#but it just keeps being off kilter like none of it feels like its written earnestly

[genreawareness]

“the three of us have a very important job.” “>:) to find out which us presidents were secretly gay” “No.” “ok fine, bi”

[bestialchorus]

“The Invisible String” (Falling for Donna Beneviento)- Chapter 2

The head of House Beneviento covers your hand with hers, instinctively making you look at her for a split second from the corner of your eye, before darting your gaze back to the doll on the desk. You pray the glance was more subtle than it felt, you’re not even sure if it was as quick as you imagined it for everything suddenly feels off, as if something uncanny was bleeding into reality. Whatever surrealism you speak of you don’t see, only feel as Donna’s contact continues to linger over your hand, making your anxiety start to rise by the second.

Seconds feel like eons as Donna stays frozen in place, her veil making it impossible to interpret what she could possibly be feeling or thinking.

You follow her lead by trying to keep a neutral face, staying silent as your mind begins to race. To say you were overthinker would be an understatement, you try unpacking everything from the gesture’s meaning to its sudden appearance, and whether or not this was all just a cruel dream. You’ve had daydreams similar to this situation but none that ever felt like this, none that ever felt so…..engulfing.

You feel that flutter in your heart, a flutter from the word you desperately try to avoid day in and day out whenever Donna crossed your mind, hope. You immediately fight back any hope of the woman ever returning your feelings, even the smallest semblance of it. A woman as distinguished as Donna Beneviento would surely never fall for a common painter…..would she? Donna had power, she had wealth, she had talent and passion of the likes you’ve never seen before….she could have anyone she wanted…so why do you find it difficult to come up a platonic explanation for her action right now?

Regardless of the reason, you feel your skin burn under her gentle touch. Even the simple gesture has Donna written all over it; deliberate but not hostile, soft but not limp. You also can’t help but notice how smooth her hand feels against yours, you wonder if it’s the result of an extravagant lotion or if she’s simply this soft.

The ticking from the old clock fills the air as neither of you react.

You decide it best to hide your internal distress, well at least as best as you can. You keep your face as blank as possible as you gently lower your paintbrush down. You stare down at the small doll, assuming it best to allow her the time to properly explain herself, away from the pressure of your gaze. You try your best to focus on how anxious she must also be right now as communication had never come easy for Donna.

Her voice almost doesn’t sound real as you sit in a dream like daze.

“I…what I’m about to say does not put you at risk, Y/N.”

The clock’s sounds are drowned out by your heart beating through your ears, your gaze stays on the unfinished doll.

Despite her concealed face, she turns her head away from you as she continues, her hand never leaving yours. She takes a small pause before continuing.

“I harbor feelings for you, Y/N. But I chose not to tell you for several reasons.”

Your mask instantly falters the second you hear the confession, eyes widening in disbelief and shock. You jerk your head towards her, she catches your incredulous expression from the corner of her eye, still not meeting your gaze. Something begins to flood your system, excitement? Fear? Hope? You’re not entirely sure but it feels as if each of your senses have awakened to an extreme.

“For one, I feared you would never return my feelings...” She ends with a whisper.

The statement makes something in you snap.

“But I do!” You immediately counter, louder than you intended, your tone earnest with a hint of desperation. You mentally chastise yourself for how dramatic the response must have come off.

The raise of your voice finally makes her look at you as she isn’t used to it. Once again, you have no facial indictors to tell you how she’s taken the response. But you realize her hand feels warmer…that must be a good sign, right?

You try to hold back as you feel months of repressed emotions try to take control of your tongue. The last thing you want to do is overwhelm or embarrass her.

“I care deeply for you, mistress…you don’t have to worry about that.” You say softly while instinctively leaning closer to her.

The dollmaker’s face is hidden but you assume she must be taken aback by her feelings being returned; you know you are. She silently processes your words until you suddenly notice her start to mirror your distance, whether by instinct or by choice you can’t tell.

Time starts to melt away as the image of Donna leaning towards you makes you both want to run away and never look away. You use every fibre of courage you have to keep going, you’re eventually close enough to smell the smallest hint of a floral scent, which is strange since normally Donna doesn’t wear perfume.

You’re both just a breath away…when suddenly Donna pulls back at the last second, removing her hand in the process, you instantly miss the contact. At first you wonder if you’ve been too bold, assuming too much but she quickly explains herself.

“No. You don’t understand, I’m not what you think. This veil hides my true nature….and it is unworthy of you. Unworthy of what you should have.” She says with sadness in her voice, tightly holding her hands to her chest while shaking her head. Even with the veil you notice the contempt behind her words, contempt clearly directed towards herself.

You start to frown the more you process her statement.

You feel a sting in your heart as you realize something. The rumours of Donna Beneviento having a monstrous disposition were more than just rumours, for her they actually held some weight. Whether it was an event, a person, or the entirety of her life leading up to this moment- she truly believed she was unworthy of experiencing one of the largest aspects of life, love.

Even if every rumour about her is true you don’t care, for you’ve fallen for the woman with the veil, regardless of what lies beneath it. Donna Beneviento isn’t a scary story, or a title to you but a real woman whom you’ve grown incredibly fond of. You lightly shake your head as you refuse to accept her words.

“You’re wrong. Even if you are headless under there-“

You notice her tilt her head in response to the comment but not the small smile that also emerges on her face, appreciating how you always seem balance out her melancholic nature.

“It won’t matter to me because…I already think you’re beautiful, Don-mistress.” You quickly correct yourself, still unsure if she’d be comfortable with you referring to her by her first name.

Once again, you miss the warm expression on her face as she addresses your self-correction.

“You’re more than welcome to call me Donna, Y/N. I believe we’re past the point of titles…..”

She looks away as she finishes her sentence, “…I think I’d like hearing you call me Donna.”

For once her veil can’t hide the flustered tone in her voice, you imagine her hands must also be getting warmer again. Unfortunately, Donna is not the only one effected by her confession, your own cheeks now wear a slightly pink colour to them.

But before you can answer her, you notice her hands slowly reaching towards her veil, fingers trembling. The room feels off kilter as you hear the courage in her voice.

“I truly don’t want to lie to you, Y/N. I want you to decide for yourself if this is what you really want….if I’m what you really want.”

You almost try to stop her, not for your sake but to make sure if this is really something she wants to do but you’re too late. Her voice lowers as she finally lifts her veil up.

“…I’ll understand if you never want to come back.”

And just like that, you’re finally face-to-face with Donna Beneviento.

A heavy silence follows as you take in her bare state, completely engrossed by how human and occult she is all at once.

The dollmaker shrinks under your gaze, anxiously rubbing her hands together as she looks at the floor.

At first your eyes can’t help but fall on the mutation over the side of her face. Her right eye is covered with small mounds as visible veins sprout from them; an image akin to eldritch horrors. You now understand how important her veil is to her, how much courage and trust it took for her to show you the flesh that laid beneath it. Anyone else would have run by now, screaming towards the hills of how Mistress Beneviento is as monstrous as the rumours spoke of but not you, for even now- she is anything but monstrous to you.

You take a step closer as you process the rest of her features, your hands moving by themselves as you gently hold her face to study them. The gesture makes her quietly gasp but she doesn’t pull away, she instead focuses on fighting back a blush as she fails to avoid your heavy gaze. You’ve never seen such alabaster skin, it almost glows under the light. But what stands out the most is how her dark hair and eye contrast against it. Without thinking, you lightly push a strand of hair away from her face, lightly grazing her soft skin. Every instinct within Donna is screaming for her to run away while also wishing the moment will never end, no one has ever treated her with such tenderness.

The air surrounding you both feels warmer as you stand just a breath away.

Your eyes finally fall onto the woman’s plush lips, and you can’t help but wonder if they’re as a soft as they look. You look at the woman in complete awe as you process the full picture of the woman you’ve fallen for and as you predicted, you love her all the same, perhaps more.

You feel yourself lean in closer and she mirrors your movement. Neither of you can hear the grandfather clock anymore as you become lost within your personal world.

[nightbrightwrites]

A Good Classic

~ A/N: I’m a bit nervous about posting here; I love writing but I’ve never written an imagine before. Hopefully you all like it, and feel free to let me know what you think and what you want to see!

Summary: You’ve always loved to read, and you weren’t going to let moving into the dorms separate you from your precious tomes! What you didn’t account for, was how the hell you were going to get everything upstairs. Luckily for you, a certain lightning bolt boy was ready and able to offer some help, and maybe get a date out of it too...

Reader is male, btw! Trans or cis isn’t specified, but I am a trans man myself so there will definitely be more trans male oriented content in the future!

Disclaimer: Most of the books mentioned here are English classics; I didn’t want to misrepresent any Japanese titles that I haven’t read. Thank you for your understanding!

You had never regretted your love of reading. It had been a constant in your life for as long as you could remember, and moving into the U.A. dorms wasn’t going to change that. When you woke up that morning, it had been with excitement at the thought of finally moving your books into your dorm. The past few days had been setting up the shelves, and now it was finally time to fill them.

What you didn’t ever think to consider was just how the hell you were going to get all the boxes to your room on the second floor, especially because the elevator was still getting fixed after a certain SOMEONE lost their temper once again.

Thanks Bakugo.

Getting the many boxes to the dorm building wasn’t too bad; you’d had the help of some of the other students of U.A. But none of them could stay, so the task of getting every box up the stairs and to your room, not to mention unpacked and organized, fell onto your shoulders. The sun was shining as of now, the air sweet with the promise of flowers blooming with the incoming spring, but if the forecast was to be believed and rain was on its way, then you needed to get it together and fast.

Before you could steel yourself to bend over and grab the first box, someone calling your name grabbed your attention.

“(Y/N)!” Kaminari was jogging to you with his ever present grin, boyish in its charm and more than enough to bring your own smile rising to the forefront. “What’s with all the boxes?”

At the reminder of your plight, you couldn’t help but roll your eyes. “I brought some books from home-”

“Some?!” Kaminari’s eyes bulged as he looked around at the many boxes surrounding the entrance. Luckily no one had needed to get around you, but you wanted to get these books safe and sound before the rain started.

