for so many years." he paused. "I'm going to try to change. Put my ways behind me. For the sake of our... friendship."

Silence.

"Okay."

You don't know if his answer was the one you wanted. Or even what you asked for.

But you still want to believe him.

You're Stuart Pot, and you're reeling after the absence of Murdoc Niccals.

He's gone. You don't know what to think anymore. He got himself arrested again for drug possession. He claims he's innocent, but no one believes him. You don't know how long he's going to stay in jail this time but it'll likely be for months judging by his track record.

He's been complaining to his fans on social media for months now, weaving an incredibly dubious sob story that included, of all things, the very same bar that you shot Strobelite in, a mysterious man named El Mierda, a business card with a fake address, and a drug syndicate with ties to the Mexican mafia. Oh, and being framed for his crimes, of course.

You're just completely confused by his tale. Who the hell was El Mierda? Who was he trying to fool with this charade? Didn't he promise you he would change? Why the fuck would he do this to you again???

You wonder when you'd get sick of it. You wonder if you'd ever get sick of the cycle of getting your hopes up by empty promises, then being inevitably disappointed when he continues further down the path of his own self-destruction. Why the man insists on walking that path when he had people who cared about him constantly trying to veer him in the right direction, you don't know.

All you know is that he had let you down again. You want to berate yourself for being well aware of his faults, but you know that no amount of mental self-flagellation is enough to keep you away from the man. His allure had always been irresistible to you, and as soon as he was out you'd be attracted to him like a moth to a flame.

You're just as much of a fool as he says you are.

Your heart clenched. No, fuck what he says. Whether he stays in jail for a hundred years or a hundred days, you will not let his absence or presence in your life dictate how you lived your life. You've wasted over half of your life hoping that this unapologetic man would change his ways when he's proven, time and time again, that he would never be capable of doing that. It was best for you to give up.

So you did.

And to show to the world that you were turning over a new leaf, you announce the arrival of a new album made without the input of your band's bassist. To your glee, the album was met with resounding success from both critics and fans alike, further solidifying the fact that you hadn't needed him at all. You are perfectly capable of leading a project by yourself without him around. You aren't a useless knob who just sat around waiting for someone else to start the job for you. Russel, Noodle and Ace were the only people you need.

If only the mere suggestion of his presence wasn't enough to trip you up. If only the mere hint of his name wasn't enough to trigger you to overreact and defend yourself a little too aggressively.

You see his tweets to fans urging them to mobilize for his freedom. You tell your fans to stop contacting him.

You know he thinks you're short a bassist. You replace him with another (arguably better) one.

You find out he's started a popular movement while you're on tour. You turn your eyes away from the ever-present mob of fans holding up signs reading "Where is he?" and "Free him!" in your concerts.

You take care to mention as frequently as possible how much better off you were without the presence of a toxic individual poisoning every facet of your life. You show to the world that you're fine by hanging out with the rest of the band in public. You try to ignore that feeling in your chest when he claims to the world that he's doing well in prison because you know otherwise; his body is painted in hues of black and blue and his eyes look like it's devoid of the soul it once had.

Your whole life has been set back on track. With him in prison, there was no reason anymore to think about your unresolved relationship.

You shouldn't miss him.

But you do miss him.

You think of his absence when you skate to the beat of Humility.

You think of his impact in your life when you sing Kansas.

You think of his regrets when you listen to the somber melody of Fire Flies.

You think of his sad eyes when you write the lyrics to Souk Eye.

Your entire album is the result of your unspoken longing to mend an irreparable relationship.

You're Stuart Pot, and for some strange, unfathomable reason, you want Murdoc Niccals next to you despite the man he was.

Read this fic in its original format on AO3

#2doc #niccalpot #studoc #in which I attempt to give you the feels through 2D's pov across the phases #I refuse to write their relationship as anything but an irreparable mess #my writing

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listenbang · 6 years

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THE CYMBAL CRASHING CLOUDS

Four years ago today, I started this blog. The blog’s name came from the first track of The Cymbal Crashing Clouds, a full-length solo record by Nashville songwriter and producer Ben Shive. I didn’t know it at the time, but the day I created Listen! was Ben Shive’s birthday! And so I think it would be neat and even appropriate to write today about one of my favorite albums.