“Yes, some!” You scoffed. “What can I say, I have good taste and I didn’t want to leave them behind! I just...” You rubbed at your temple. You thought about asking your classmates, but you didn’t know where they were and something didn’t sit right with leaving your books out here while you ran to find someone.

“Did you text someone to help? How’d you even get all of these here?” Kaminari looked way too amused in the face of your frustration, though he raised his hands in placation when you turned your gaze onto him.

“My friends helped me get them here, but they didn’t stick around. And I...don’t have anyone else’s number.” That was a lie, completely and utterly, but you also refused to admit that the thought of texting had completely slipped your mind. it just wasn’t something you were willing to admit, especially to Kaminari who’d never let you live it down.

“Yikes.” Kaminari looked around at your situation one more time, before his eyes met yours once more. He seemed to be considering something, lips pursed in thought, until he finally gave a lazy shrug.

“I’ll help!”

Saying that you were taken aback was an understatement. “...You?”

Kaminari’s bright grin dropped, and you had a to bite back a snort. “Sorry, sorry. I just wasn’t expecting that. Thank you, you’re the best!”

“Ah ah, don’t go singing my praises yet, pretty boy!” Kaminari kept talking, but your head was a little more focused on the pet name. Pretty boy, huh? No one had ever called you that before, and you...kinda liked it. Even though it threw you off balance, it was worth it for the butterflies that erupted in your stomach.

“Hello? Earth to (Y/N)! Don’t make me have to zap ya!” A hand waving in front of your face snapped you out of your thoughts.

“Hm?”

“Were you listening to me?”

“No.” With that, you picked up a box and headed inside, rolling your eyes fondly at Kaminari’s protests. Soon enough you heard him stomping behind you, muttering something about the box being filled with rocks instead of books.

------

“So, Pride and Prejudice, huh?” Kaminari lifted the book with a raised brow.

You two had managed to get the last box inside just as the rain started, and both of you were exhausted to say the least. You didn’t want to keep him any longer, but he offered to unpack your books and you really could use the help.

You weren’t, however, going to take his shit. “Kaminari, I know for a fact that you like the classics just as much as I do.”

“Pfft, what? No way-”

“I know that you sit in the library every Friday before curfew to read in the little corner over in the history section. I sit there too sometimes, it’s very comfy.”

Kaminari sputtered for a moment, during which you took the time to load up your poor shelves with more literature. Listening to the usually confident boy sputter for a moment was a lovely soundtrack, though you silently prayed he didn’t short circuit. Your poor books couldn’t handle it.

“...S-So are you just stalking me or something? If you liked me that bad you could’ve just asked me out.” He chuckled, still slightly off-kilter. He hoped he was sounding at least somewhat flirty, but from the funny look you gave him, he wasn’t doing that good of a job.

“In your dreams, maybe.” You chuckled. “No offense, but I don’t think you’re my personal Mr. Darcy.”

“Mr. Rochester?”

You paused. “Is this your way of telling me you’re gonna lock me in the attic?”

Kaminari’s grin never dropped so fast, and you had to stifle a snort behind a hardcover.

“Come on, throw me a bone here (Y/N)!”

“I’m free tomorrow.”

Kaminari blinked, feeling his face heat ever so slightly. “H-Huh?”

“You wanted a bone, yes? I’m free tomorrow if you wanted to-”

“Yes!” Kaminari fist-pumped, already running through ideas in his head. “You won’t be disappointed, (Y/N)!” He sprinted out of the room, careful not to trip over or God forbid, step on any of your books.

“Kaminari, we’re not done-! And he’s gone.” You sighed, shaking your head fondly. Luckily you were almost done shelving, though it took you a bit longer than usual; your mind was a bit preoccupied with your date tomorrow.

[sociallyawkward--fics]

Last Christmas

Here it is, lol. The fic I wrote last night with Wham!’s “Last Christmas” on repeat for literally Three Hours Straight lol. It is entirely unedited except for me having a friend read it over briefly and them go “you’re missing a period here” and nothing else lol. Please be kind though, I have not written for months and any Christmas fics I’m posting are more just warm-ups to get me back to the level of writing I was before I accidentally took a break, cuz no way I’m jumping back into my Big Projects without getting myself back up to par lol

ALSO, I know Jaskier seems like,,, really aggressive towards Yen in this fic. She's not meant to be a villain! Jaskier just is jealous and sad so he takes it out on her a little bit, which is definitely not the right thing to do but I think it's a very human thing to do. After this I imagine them going for coffee or smth and just lovingly trash-talking Geralt and realizing "wow we can actually be decent friends" lol

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

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Category: M/M

Fandoms: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types; Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game); The Witcher (TV); Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski

Relationship: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion

Characters: Jaskier | Dandelion; Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia; Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg; Triss Merigold; Zoltan Chivay; Iorveth (The Witcher); Eskel (The Witcher); Vernon Roche

Additional Tags: eskel triss iorveth and roche are barely-there btw; Jealous Jaskier | Dandelion; Mistletoe; Getting Together; Misunderstandings; Miscommunication; Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg; Alcohol; Drinking; Smoking; (very briefly) - Freeform; Communication; Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings; Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia; Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia; Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings; Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion; Mutual Pining; Kissing; Hugs; Alternate Universe - Modern Setting; Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers; Alternate Universe - No Powers; Holidays; Christmas; Christmas Party

Word Count: 3614 words

[ao3 link]

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

It took an embarrassing amount of time for Jaskier to work up the courage to leave his car. Instead he sat there, heat off and car growing increasingly frosty, forehead against the steering wheel as he bemoaned his own very existence. He did not want to go to this party, which was very out of character for him.

But Jaskier couldn’t take another repeat of last year’s holiday party. And he knew the second he saw Geralt, he would be back there again.

They had both been decently tipsy, which was their first mistake, but Jaskier knew that neither of them were drunk. That’s why he had been so shocked when Geralt made the first move, pressing him up against the wall to the men’s room and ravishing his mouth. They’d gone home together to Jaskier’s flat and had a wonderful night together, but Geralt had been gone come morning.

They never spoke of that night. And by the next week, Geralt had been back in his on-again, off-again relationship with Yennefer.

Jaskier thought he’d gotten over it. As much as he didn’t regret it, it was clear that Geralt did, and he wasn’t going to push his feelings onto the man when they were so clearly unwanted. It was a miracle their friendship survived it, with how testy they had been with each other for weeks afterward.

Jaskier took a deep breath and tightened his scarf around his neck, finally leaving his car to make his way into the hotel ballroom that Foltest had booked for the night. At least their work holiday parties weren’t held in the offices, Jaskier wouldn’t have been able to force himself back to work after last year if they were.

Jaskier’s traitorous eyes immediately sought out Geralt the moment he walked in. He wasn’t hard to find, with his striking silver hair and refusal to wear anything but black. He stuck out like a sore thumb, in the sea of red and green and gold. But god, did he look good. Unfortunately, he was already occupied with the only other person in the room who refused to wear color: Yennefer. 

Jaskier forced his eyes away, directing them instead towards the makeshift bar. Zoltan was already there, and, judging by the red on his cheeks, already several drinks in. Jaskier couldn’t exactly judge. He was going to need quite a few drinks to get through this night as well.

“Good old Dandelion!” Zoltan crowed as he approached, words only slightly slurred.

“Zoltan,” Jaskier greeted with an easy smile, nodding at the bartender. “When are you ever going to give up on that silly nickname?”

Zoltan snorted. “You’re the one who calls himself a flower, Julian.”

Jaskier shrugged. “Fair enough.”

Soon enough, Jaskier had a drink in his hand and an earful of Zoltan’s voice, accent only growing thicker and harder to understand the drunker he got. He was barely following what Zoltan was talking about, anymore. Something about his ex father-in-law’s business tanking? He seemed rather pleased by it, in any case. Jaskier probably would be to, if he wasn’t still so anxious.

“What’s got a stick up yer ass?” Zoltan asked after a while, winding down from his latest story.

“Just… not in a partying mood, I suppose.”

Zoltan laughed uproariously. “You? Not in a party mood? Never thought I’d see the day!”

Jaskier gave a half-hearted smile, knowing Zoltan was too far gone to notice that fact, and let his eyes wander the crowd. After a few drinks, he was beginning to feel pleasantly tipsy. The idea of lasting out the party was actually beginning to feel manageable, though he still felt like giving Yennefer and Geralt a wide berth. They always exploded at these things, and Jaskier didn’t want to be caught in the middle of that.

Again.

That was one fight their friendship almost hadn’t survived, and it was the worst six months of Jaskier’s life. And that was including the past twelve months after the last holiday party.

“Come on, Dandelion,” Zoltan said, and Jaskier’s attention was drawn back to the bar. “Sit down for a game of cards with me! Or perhaps a round of dice?”

Jaskier laughed, his first true laugh of the night. “I know better than to gamble with you, old friend. It’s about time I mingled, don’t you think? Give the masses what they desire.”

Zoltan laughed again and gave him a sloppy wink. “Go get ‘em, tomcat. I’ll find some other poor fool to swindle.”

Jaskier grinned. “I don’t doubt it.”

Jaskier slipped away from the bar and into the crowd. He greeted people with hugs and kisses on the cheek, making them laugh and shove him away with teasing grins. He twirled between groups of people in a carefully perfected dance, muscle memory even with the alcohol in his system.

Unfortunately, that muscle memory rather quickly led him to Geralt’s current circle of companions. Yennefer and Triss were there, clearly making an intense effort to not be at each other’s throats. Eskel was there, which wasn’t surprising: as much as a sweetheart as he was, Eskel’s social skills definitely needed some development, and he tended to use Jaskier and Geralt as a social crutch (despite the fact that his brother was even worse with people than he was). Iorveth and Vernon Roche were on opposite sides of the little circle the group had formed, and Jaskier dreaded that disaster waiting to happen.

Really, how did Geralt attract such dramatic people to him so easily?

Despite how suddenly off-kilter Jaskier felt being so close to Geralt, last year flashing through his mind, he knew he couldn’t show it. Geralt would notice, and then it would be awkward for them both, and Jaskier would never forgive himself for ruining Geralt’s Christmas two years in a row.

So he flitted around the group, being his charming self. His smile felt forced as he gave Iorveth and Roche (very awkward) one-armed hugs. His stomach churned as he kissed Triss on the cheek. His balance felt off as he waltzed into Eskel’s arms for one of his patented bear hugs (though that was likely the alcohol, now that he thought about it).

“How is it that you’re already drunk, Jaskier?” Geralt said as Jaskier pulled out of Eskel’s arms.

Jaskier shot him a cheeky grin. “Not drunk, my dear--friend. My dear friend. Merely tipsy.”

“With a stutter like that forming?” Yennefer teased, holding out her hand.

Jaskier indulged her dramatics and pressed a gentle kiss to her knuckles, chest burning white hot all the while. His smile was probably slightly too-sharp when he stood back up again, but he couldn’t be bothered to fix it.

“The heavier side of tipsy, perhaps,” Jaskier replied, smoothly sliding in beside Geralt to drape himself over Geralt’s shoulders.

A chorus of titters and chuckles went through the circle and Jaskier furrowed his brow. He rubbed his face and ran a hand through his hair, searching for imperfections but finding none. He then looked toward Geralt for an explanation, but the poor man looked just as confused as Jaskier was.

“Aren’t you wondering why none of us were standing all that close to Geralt?” Triss asked, that coy smile Jaskier was all-too-familiar with making its way onto her lips.

And now that she mentioned that, it was odd. Yennefer was usually glued to Geralt’s other side, and Triss was almost always trying to butt her way in. Her jealousy tended to be a great deal more obvious than Jaskier’s, deliberately trying to provoke the two of them. Jaskier simply got drunk and wrote songs about unrequited love, he knew better than to try and put himself between them.

Roche rolled his eyes as Jaskier and Geralt still just stared at the group rather dumbly. He pointed upwards and their eyes followed his finger.

Geralt, very unfortunately, was halfway into a doorway. Taped to the top of the frame of said doorway was a little sprig of green. Jaskier felt his heart stop. He had to swallow to keep the bile from rising up in his throat. He pulled away from where he was leaning on Geralt. The group was still laughing and teasing good-naturedly, but Jaskier felt like his world was crashing down around him. He looked toward Eskel for help, being the kindest of the group.

Only Eskel just shrugged with a grin. “It is tradition.”

“Oh come on, now,” Yennefer said, her voice twisting around Jaskier’s throat like a noose. “We’re all adults here. Just get it over with.”

Jaskier slowly met Geralt’s eyes. He was impossible to read, even moreso than normal, and Jaskier felt that familiar pit open up in his stomach. He needed to get this over with and then smoothly make his escape. Perhaps claim he’d had more to drink than he thought and needed to call a cab.

“Jaskier?” Geralt asked quietly, barely more than a whisper.

Jaskier gave him a small smile and leaned forward. He pressed a feather-light kiss to the scruff of Geralt’s cheek before pulling away, his heart not able to take much more than that.

Jaskier couldn’t meet anyone’s eyes as he walked away.

Jaskier’s kiss was a barely-there peck to the cheek. Before Geralt could even hope to respond, he was gone.

The group’s teasing had quieted down, and Geralt dared to look up. Iorveth and Roche seemed confused, not close enough to the rest of the group to be caught up on the drama. Eskel seemed torn between beating himself up and beating Geralt up. Triss seemed guilty.

And Yennefer was just smug.

Geralt found himself grinding his teeth. Of course she was behind this (though it was clear that Triss had some hand in it, as well). Their most recent breakup, for once, had been amicable. The past few years had been hell for them, trying to make their relationship work even though they both knew it was never going anywhere. Jaskier was Yennefer’s last straw.

Geralt was more horrified that Yennefer had so easily picked up on his feelings for Jaskier than hurt by the breakup. If she had picked up on them, then surely Jaskier had?

Is that what that hauntingly sad smile Jaskier gave him before he kissed him was for? Did Jaskier pity him? Was he trying to let Geralt down easy?

“Go after him,” she said simply.

“Yen, this isn’t one of your games--”

“No,” she replied, voice suddenly terse. “So stop treating it like one and act like an adult, Geralt. I think we’ve all had quite enough of you two being like this, and it only got worse after last year’s party.”

“Which you still won’t talk about,” Triss chimed in, raising an eyebrow.

“So go talk to him.”

Geralt resisted the urge to growl. “Fine.”

Jaskier wasn’t hard to find, when you knew him as well as Geralt did. He liked to be high up when he was upset, saying it made him feel like he was getting some perspective on his problems. Geralt liked to joke that it was because he was more at home with his head in the clouds.

Jaskier was on a balcony overlooking the city, a pack of cigarettes sitting on the railing. A lit one rested between his fingers, the smoke curling into the air and entwining with the condensation trailing from his lips thanks to the cold air.

“I thought you quit,” Geralt said quietly.

Jaskier turned his head, not far enough to face Geralt but far enough to let Geralt see the wry half smile on his lips.

“You know how the holidays are,” Jaskier replied, taking a long drag from his cigarette and turning back to the cityscape.

Geralt moved forward to lean against the railing next to him, letting out a heavy sigh and watching the white vapor twist into the air. He didn’t know how to have this conversation. Between the two of them, Jaskier was by far the more emotionally intelligent one. With him shutting down like this, Geralt didn’t know what to say.

“Are you… okay?”

Jaskier snorted. “Yeah, Geralt. I’m great.”

Geralt considered the words for a few moments, turning around the tone of voice in his head. “Sarcasm,” he decided. 

It was much easier to decipher when he himself was using it, rather than try to pick out when others were.

Jaskier sighed, hanging his head. “Yeah. Sorry.”

Geralt shook his head. “What’s going on?”

Jaskier took another drag of his cigarette. “Nothing, Geralt. Don’t worry about it.”

Geralt let out a frustrated growl, not sure how else to express himself in the moment. He snatched the pack of cigarettes off the railing (breathing out a sigh of relief when only one was missing -- the one between Jaskier’s fingers) and ripped the lit one out of Jaskier’s hand, tossing both items over the edge of the balcony.

“What the fuck, Geralt?!”

Geralt stared at him. “You told me last time you quit to not let you start up again.”

Jaskier groaned and put his head into his hands. “Shit. I did, didn’t I?”

Geralt hummed an affirmative.

“Aside from saving my lungs, was there something you needed, Geralt?”

Geralt leaned back against the railing, clasping his hands together. “To know what’s had you acting so weird all night.”

He felt Jaskier’s eyes on him, could see him staring out of his peripheral, but Geralt kept his eyes on the lights of the city. With all the light pollution, it was probably as close to stars as they would get without driving out to the mountains.

“You really want to know?” Jaskier asked eventually, his voice low.

“Yes.”

“Tonight I was pressured into kissing the man that broke my heart, about a year ago now.”

Geralt flinched back, finally looking over toward Jaskier. Jaskier was still staring at him, his blue eyes almost seeming to glow in the dark of the balcony.

“Who--Who broke--”

Jaskier raised an eyebrow, face remaining impassive.

Geralt hesitated. “I broke your heart?”

Jaskier sighed and turned away, looking toward the horizon. “Last holiday party, we went home together. We made love for hours. I told you I cared for you deeply. And when I woke up, you were gone.”

Geralt wanted to say something, wanted to defend himself, but his voice felt like it was glued in his throat, unable to escape.

“Barely any time had passed before you were back in Yennefer’s pocket, not a thought given to us. And we never talked about it.”

Geralt swallowed. “I didn’t realize--”

Jaskier threw his hands up in the air, a frustrated laugh escaping his lips. Geralt’s frown deepened when he saw Jaskier’s eyes glistening.

“Didn’t realize what, Geralt? I thought I was being pretty obvious about the fact that I’m in love with you!”

“Yennefer and I broke up,” Geralt said, deciding to tackle the topic he knew how to talk about first.

Jaskier snorted, leaning his back against the railing and crossing his arms. “What else is new?”

Geralt shook his head. “For good, this time.”

Jaskier only stared at him. Geralt huffed out a breath as he searched for his words, running a hand through his hair.

“You know how… Sometimes, you can have a great friendship with each other, but when you try to date you end up being really toxic and horrible to each other? That’s me and Yen.”

“Could’ve told you that three years ago. Oh wait, I did.”

Geralt sighed. “I know. I’m sorry I didn’t listen, Jask. I just… I wanted it to work so bad, we both did. Even though we knew it never would.”

Jaskier looked down at his feet. “I know. I’m sorry for snapping like that.”

“It’s okay.”

Jaskier looked back up at him. “So what was the final nail in the coffin? What sealed the deal for you two?”

Geralt looked away, choosing a specific building to look at and staring at it intensely. His fingers itched to fiddle with something, but he forced them to stay still, clenching the freezing metal of the railing.

“I love Yen. But she and I both realized that I would never love her as much as I loved you.”

The silence stretched on for far too long and Geralt could feel his skin prickling with anxiety. His throat felt like it had swollen shut, making it difficult to breathe and impossible to get any words out. He wanted to look at Jaskier, see his reaction, but his body was locked in place.

“And if you love me so much, Geralt,” Jaskier said, his voice even more icy than the balcony railing leeching the warmth from his fingers, “why did you leave me?”

Geralt gave into the urge to fidget, reaching up for the pendant on his chest. His fingers were clumsy and numb from the cold, making him fumble, but the action was still soothing.

“I didn’t realize you meant it. Jaskier, you flirt with everyone. You’ve probably slept with half the company, and while I don’t judge you for that, I couldn’t help but feel like I was just the next notch in your bedpost.”

Jaskier dropped his face into his hands. “God, Geralt, I only slept with most of those people to try and get over you. You had Yennefer, and I was just me. I knew you would never choose me over her.”

“I am now.”

Jaskier stayed silent for a moment. “And if I decide that it’s too late?”

There was an uncomfortable burning feeling behind Geralt’s eyes and he did his best to push it back down. 

“Then I would respect your decision, and hope we could still be friends come tomorrow. I don’t want to lose you, Jask.”

Jaskier didn’t reply.

“I’m sorry I made you wait so long. I’m sorry I was so blind to your feelings.”

“And say we did do this,” Jaskier said, his voice still guarded. “What about Yennefer?”

Geralt shook his head. “There’s nothing left for me and Yen. We’re done hurting each other for a relationship that will never feel good.” Geralt couldn’t help the grin that tugged at his lips as he tacked on, “Plus, with the looks Triss has been shooting her, I don’t think Yennefer will be too lonely.”