1. Listen! 2. EGBDF 3. Sorry, But I'm Yours 4. Someone Is Asking 5. The Fall 6. Shooting the Moon 7. She's Invincible 8. The Fire Pit 9. Your Secret Smile 10. A Last Time for Everything

I remember when The Cymbal Crashing Clouds was released. It was late Summer / early Autumn of 2011, around this time of year seven years ago. I remember that time in my life to be a blur. I was learning a lot. A lot about the gospel. A lot about God. His Holiness, His love. A love so profound that it would chase me to the ends of the world. I was realizing, too, that I was a very weak and needy person (I guess I’m still realizing that).

I had known of Ben Shive as a writer and producer (Andrew Peterson, Sara Groves) for a while, but had only just discovered his solo work on The Ill-Tempered Klavier, his 2008 release. I loved what I heard there and hoped for more. I remember the weeks leading up to the release of The Cymbal Crashing Clouds. I remember the expectation I felt. I remember my jaw dropping as I heard snippets of the record. In fact, I don’t remember a time where I was more keenly anticipating the release of a record. And my expectations were met and exceeded the night I got the album and listened through it for the first time. I felt then — and feel it even stronger now — The Cymbal Crashing Clouds is a quintessential record.

“Listen!” is the first track on the record (the song this blog is named after!). It opens with dueling train whistles. The train whistles actually sound throughout, as the song’s base (and um, it’s genius…). A shimmering opener, “Listen!” sets the tone for the rest of the record. Vibrant and strong. Brilliant in lyric and composition. The song tells of an encounter with the grandeur of God. It is inspired by Scripture, like many of the songs on CCC. I’ve written more about this song in another post.

THE LYRICS

OK, let me tell you about Ben Shive’s lyric writing. It is stunning. Wonderful. Captivating. The Cymbal Crashing Clouds is a thematic album, where unconscious, inanimate objects speak eternal truths. A train, a bust of Beethoven, a Nintendo console, the Fall leaves, and a fire pit are just a few of the characters. And they all tell of the God who stepped into our sin-broken world, to bring us truth and grace.

There’s a trend in songs coming out of the church; it’s a trend that’s been gaining traction for the last decade or so. Vagueness. And along with that, irrelevance. Because most of the time, the writers of these songs aren’t even sure what they’re writing about. In CCC I’m not hearing vagueness. Instead, it seems the more I listen, that each song has a message that is intentionally hiding behind a story, an image, a character. This is the way of a parable. But to those looking for truth, the meaning will find them. That’s the beauty of a parable.

For instance, “EGBDF” is a song about Ben’s struggle as a boy to please his piano teacher, only to get fired in the end. And how later on, music came alive for him in a surprising way upon discovering his father’s record collection. That’s the basic drift of the song, and it’s already a great song. But when you find out that the frowning Beethoven bust in the piano teacher’s living room is symbolic of Moses, and the frown of God’s holy law on our imperfection, the song opens to a new dimension, and so beautifully describes the gospel and the work of grace in the heart. I really like the metaphor the second verse makes to describe what God’s holiness requires of us, and how we fall far short:

Mrs. H was unimpressed Though I had practiced religiously Never mind that I was practicing To master Super Mario 3 And soon she put my memory behind her And fired me with the biting reminder that Every good boy does fine

Ben has the ability to paint with his words. Every time I hear “Someone is Asking,” I clearly, vividly see the scene the lyrics are portraying, and I wish the scene could transform into a watercolor painting. But I don’t know if a painting would do justice to the imagery this song creates in my mind. Added to that, the song is a brilliant sweeping celebration of Christ and his love for the church. I’m wowed every time I hear it. Also, I love that it’s pretty much a modern jazz standard.

The more I listen to these songs, the more I realize the mastery behind their writing. I feel like there’s much more to them than my dull mind can grasp. “A Last Time for Everything” is a heartbreaking and glorious song that Ben wrote for his friend Emmet, who was dying of cancer. Hymn-like, it alludes to the finished work of Christ on our behalf. Ben got to sing it for Emmet before he died.