Jaskier shot him an incredulous look. “Triss and Yennefer hate each other!”

Geralt chuckled. “Yeah, when I was involved. Yen can, quite frankly, be a jealous bitch, and Triss certainly wasn’t letting up on the flirting.”

Jaskier searched his face. “And Triss?”

“There was never going to be any me and Triss, and she knew that. Honestly, I think her flirting these days has been more to toy with Yen than to actually try and woo me.”

Jaskier turned his gaze toward the night sky, a muddy brown-black-orange that ruined any hope of seeing the stars “Huh.”

“They both know there’s only one person I’m looking to woo me, anyway.”

Geralt watched Jaskier break out in a goofy, giddy smile, clearly involuntarily based on the way he quickly bit his lip to try and suppress it. Slowly, carefully, Geralt reached out for one of Jaskier’s hands, tugging gently until his arms came unravelled.

“I’m so sorry, Jaskier.”

Jaskier shook his head. “I’m sorry, too. I should’ve said something.”

“Can I hug you?”

Jaskier’s goofy smile was back and Geralt felt his heart clench. He hoped to see that smile so much more.

“Only if I can kiss you,” Jaskier replied, bouncing on his toes a little.

Geralt grinned. “I find that an acceptable trade.”

Jaskier laughed then, pulling him into a tight hug. They stayed like that for a long while, sharing heat and just soaking in each other’s presence. Slowly starting to accept that this was real, that this was happening. Geralt clenched his hands tightly into Jaskier’s sweater.

And then, some long minutes later, they pulled back from the hug just enough to press their lips together. It was soft and chaste, but by no means short. Geralt decided that kissing Jaskier felt like coming home.

They slipped away after that, deciding not to head back to the party. Their friends would assume things, sure, but they didn’t care. They had lost time to make up for, they could make up for not saying goodbye later.

Geralt drove them home, back to Jaskier’s flat just like last year. Jaskier fiddled with the radio as the streets blurred around them, trying to find an appropriately-themed holiday station. He burst into cackles the second he found one.

“Tell me this is not Wham!,” Geralt begged.

Jaskier was laughing too hard to reply.

“I hate it,” Geralt said, despite being on the verge of laughter himself. “I hate it so much. Stop laughing, it’s not funny.”

“It’s so funny!” Jaskier wheezed, clutching his stomach as he doubled over in his seat.

Jaskier had only just barely calmed down by the time they got to his flat. They curled up on his ratty old couch with some hot chocolate and put on a Christmas movie, but it became more background noise than anything. 

Instead they talked. They talked about their past together and how it hurt them, and their future and how they would prevent that from hurting too. They talked until Geralt’s throat was sore and Jaskier was nodding off on his shoulder. Geralt couldn’t find the energy to carry him to bed, so he simply readjusted their position on the couch to be something more comfortable and settled in to sleep himself.

“L’ve ‘ou” Jaskier breathed out against his neck.

Geralt smiled, closing his eyes. “Love you too, Jaskier.

[radramblog]

Radiohead Retrospective Part 4: We’ve got heads on sticks

Your name is Thom Yorke. You’ve just released what is considered one of the best albums of the 90s, if not of all time, and you’ve achieved a level of fame that at least one band member considers akin to the Beatles. Through the release of OK Computer, you’ve proven that even if people are pretty much over Oasis at this point, British rock bands still rule the airwaves. You’re also stressed the fuck out over just about all of this, and having a very hard time accustoming to the life of a celebrity- let alone the usual mental health issues.

What will you do?

Apparently, the answer was to write the fourth album to be as far away from the previous few as possible, seeking influence from IDM groups like Aphex Twin, jazz stuff, and just some bizarro instruments and experimentation and leaving a lot of the “rock” stuff behind. The primary genre listed for Kid A is usually Electronica or Ambient, with various off-kilter rock subgenres lagging behind, crying “you’re still gonna do guitars and stuff, right?”

Well…not as much anymore. But this era of Radiohead, this career-suicidal swerve, still proved monumentally successful, and showed that the band still had it, and that sometimes artistic risks do pay dividends.

A side note: I usually link music videos for the tracks I discuss as part of each post, as you’ll have seen in previous parts of this series. Kid A, however, doesn’t have any singles, and it sure doesn’t have any music videos. So…maybe just listen yourself. I’m probably in over my head here anyway.

I think the first 5 notes of Everything In Its Right Place are some of the most iconic in all of music.

Some personal background- Kid A was the first Radiohead I ever listened to. A particular cool and good mate of mine was a fan in high school, but I’d never listened to them at all, and I trusted his opinion musically, so I went to buy one of their CDs the next time I was at the shop. And for whatever reason, the cheapest one was Kid A at 10 bucks, and I didn’t want to gamble more than that, so that’s the one I got.

So the opening notes of Everything In Its Right Place were the first Radiohead I ever heard. And considering how much I obsessed over this band, in high school and beyond, it’s no surprise that this song is one of my favourites.

Not only did this song introduce me to Radiohead, it was effectively a gateway track for electronic music in general. This was the early 10s, and the majority of what I knew as electronic stuff was the EDM that was drowning the airwaves at the time. I hated that stuff out of principle, because being a hipster like that was definitely a personality. I don’t think I would ever have gotten into Vaporwave, into IDM, or into any electronic music the way I eventually would were it not for Everything In Its Right Place.

Now that I’ve spent 250 words talking about myself and not the actual song, we should probably stop that. Everything In Its Right Place is defined by this steady build of layering vocals and effects onto the relatively calm synth line, distorted vocals and word salad lyrics and manipulated noises growing and getting more chaotic before it just stops- the vocals fade out, the effects drop, and you’re left with the synth line- except it’s been slowly changing itself the whole time, and you don’t realise because you’ve been distracted by everything else at the same time.

It’s worth noting (and I don’t know if this was the case with OK Computer, because I don’t have an original copy of that one) that this was an album without liner notes, without the lyrics in the cover booklet. But at least in this case, the lyrics don’t matter as much as the v i b e. At least, that’s what I think.

On the topic of unintelligible lyrics, Kid A has a title track! I believe literally two Radiohead albums do this, the other being The Bends (though Hail to the Thief and In Rainbows do appear as lyrics). The song itself is an ambient, quiet piece that feels something like a twisted nursery tune- incredibly affected vocals, a syncopated (?) percussion, and a synth (I think???) that…I don’t know how to describe it, but it feels nursery-rhyme-y. If you’ve heard this song a few times, or you know what to listen for, you can piece together the lyrics somewhat- and they are, frankly, kind of unsettling. What is standing in the shadows at the end of your bed, can it please leave? And imagery of the Pied Piper is always either extremely silly or extremely unnerving, with this clearly leaning towards the latter. There’s a lot going on here- especially for a track most probably wouldn’t listen to outside the context of the full album. I know I generally don’t- not the kind of thing I generally am in the mood for.

 We’re at 850+ words, and we’re only up to The National Anthem? Fuuuuck. Well, anyone who wasn’t on board the IDM train can at least appreciate this one more, it’s got an actual bassline. A killer one, at that, that drives the whole track. Well, you know, that and the B R A S S. Seriously, it sounds like they invited a marching band to this bad boy. The combination ends up sounding mostly like controlled chaos, a jazz band traffic jam wound together by that B A S S. But the bass can’t hold it forever, and eventually that shit breaks free and just, it just honks all over the place.

I’m frustratingly running out of things to say about this song I really like, as opposed to the other songs I really liked. Unfortunately, ya boi forgot to take his neurotypicalification pills today, and so I’m getting very distracted. Hopefully, that slightly unhinged nature suits the album somewhat.

The next song, How To Disappear Completely, is a Big Mood with a fun story attached. The main lyrics- I’m not here, this isn’t happening- were allegedly something none other than Michael Stipe from R.E.M. told Thom to help him deal with that massive stage fright that came with Getting Big. Fun trivia aside, this song is gorgeous, luscious with massive strings, an acoustic bend, aethereal vocals, and a background drone running through the thing that makes sure your hair is always a little on end through the thing. It’s a song whose lyrics are an attempt to escape anxiety, whose instrumentation serves more to reinforce it- a calm, melodic piece that builds into nervous swells and threatening strings. A song about fighting your fear, and losing.

Fuck me it’s a bit depressing isn’t it. It’s potentially the most emotionally revealing song the album has- a lot of the lyricism on other tracks is more metaphorical, or subtle, but the meaning in How To Disappear Completely is evident even just from the title. You get lost in the strings and they go from calming, to imposing, to downright menacing (and then back again) in the song’s final minute.

Treefingers, on the other hand, has a lot less to say, and by that I mean it’s an instrumental. A very atmospheric, ambient one, and thereby one I don’t have a lot to say about. I’m not sure I’m particularly good at commenting on regular music, but this kinda thing is a whole different animal. I have no idea how to interact with discussing this. I like it? I will say, that one note right at the end, that echoes for a bit, the one piece of clarity in this muddled, reverbed sphere, feels especially poignant, for reasons I cannot describe.

We go from ambient instrumental to arguable the most rock-song-like track on this album, Optimistic, certified banger that it is. Some might argue that it doesn’t fit here, but like, did they even hear the lyrics? The bridge? It more that deserves its place on one of the best albums around. The little way the guitar scales up during the chorus is excellent, the proggy drums and riffs are glorious, it’s just a very good rock song.

Also this is the first song with the lyric “dinosaurs roaming the earth”, which, aside from being a bit of a non-sequitur, would return two albums later. And I’m really looking forward to that one.

In Limbo is a song I kind of always forget exists until I hear it again. It’s antimemetic, the way the song goes slipping from my mind until I hear those opening notes again. I’m going to be honest, it’s probably because it’s also the most mid song on the album. Far from bad, but it isn’t doing anything that How to Disappear Completely or Optimistic aren’t doing better. If I had to remove any track from this album, it might be this one?

Watch me get fucking lynched from the fandom for that one, if I ever post this to r/Radiohead or whatever. Which I might, though as much as I’d like more people to read my things I’m also extremely anxious about the potential response. Like the album I’m discussing today, I’m terrified of fame.

Incidentally, In Limbo is also the shortest track on the album (Treefingers beats it by 11 seconds), though this isn’t initially obvious online at least, because people keep messing with Motion Picture Soundtrack. But we’re not there yet, hang on.

We go from the forgettable (to me) In Limbo to the utterly mesmerizing Idioteque. Anxious but danceable, confusing but emotive, messy but tightly controlled. I love this fucking song to death. The reason I got the particular Radiohead poster that I did was because it has lyrics from this on it.

I’ve heard that lyrics for this album were largely pulled from a hat, and nowhere is that more clear than here (or maybe Everything In Its Right Place). Despite this, there’s a pretty clear theme in them, a continuation of some of the themes of this and the last albums. A condemnation of wealth and cowardice in the face of ecological disaster. In the form of an apocalypse disco.

What a lot of people don’t know about this track is that it actually samples an extremely old electronic music piece- one written in 1973, on a particularly old computer. The track, mild und leise, is a very interesting track considering its age- I’m reminded of Selected Ambient Works by Aphex Twin- not so much musically, but about how that reason was as influential as it was because it was the first time songs had sounded like that, because it was the first time songs could sound like that- I suppose it’s somewhat similar in that way, if older. These pieces and their composers inexorably linked by the allure of technology, and how that could be used to define new eras in music history- in Radiohead’s case, it certainly defined the next few albums in their lifespan.

Jesus mild und leise is long, it’s still going as I write this. I need to get back to Kid A, man!

Idioteque leads directly into Morning Bell, admittedly another less memorable song. Largely percussion lead, plenty of falsetto, and with a very unsubtle theme if you listen to the lyrics. I recall seeing someone saying that “cut the kids in half” was a really surprising and spooky line, and, yeah, sure, it sort of is, but it’s only particularly bad if you don’t pay attention for the rest of it. It’s about divorce, dude, it’s not subtle.

Or apparently not, according to one interview, but Thom said the interpretation isn’t invalid, so haha still winning baybeeeee.

I think the only part of this I really can’t do without is the outro, because the last minute and a half of this song is really cool. The mumbled lyrics go really well with the rising percussion and eerie effects that end the track.

Our final song is Motion Picture Soundtrack, or, Exit Music (for Walt Disney’s Depression Nap). This and Street Spirit I think are what really cement Radiohead’s reputation for brutal closers, both of them being tragic but hauntingly beautiful in different ways. In this case, it’s the instrumentation- glittering harps attempting the echo 50s Disney. There’s actually a version of this song from the OK Computer era with extremely different instrumentation, piano rather than organ, and no harps (and a third verse that is utterly brutal). Regardless, this is the song they chose to close the apocalypse that Kid A is on- the final lyric being “I will see you in the next life”, as the glittering echoes into the night. Poignant and tragic, but a little hopeful- the next life hopefully won’t have the struggles and pain of this one.

And then, of course, there’s the hidden track. Nicknamed Genchildren by some (that’s just the username of the dude who uploaded it to Napster back in the day), officially known as Untitled, and the true closer to the album. With Spotify slapping it right at the end of Motion Picture Soundtrack, it’s not clear the true nature of this song- it’s actually hidden on the original album, after several minutes of silence, just long enough that you’ve forgotten you left the player running (or you’re still crying from Motion Picture Soundtrack). I don’t think there’s a real word for what this sounds like other than heavenly, and incredibly brief piece I’ve heard compared to the pearly gates. After all, if we end on “I will see you in the next life”, then what can this be but that?

 Thus closes Kid A, a gorgeous and powerful album, yet an insane swerve for any rock band to pull, not just Radiohead. A bold strategy, and yet it paid off for them- Kid A would not only be massively influential, it was also massively successful both critically and commercially- but not to the standard of OK Computer before it. But they obviously weren’t trying to do OK Computer part 2, just as that album was deliberately not The Bends part 2.

Kid A would pretty much get a Part 2, though, less than a year later. And it’s that album we’ll be discussing next week, obviously. Until then.

[salamanderergfanfictions]

MHA, Villain Izuku, AU, drabble

This is a little drabble that I wrote about what I think Villain!Izuku would be like.  I usually see a bad-ass version going around, and that’s cool, but...a nerdy/obsessive/slightly psychotic dork is more my style.

Several other parts of this are written as well, but none are as put together as this one is.  Let me know what you think, if anything!

--

It was freezing, and if the cold weren’t so imperative to his plan, Izuku would have preferred to have done this someplace with a little more comfort to it.  Maybe a café, or the park, he had always loved playing around the park, spending the hours after school running around the woods. But, given the way his life was now, Izuku had to make do with what he had to work with.

Izuku hopped up on the table they had secured Bakugou to, using padded cuffs to clamp his arms, legs, and head down because Izuku didn’t want to hurt him, would never want to hurt Kacchan.  He shivered as his legs touched the cold metal, only his thin uniform trousers for protection, and felt goosebumps break out all over his skin as he settled down.

He let out one long, relieved laugh at finally being this close to Kacchan after almost a year of nothing.  It felt good to be in his company again, but he regretted that the use of restraints and a gag and a refrigerated meat locker and, of course, the whole kidnapping plot in general that was needed to make it possible.

The League Of Villains wanted Bakugou Katsuki because they thought they could turn him, use all that fearsome drive that they had misinterpreted as anger and resentment to turn him into one of them. Catch him in a moment of weakness, like they had with Deku, so long ago after that afternoon behind the school. That had been a coincidence, a thrown notebook that had gotten picked up by the wrong hands and returned to a boy that had been starved for a pleasant word and running on what little fumes his self esteem had been reduced to. Shigaraki-san had gently turned a few pages of his notebook, impressed with the details written down there, intrigued by Izuku’s hypothetical plans for improvement on some Pro Heroes’ weak spots. Some of the pages had been burnt beyond recognition, the whole thing was waterlogged and Izuku had stuttered out disagreements, but Shigaraki-san had treated the notebook that was essentially Izuku’s life work with reverence.  Shigaraki-san had complimented him on it, listened to his goals, his worries, and finally, offered him a place.  Offered him a way to get what he wanted, a deal of sorts.

It had all seemed very strange at the time to Izuku, and from that day on, there had been a prevailing sense of wrongness, a shift in every facet of his life, including his own brain.  Thoughts were coming to him that never occurred to him before, things seemed skewed in his memory, off-kilter, drugged, hazy, any and all other synonyms for Not Right.  But, Izuku worked around it, changed his thinking so he could get rid of the pounding headaches and constant vertigo and once that had happened, everything got Much Better.

The League of Villains wasn’t…quite what Izuku had in mind for his future, but it was better than what he could have achieved on his own.  Barring an act of extreme providence, Izuku was never going to be able to get into UA, not if he was Quirk-less, not if he wanted to go into the Hero course.

Kacchan would be in the Hero course, no doubt about it.  Kacchan was awesome.

Izuku mostly kept quiet when they were talking during their meetings, just sitting in the corner of the saloon they used as headquarters, sipping soda while swinging his feet from the tall bar stool feeling every bit the little kid they treated him as. It didn’t help that he jumped whenever they addressed him, startling like he had only just realized where he was and the company he was keeping. They were bad guys, their group name had the word ‘villains’ in it—Izuku knew that, he wasn’t under any other impression. He just knew that he wasn’t a bad guy. All he wanted from them was a way to be by Kacchan, to be able to see his friend again, the one he had always admired and had never wished anything but death for.

Izuku blinked, shaking his head to knock that curious little voice that liked to pop up every once a while to the back of his head where it belonged.

But the best for, he corrected with a small smile once the voice had settled down, We like Kacchan he told it firmly, ignoring the curious side glances a few members shot him as he chuckled in the back of his throat.

“Anything to share, Midoriya-san?”

Izuku sat up straight, blurting out, “Nope!”

A couple of nights before the kidnapping plot, he sat at the bar like he had so many times before, shifting his feet with every mistaken thing they had said as they discussed Kacchan. He tried to keep the frown off his face, bite back his objections and defend Kacchan, but if he did that, then he wouldn’t get to see Kacchan. Not to mention his own safety would be in peril should he decide to speak out against the League. Izuku was praised and valued for his insight, was trusted to gather information and listened to when he mustered up the courage to add to their plans, but he was still Quirk-less, still the weakest member.  Anyone of them could have been great Heroes, if that had been the path they’d chosen. With the right psychological help, Izuku conceded.

The League had made up their minds about Bakugou, felt they could successfully turn him once captured and were excited about the prospect.  Izuku wanted Kacchan, because he just wanted.  So he had helped them, had told them all about Kacchan’s Quirk and how it worked, how it could be countered.  He had already spent so much time doing reconnaissance around UA during the Sports Festival and its students while they were on break that he already had a good idea of when it was best to strike.  And he had been right, and it had gotten him that much closer to Kacchan, closer than he could have gotten on his own.

So, he supposed, taking that into account, the League of Villains wasn’t all bad.

“You’ve gotten so much stronger, Kacchan,” Izuku brought a trembling hand up to Bakugou’s bicep, not quite working up the courage to place anything more than just his fingertips against the other boy’s skin.  Bakugou could always casually insert himself into Izuku’s personal space, always to intimidate or threaten, but now he was having a hard time doing it himself.

“You’ve always been...” Izuku trailed off, the words big, fit, muscular drifted through his mind, each one igniting a spark of heat that swirled through his chest, “But I guess going through all that training at UA has really paid off. I can only imagine how much you’ve improved. I saw you fight in the Sports Festival tournament, I was supposed to only be taking notes and analyzing everyone else’s Quirks, but I, I know everything about yours already, so I just got to enjoy watching you. It was the best! That huge explosion you let off in the fight against Uraraka-san was amazing! Her plan was so clever, but you countered it just the same.  I could feel the heat on my face from all the way at the top of the stands!” He smiled and let his hand drop to his side, a flurry of mist leaving his mouth as he laughed, “Kacchan is really amazing.”

Izuku spared a glance at Bakugou’s face, ignoring the restraints and the angry growls that were surely threats and curses muffled by the gag in his mouth.  Izuku imagined that he had already heard variations of them over the years.

“I, uh, told them about your Quirk,” Izuku scratched at his cheek, “So that’s why...sorry, it’s probably really uncomfortable.”