You're gonna wake up soon In your lonely room To the sound of a singing bird Throw the curtain back To find your bag's already packed And the cab is at the curb Then like a bad dream Unreal in the morning light So will the world seem When you see it in the mirror for the last time

THE MUSIC

The music of The Cymbal Crashing Clouds is diverse. It draws from pop, rock, jazz, and soul traditions. It’s nostalgic. It reminds me in a way of the sound of Fleet Foxes, who have at times limited their instrumentation and style to a certain musical era or “world,” you might say. And it seems Ben has done a similar thing: set creative rules to go by in his delivery and production of CCC. This almost seems harder to do than trying to sound “modern” and “hip.” But Ben does this in such a natural way. And somehow, the constraining only broadens the creative horizon of the record! There are unapologetic references to the Beatles and the Beach Boys throughout the album — both musically and lyrically. “Your Secret Smile” is about Brian Wilson and the story of an unfinished record called Smile. It wasn’t until listening to the Smile sessions afterward, that I realized how much of an influence those songs were on Ben Shive’s music.

One thing that Ben gets a lot of requests for is his orchestral arrangement, and there are amazing string arrangements throughout this record. I’m a sucker for seventies-swelling string whimsy, so the string section toward the end of “Listen!” always gets me!! Every track on the album is so well choreographed. The interwoven strings, I would say, are the “cherry on top.”

Looking back, I feel like the reception of this record was not what it should have been; it’s a bit disappointing. And it mystifies me. What happened to The Cymbal Crashing Clouds? Why was it not more eagerly received and appreciated? Especially by the church, where eyes and ears are said to be opened to true beauty. Was it its musical “indieness”? Its lyrical intricacy? Or perhaps it was the owl-man on the front, I don’t know. But I do know there’s good news in these songs, and beauty for those who have ears to hear.

Yesterday I was driving through town and listening to “The Fall” —

The summer sun, once young and wild, Is a little wiser and his eyes are tired; He nods his head mid-afternoon And then he’s off to bed.

So while the days are ripe and sweet We heap them up in baskets at our feet And do our best to use them well, Cause they won’t last.

Leaves are turning everywhere; the days are getting shorter. It’s a beautiful time of year. Yesterday, Ben Shive’s “The Fall” reminded me of something I believe God is telling us through this season: That the year is coming to a close, and so are our lives. The year speeds by, and ends with a sigh, just like a lifetime. O Lord, teach us to number our days. By the way, “The Fall” is one of the most brilliant songs of all time…

Since its release in 2011, The Cymbal Crashing Clouds has probably become my most played album. I always get something new from it. Every time. And it’s plain fun to listen to as well. This album has become the soundtrack for many precious memories in my life. Every time I hear it, I’m filled with gratitude for this collection of songs and for Ben Shive, in opening up and letting us hear them. And I’m still hoping that Ben lets us hear more, because I know there’s more…

As the needle deciphered the song from the vinyl, I went stumbling down halls ever spiraling– Drawn to the center, the strings all ascending, A long chord decaying, a song in a circle unending...

A train passes our house daily. It has the exact same whistle as the one that plays at the beginning of Ben Shive’s album. I hear it most distinctly in the mornings, as it passes through the sleepy countryside and rings its rousing dissonant cry. Now every time I hear it, I hear the cymbal crashing clouds. And I’m reminded that the God of history — the God of the universe — is calling out to me. That in each day, even in the mundane things, there can be an encounter with his majesty. My response, then, is that of the boy awakened in the night by the voice of God — “Here am I.”

The Cymbal Crashing Clouds can be found (at least for now) at the Rabbit Room, and I would strongly (even forcibly) suggest you go there and get it! You won’t regret it! And while you’re at it, you can get the book — did I mention that he wrote a book with the same name‽ Countless times I’ve reread that fascinating little book. And I’ve always gone away inspired (and that’s where I got those awesome drawings from).

#good #music

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