“It’s not very villain-like to apologize to the one you’ve captured, Midoriya.”

The other boy winced, turning toward the door, “Oh, uh, sorry, Kurogiri-san, I didn’t see you there. Force of habit, I guess. And I...really do feel bad,” Izuku squirmed uncomfortably before turning to the other with a hopeful smile, “Kacchan and I are childhood friends.”

“You know, we didn’t bring Bakugou all the way here just to be a playmate for you.”

Izuku hunched in on himself, his nose and cheeks turning red as he nodded, a curious sensation in the cold room, “I, I know that, I was just...catching up.”

“Hm,” Kurogiri sounded unconvinced, “Has his Quirk been suitably destabilized?”

“Oh, um,” Izuku blew a long breath into the air, watching with a small smile as it turned to mist and slowly dissipated, “Yeah, it should be cold enough, as long as he doesn’t sweat. Because, his Quirk comes from the mixture of nitro—”

“Yes, you’ve told us. Many times.”

“Yeah, I guess I have,” Izuku laughed, letting the sound taper off unnaturally when he realized his current company wasn’t sharing his amusement.

“Midoriya, it’s time for you to leave the room.”

“Oh, okay,” Izuku sighed sadly and swung his leg over, getting off of Bakugou’s lap, “Maybe I’ll see you later, Kacchan, and then we can catch up some more. Bye!”

[lady-therion]

Close Quarters: Part 3 [Nessian]

Summary:  Two people, one cabin, plus a whole lot of love-hate tension.

Modern AU. 

A/N: In close quarters, every moment is a universe. 

***

   If Cassian thought he was fucked before, that was nothing compared to now.

   Now he was fucked with a capital “F.” The kind that was written with blood-red sharpie and underlined three times in that alarming “See me after class!” kind of way. Because in addition to discovering that Nesta actually felt things—possibly more so than anyone he had ever met—he also discovered something else.

    One, she liked romance novels.

   Two, she wore glasses.

   Glasses.

   There were only so many revelations a man could take in a single day.

   “You’re staring again,” she said, from her spot on the sofa.

   “Hn?”

   It was the most intelligent thing he could say once she turned that withering gaze on him, her eyes like blue agates intensified by the spell of those square black frames. An embarrassingly hot burn ran down the back of his neck as he sat across from her, trying to string together words.

   She gestured at the corner of her mouth. “You have a little…”

   He mirrored her, fingers grazing his lips. “What…?”

   “Drool,” she deadpanned.

   His cheeks flamed, close to scalding. The instinct to bat her wry accusation away with some crude remark was tantalizing. That had been the electric thrill of their dynamic, after all. But he sensed that if he fell back into old habits, Nesta would too.

   Because whether she realized it or not, she had been looking to him all night for cues.

   Math and music make no personal demands, she had said, after revealing that she didn’t find him as repulsive as he initially thought. It was a truth that added to the complex algorithm that made up Nesta Archeron. Just when he thought he was closer to solving her, the more compounded she became.

   At the military academy, he learned the concept of equivalency: the strategy of giving up an advantage in order to gain something of equal value.

   Against all his expectations, Nesta had given him a truth. Probably at great personal cost. So it was only fair for him to start doing the same.

   “Again,” she said. “The drooling. Should I get you a cup?”

   He grinned. “Sorry, can’t help it. I’m just really digging your glasses.”  

   “Liar,” she said. “Nobody likes glasses.”

   He spread his arms across the back of the couch, keeping a respectable distance. They were actually having a conversation! A civil one!

   “First: Friendship 101,” he reminded her. “Friends don’t lie. And second: People do like glasses. None of that bullshit like in the movies where the guy takes off a girl’s specs and suddenly everyone realizes just how gorgeous she is. Anyone who tells you otherwise is a prick.”

   She said nothing for a moment, that preternatural stare working overtime as he watched her process and dissect his words a million different ways.

   “My ex didn’t like my glasses,” she said, finally. “He said they made me look owlish. But I can’t help it. I get it migraines.”

   His blood simmered as an irrational urge to punch something coursed through him. He congratulated himself on keeping his voice flat as he said, “You don’t look owlish. I hoped you dumped his ass.”

   She smirked. “He dumped me, actually.”

   He incredulity knew no depths. “What? Why?”

   She shrugged, her expression shuttering. “I would think...the reason is obvious.”

   The pang in his chest felt as sharp as an arrowhead.

  No, he wanted to say, it wasn’t obvious.

  “Nesta—”

   “It’s nothing,” she said, brusque and dismissive. “Let’s talk about something else.”

   Cassian didn’t want to drop it, but he filed it away as another thorny variable of the Nesta Archeron algorithm. He always had this image of men—or women, for that matter—throwing themselves at her feet. Sure, she could be intimidating as hell. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t worthy of someone’s affection.

   Or acceptance.

   More than anything, he wished could just say this to her. But equivalency demanded that Cassian take no more than he was given and he made too much progress to upset that balance now. So he cast around for something else to talk about when he finally settled on the books she had spilled across his coffee table.

   She had done it by accident, having upended her bag in a semi-frustrated search for those (not at all mesmerizing) glasses. Now its surface was hidden beneath heavy tomes on quantum physics, differential equations, and mass market paperbacks featuring shirtless men on the cover. He leaned down to pick through them; historical bodice rippers with names like The Earl with the Dragon Tattoo and One for the Rogue.

   “Seriously?”

   Nesta snatched them from out of his hand. “Seriously.”

   He cleared his throat. “So, your taste in reading...”

   “Tease me all you like,” she said, her tone and posture frosting over. “I won’t apologize for enjoying stories where the woman has all the power for once. I won’t apologize for enjoying relationships that survived the odds, however ridiculous or exaggerated. And I won’t apologize for liking sex.”

    He held up his hands in placation. “You definitely don’t have to apologize for that last one.” Then immediately winced at how flippant that sounded. “Wait. That came out wrong. Let me...”  

   “How do you do that?” asked Nesta. “How do you always throw me off-kilter?”

   “I throw you off-kilter?”

   “Yes,” she said, grimacing. “I’ve told you more things in the past few hours that even my own sisters don’t know. It doesn’t make any sense. The answers elude me and it’s just so frustrating.”  

   There were several things Cassian could have said. All of them were wholly inadequate. So he stewed in the ensuing silence, that weird fog of tension, until Nesta rose and asked him where the bathroom was.

   “Upstairs to the right,” he said, and watched as she left him without a backwards glance.

***

   Nesta wished she had another set of clothes.

   At the moment, all she had was a blue wool sweater that was so shapeless, it slid off her shoulder like a burlap sack. Her black jeans had faded to a dull gray, making the rips and stains more apparent. In short, she looked like an underfed undergraduate. In reality, she was an underpaid doctoral candidate. Any money she received from her stipend went to her two worst vices: her caffeine habit and her shoe collection.

   Normally, she wouldn’t care how she looked. But Cassian…

   It wasn’t that she wanted to look attractive for him. That was preposterous. She just didn’t want to look like a bespectacled stray that stumbled upon his doorstep either (even if that was exactly what she was). Pride was a hard thing for her to aside. The fact that Cassian could shred through it like paper—and that she allowed him to—was terrifying beyond measure.

   And yet she couldn’t forget the way his breath had branded her skin…

   They hadn’t talked about that. How he whispered into her ear about how surprising he found her. He hadn’t said it in a snide way either, as if she were something to be owned and objectified. It was a far cry from how Tomas treated her, the memories of which she had firmly shut in a coffin until a single interaction with Cassian had coaxed it out. 

   No, really. How did he do that?

   Sighing, she took a moment to glance at her surroundings. Cassian had lent her the guest bedroom on the second floor, which also came with its own bathroom. Like the rest of the cabin, the space it was rustic and charming. It irked her. Everything from the cherry wood panels to the marble white countertops to the built-in skylights made her feel...out of place.

   Towels, she thought.

   Answers wouldn’t come to her if she was overwrought and overtired. Self-care and a hot shower would have to the best interim solution.

   But in order to do that, she needed towels.

   A cursory look downstairs told her that Cassian was no longer on the first floor. Most likely, he had gone to bed. Which was just as well. She didn’t know if she could face him when she was feeling so...exposed. Still, she couldn’t ignore the slight tinge of disappointment. Had she really grown so used to him being there, baiting her or otherwise?

   In any case, her shower would have to wait.

   And of course, Cassian appeared out of nowhere just as she shut him out of her thoughts.

   And of course, he happened to be fresh from his own hot shower; rivulets of water running down the ridges, divots, and cuts of those hard-earned muscles. Muscles that stood stark even under the whorls of tattoos that seemed like an elegant extension of his dark, tanned skin.

   And of course, she also happened to forget her own powers of speech as she surveyed the towering mass of his barely clothed presence, trying in vain to keep her photographic memory from engraving him in her mind.

   “Oh,” she said.

   Cassian blinked, finally noticing her there at the end of the hall.

   “Oh.”

 ***

Thank you for reading, my loves.

Other chapters be found in the Masterlist in my Bio / I am Lady_Therion on AO3

[jediryssabean]

perihelion

@baegerbombtastic, seven months ago: i bought final fantasy xv. i have no impulse control. they’re gay. 

me, also seven months ago: i’m not joining you. i won’t do it. it’s sad.

look where we are now.

-

Pairing: Prompto Argentum/Noctis Lucis Caelum Verse: Canon divergent (again, fuck you, square enix) Rating: T Summary: (Summer in the desert, baking the earth. The vegetation had rustled as the sun loomed on the horizon, larger than Noctis had ever remembered it being. But then again, Insomnia had always blocked out the skyline, in most places. The only time he’d ever caught the sunlight had been when the glare had blinded him from a countless number of windows. 

There had been a word for what he’d been seeing—the sun swallowing the desert underneath it, turning everything a deep red-orange, burning the edges of his cheekbones. 

“perihelion,” Prompto had said from beside him. The dirt beneath their palms had been cooked into sand, the rock of the cliff-face jagged and uneven from sudden sandstorms. Some of the stone looked polished enough to be glasswork, farther down the gully. “that’s when the world is at its closest point to the sun.”)

Or you can [Read on AO3]!

-

Even at night, the water of Galdin Quay radiates warmth.

Noctis can’t remember the last time he’d sat barefoot like this, his feet dangling above the water only barely, moving in some off-kilter rhythm as glowing barrelfish flitted away, heading closer to the beach. The breeze smells of brine and soft sand, and if he breathes deep enough, he thinks he can taste the stars, glittering in almost-absolute silence against the depth of the sky.

If he thinks about it, it had probably been their first night on the Quay, wandering up and down the shoreline, his boots left behind at the caravan. He’d never felt sand between his toes before. The only beach he’d ever seen had been on a lake, the dirt there dark and slimy, with frogs peeking out from the mud. It had been beautiful, still—but the sea is something else entirely.

He wonders if they’ll ever see it again, after they get back to Insomnia. Surely there will be enough work to keep ten kings busy, much less one.

The wood creaks when Noctis shifts against it, leaning his weight back on one hand. He’ll miss the smell the most, probably. The way the left-behind scent of the sunlight clings to the sand, mixing with the sharpness of the saltwater. It lingers in the thread of clothes, in strands of hair, against exposed skin. Certainly at least some of it would follow them home, even considering the stretch of desert between here and there.

He breathes deep for the second time, just in case.

The only indication that Prompto is behind him is the shadow moving across the water, settling just to the side of Noctis’ distorted silhouette. That, and the smell of lavender and vanilla—the memories of a soap Noctis had bought back in Lestallum. Soft, like flower petals, and sweet, like something baking.

It smells better on him.

“So why do you think they pronounce ‘quay’ so funny here? In every class we ever took, I was sure it wasn’t said like ‘key.’” The pier groans for the second time as Prompto takes a seat behind him, starting the process of pulling off his boots, one after the other. It’s easier, this late at night. They’re not laced.

“You can’t just attack people who can’t read,” Noctis replies. “That’s really impolite.”

“Is that a lecture you’ve gotten before, Your Highness?” One boot thunks against the boardwalk.

“No, but it’s an educated guess.” The second boot hits the polished wood, smooth from endless treatments of some water-resistant finish. “You get bored playing King’s Knight while you were waiting for me to come back, or was the smell of saltwater just too good to pass up?”

“None of the above!” Moonlight dances over Prompto’s freckles like it’s jealous that the sun got to leave them there. It gathers in his hair and on his eyelashes like teardrops, and there’s a moment of past-and-future, of dissonance as Noctis’ brain tries to overlay decade old features over the softer face right beside him. It makes his head ache. “I was worried about you. What if you’d been fishing and just lost track of time? Or what if you’d been cornered into another fetch-quest by Dino? I’m not sure a late night rock-run is the best use of your time.” There’s a pause, filled with the sound of the sea brushing under the boardwalk, the surf hissing against the sand, the quiet murmur of patrons still sitting at dining tables with unfinished wine bottles. “What’s on your mind?”

(The first time they’d seen each other in high school, Noctis had known Prompto instantly, though he’d looked entirely different by then. He’d been taller and far leaner, and his voice had been deeper, but he’d still had his freckles. There’d been more, of course, than when Noctis had last seen him. The sun had loved him dearly.

“prince noctis, right?” Prompto had said, as if it had been the first time they’d ever seen one another. Noctis had wondered, for a moment, if he’d just forgotten elementary school, or if there was a game he’d been trying to play. He’d been speaking over the questions of a herd of students who’d wanted to see the prince, up close and personally. “prompto argentum. you look like you’re in need of a rescue.”

Noctis’ knee had ached—an old injury from Marilith that hadn’t bothered him since before he’d come back from Tenebrae almost  seven years earlier.

He’d felt himself smiling despite it.

“oh yeah?” he’d said, and the students had started going quiet as he’d shifted his backpack on his shoulder. “aren’t you a little short for a crownsguard?”)

It’s barely-whispered, gently enough that it almost gets lost in the ambient noise curling in the breeze. It dries out Noctis’ throat, a little, as if something had gotten stuck there and had dug in with nails like needles. Coughing doesn’t make it any easier to speak.

“Ah, you know,” Noctis says, “nothing. Just the drive back to the City. Perfect time for a nap, so I’m trying to budget my time accordingly.”

Prompto hums, his fingers a warm weight on Noctis’ knuckles. The touch is soft, feather-light, and it makes him want to cry. “Hm, I see. I mean, I could probably boot Gladio up front for once? He says he needs the legroom in the back, but I think it’s pretty roomy in the passenger seat, so I don’t see why for the last leg home we can’t budget your royal naptime.”

A bird crows somewhere, out across the sea. Noctis doesn’t know what kind it is. “Gee, thanks. My time management skills have always been subpar.”

Prompto’s laughter breaks the quiet, skipping over the water like a stone. It’s only after it sinks into the sand that he opens his mouth again, watching the moon’s reflection ripple above a group of glowing barrelfish. “Are you nervous about going back?” Another heartbeat’s pause and Prompto laces their fingers. When Noctis glances at their hands, he sees the glimpse of the Imperial tattoo, sharp and uncovered. “Or… is it that you’re going to miss this place?”

He should’ve known, really. Prompto’s always been a mind-reader.

(Summer in the desert, baking the earth. The vegetation had rustled as the sun loomed on the horizon, larger than Noctis had ever remembered it being. But then again, Insomnia had always blocked out the skyline, in most places. The only time he’d ever caught the sunlight had been when the glare had blinded him from a countless number of windows.

There had been a word for what he’d been seeing—the sun swallowing the desert underneath it, turning everything a deep red-orange, burning the edges of his cheekbones.

“perihelion,” Prompto had said from beside him. The dirt beneath their palms had been cooked into sand, the rock of the cliff-face jagged and uneven from sudden sandstorms. Some of the stone looked polished enough to be glasswork, farther down the gully. “that’s when the world is at its closest point to the sun.”

Prompto’s skin had looked almost golden, and his freckles had stretched across the bridge of his nose and the curve of his cheekbones and had settled around his ears. Noctis had wondered, then, who the sun would be, if they were celestial bodies, or something like that. He’d never been one for poetry.

His tongue had felt heavy in his mouth when he’d said, “how do you always do that?”

Callused fingers, warm and soft and covered in too-dry dirt. Noctis could feel the thumbprint that Prompto would be leaving on his cheek. “easy,” he’d said, and it had been the first time that Prompto had looked brave. Noctis had never had his face held this way before. “it’s written all over your face.”)

“We’ve spent so much time here,” Noctis says, the nighttime whispering against the thatched roof of the restaurant. “It’ll be weird when we don’t come back.”

“What, like, ever?” Prompto’s eyelashes brush against his cheeks, trying to gather freckles there, probably. “We’re not coming back here?”

Noctis’ bones grind together when he shrugs, his throat too tight to say anything to a question like that, and his feet stop swinging just out of the water’s reach. His fingertips are tingling.

“I don’t know. You know how the Crown City is. It took us, what, twenty years to leave?”

Prompto’s thumb is drawing circles on his fingers, easing their grip in increments. His face feels too hot. Or maybe it’s just the skin around his eyes. “I guess. But dude, I was thinking this would be the perfect place for a honeymoon. Altissa is too big, and besides, who cares about Altissa? I wasn’t that impressed. It was pretty, but it was also huge, and we can get that back in Insomnia! This place is tiny and cozy and if anyone gets bored, there are crabs right down the beach to fight, usually. Or cook, depending.”

There’s a moment where Noctis can’t breathe. And then two. “A honeymoon, huh? I never did get to go on one of those.” It sounds as if the sea chuckles, splashing softly against the wooden posts beaten down into the sand. “Don’t you have to get married to go on one?”

(Their fingers had brushed when the Crystal had grabbed him. It had been for only a hairsbreadth of a second, barely a touch at all, but it had been there. Noctis had felt it, even in the cold of the Crystal’s embrace.

“noct!” Prompto’s hand had been shaking. They’d been so close.

perihelion, Noctis had remembered the word, then. The moment had been inopportune.)

“You do,” Prompto replies. “I’ve heard, anyway.”

It feels like Prompto’s fingers are going to leave freckles on his knuckles. It feels as though he’d leave freckles against Prompto’s cheeks if he’d kissed him. It feels like—it feels complicated. He’ll be a King when they get back to the City, a King of real things rather than just some fallen country. He’ll have subjects and meetings and royal functions. He’ll return triumphant but hollow, because there isn’t a ring to connect him to the gods, anymore, just like there isn’t a Crystal to protect the capital. There’s just him, and his people, with no wall between.

Noctis has spent a whole lot of time giving. He doesn’t know if there’s a whole lot of him left to… honeymoon with.

“Who’d take your wedding photos?” Sandpaper scrapes the inside of his mouth.

“Dude,” Prompto tells him, “me, obviously. I know all the good angles.” A huff of air, maybe a laugh, but maybe not. It could’ve been a swear, almost inaudible in the semi-broken darkness. “Who’d kiss you at your wedding?”

Noctis almost shoves him off of the pier for that—but pulls him forward by the fabric of his vest instead.

Prompto’s free hand smells like Noctis’ soap and wood-finish as it touches his cheek. He looks brave when Noctis meets his eyes, like he had on the palace rooftop, like he had as he’d set his jaw in front of the Crystal, like he had ten years in the future when they’d seen each other—both of them changed in some sort of way.

When they kiss it’s like daylight.

Something is burned away inside of him, the way that it always is. Prompto’s hands always wander, baptizing everything they touch, charring the hem of his shirt. Noctis’ hands are firmer against his shoulders, more insistent. It’s a way to ask for reassurance without having to put it to words, because he’s never been as adept with them as Prompto has been.

Break apart, sigh, hands in hair. Break apart, but only barely, kiss again. Angles change, their bodies shift, one of Noctis’ feet can finally touch the water. It radiates warmth.

(“how do you always do that?” They’ll have made it into the sea, somehow, floating beside the dock in nothing but underwear, circling each other before they inevitably kiss again. “that whole mind-reader mess you do.”

Prompto will look at him, his hair pushed away from his forehead as he blinks. The seawater clinging to his eyelashes runs down his cheeks like tears—happy ones, maybe. “i saw it in a dream,” he will say with gravity, in the dramatic voice he uses for monologues and storytelling. “the sun was rising over the quay, and you were sitting here, glowing. i reached out to touch you, and you’d disappeared. your dad’s ring was left behind.”

“prom,” Noctis will reply, scaring away a bluegill swimming between his knees as he wraps his legs around Prompto’s waist, weightless beneath the sea, “that has nothing to do with what i just asked you.”

“i saw you in a dream,” Prompto will repeat himself and his eyes will be shining. “and i thought you were gone again.”

“prompto, that’s not what i—“

This time, Prompto’s grip will white-knuckle, his fingers pressing tightly between Noctis’ own. “you’ve always been easy to read.” A single drop of water will be crawling down his face from his hairline, heading toward his jaw. It will be set, like stone. “and i’ve always liked coming to your rescue.”

There will be another conversation here that they need to have—but that moment will come later, in a way that tastes more like leather seats and desert sand, or smells of gleaming marble and newly polished silver. Just then, the nighttime will be broken by laughter, by the splashing of water, by the long silence that follows kisses.

The sun will be large, when it rises, eating up the horizon with orange-gold jaws.)

[hashtagartistlife]

KILL YOUR DARLINGS, pt. 2 (Discarded Fic Edition) (Part 1 here) 

(A small snippet written after someone asked the group chat (I think it was Rodella) ‘hey, do you think Uryuu can’t bear to look in mirrors anymore bc he looks so much like his mom and that hurts him?’)

There’s something odd about Ishida-kun’s house, but Orihime doesn’t quite manage to put her finger on it until about the third or fourth visit.

“Sorry, Ishida-kun, could you let me know where the bathroom is…?” she asks, in between a brace of calculus problems; Ishida-kun looks up from his Japanese literature homework, a little startled, and points vaguely down the hallway.

“Oh— oh, right, it’s the first door to the left,” he says, and goes back to his book. Orihime excuses herself with a small smile.

It occurs to her while washing her hands afterwards; the reason why Ishida-kun’s house has always felt a little… off-kilter.

There aren’t any mirrors in his house at all.

(The discarded beginnings of a fic I was writing for deathberryprompts’ weekly prompt, paradise.)

There are birds of paradise sitting by her windowsill, pretty in their wrought-iron cages. A note, written in an elegant hand, is attached to the lock: Congratulations on the union. The birds are a set, a male and female; currently asleep with their brightly coloured heads bent together. Rukia’s hand itches for the key. In the quiet of the morning before everyone wakes, everything still seems a beautiful possibility.

Her trembling fingers sweep over the fabric of her dress, skitter over the handle of her sword; nobody would ever know. One twist of her wrist, a key turning in a lock, and she’d never have to see them in captivity again. A gift, from some far-flung branch of her family. Who would she be offending? Does she rightly care? She does not understand why her marriage should be celebrated by tying creatures of the sky down to a lifetime on the ground. What a terrible thing; to lose your wings. To never even realise what you’ve lost—

The key is such a slender thing to be the only obstacle between them and the endless expanse of the sky. Rukia grips it in her hand, and though she is tiny, the key is tinier still; such an easily lost thing, this tenuous bridge to freedom. It shakes as she moves it towards the lock.

(When we were busy writing irbb, the irbb writer’s chat did a thing where we rewrote a snippet of each other’s fic in our own writing style. The excerpt in italics is a scene from Jess @sequencefairy’s irbb fic, Torque, which you can find here (x). The part following is my take on that scene.)

There are always sirens at night, Tokyo is a big city, and even though Karakura is a relatively quiet part of it, Ichigo can always count on hearing the wail of some siren, somewhere. These are close, and, in his relatively extensive experience, they are police sirens. He gets up, shuffles across his bed and pulls his window open further.

They get closer still, and now Ichigo can make out the whine of an engine being pushed to it’s limit. They must be a number of blocks away still. Ichigo pulls out his phone, keeping half an ear on the noise outside and scrolls through his twitter feed. Sometimes, if he’s lucky, the Tokyo police force traffic detachment will give information about current traffic disruptions. There’s a screech of tires and Ichigo winces. His thumb pauses in its movement on his phone’s screen and everything seems to hush.

The moment hangs. Ichigo forgets to breathe.

The crunch and squeal of metal on metal is unmistakable, even at this distance. He’s already pulling on his sweater by the time the phone in the clinic rings.

________________________________________________________________

The still air of his bedroom is split by the sound of police sirens. This in itself is nothing new; living on the edge of a city as big as Tokyo, the fantasy of an undisturbed night is something he has long since discarded. But these sound closer to him than usual, and Ichigo strains to hear them. It was unusual to have a chase this close to Karakura-cho. He flings his window open and reaches for his phone.

His twitter feed reveals nothing unusual, but Ichigo stays on edge. The sirens get closer at an alarmingly fast rate, and now he can make out the whirring of the engines and the skid of tyres on asphalt that tell him they’re only a few blocks away. His phone is crushed in his palm. Ichigo knows from experience; a chase at this speed ends in only one of two ways. Voluntary surrender, or…

The screech of metal on metal tears through the sky, and Ichigo’s already gone; the phone slips from his sweaty grip to land on his abandoned bed even as the one in the clinic begins its urgent and unmistakeable song.

(The beginnings of a discarded fic I was writing for deathberryprompts’ weekly prompt, lunar.)

There is something about the moon that night. Brighter than the streetlamps that dot the streets below, less harsh than the fluorescents inside the house, she emits a soft, steady light that bleaches the surroundings of colour and makes the edges of objects glow.

(.... this was going to be a fic where it looks like Ichigo is talking to Rukia at first, but as the fic progresses the reader notices things getting weirder and weirder until at the end they realise that a) Ichigo was actually just monologuing to the moon and that b) Rukia’s been dead for ten years. (Un)Fortunately for everyone involved, my muse for this fled, so this is all there is of that.)

(Some Ryuuken/Katagiri + Uryuu introspective thing that I really want to finish, but I can’t remember where I was going with it :sadface:)

The boy’s in love.

For all that other people called Ryuuken an awful father, he’s always been adept at reading his son’s emotions; Uryuu always been far too much like Kanae for him to not be able to see every flicker of thought across his idiotically expressive face.

(The discarded beginnings of a fic I was writing for deathberryprompts’ weekly prompt, truth-bridge-knife. The ellipses indicate that there was supposed to be more writing in between, but I never quite got around to it.)

Here’s the thing: the truth is, she’s never loved him.

Oh, people supposed. If you had, you certainly wouldn’t have been the first; they never seem to understand, all these outsiders, that she’s never felt more for him than what a mentor would feel for their student, what a comrade would feel for their fellow soldiers-in-arms. The bond forged by blood and war is stronger than any covenant sealed with homework and trips to the arcade; she supposes it’s easy to confuse such a bond with love. But it’s not like he’s ever singled her out for special treatment compared to the rest of his comrades. It’s not like she ever treated him any different to Renji or nii-sama or any of the other men in her life. She loves him, of course; she loves all her friends. But she’s never been in love with him.

Here’s the thing: he’s never been more than a bridge to her; a connection back to the world that she belongs in.

.

.

.

And now, here’s the thing: truth isn’t a bridge. Truth is a knife and you can wield it in the same way, cut, cut, slash. Truth is subjective and truth is not what the Kuchiki Clan keeps and sometimes, the truth isn’t the truth, not at all, but everyone agrees that it should be the truth and they won’t listen to anything else.

.

.

.

So, here’s the thing: the truth is that he’s always never been just a friend. Love and companionship are needless essential emotions and she had both was missing both before he came into her life. It’s not like he changed her world and dried her rain; it’s not like she became his ray of light. The truth is that they’ll always never be ‘just friends’.

But here’s the thing: people don’t care. They’ve never cared and what can such a ragged, patchwork truth do to disguise the festering wound that’s opened up between them, more effective than a child’s the floor is lava game in keeping them apart? Nobody wants to read between the lines anymore and what matters is what the Kuchiki Clan’s records say. Some truths are truer than others and none are as true as the Kuchiki Clan’s truths, and there, written in her own hand, in the truest true-black ink she can find, will be her name; linked to a man she’s never wanted, not like that. And in time, when there is no more Ichigo and Rukia, that will be all that remains; just her name linked to someone else’s in true-black ink, the only truth left out of the myriads of other truths that they keep.  

(The discarded beginnings of a fic I was writing for deathberryprompts’ weekly prompt, truth-bridge-knife (can you tell I was very taken by this prompt… also that it was viciously difficult for me :’)). Truth was supposed to be Sode no Shirayuki, Bridge was supposed to be Zabimaru, and Knife was supposed to be Zangetsu.)

(Truth)

The truth is that you’ve never liked the boy. Hair like the blazing sun, and a soul equally as hot; yet what is the sun to the snow but anathema? You waited out your stint in the boy’s soulscape like a curse. In his heart, there is no room to hide, nowhere to escape or take shelter. If it rains, you get soaked; if the sun shines, you burn. You wish the boy would learn some tact; some scrap of control. You lend him your powers because you see no other choice. You never even give him your name. He never thinks to ask.

The truth is you don’t like him. He jumps into things without thinking; deliberation and calculation is second nature to you. You felt abandoned, see; when she relinquished her grip on your heart almost eagerly, handed you over to him like you’re water through her fingers and not solid ice growing through her veins.

.

.

.

(Bridge)

It surprises you how easily a bridge of a hundred years, forged from the sweat and tears and blood of shared friends, crashes and burns.

It doesn’t matter how many years have gone into its making; it doesn’t matter how steady you thought it beneath your feet. One moment of inaction is all it takes, and she’s sliding your master’s hands from her shoulders, averting her eyes. You think you can see the smoke as everything goes up in flames.

You didn’t know her then, yuki-onna. You won’t know her for another forty years.

.

.

.

(Knife)

You haven’t been called upon in years.

Even the best swords rust if they’ve been neglected. You’re not sure you can even call yourself a sword any more. A kitchen knife, maybe— maybe less than that. A butterknife. You almost envy that imposter that once took up space inside his mind, as much as you had cursed him once— he, at least, had bailed while the King was intact. You could overthrow him now, sure, but for what? There’s no point in ruling over a field of ashes. His fire has long since burned out.

(A very very short snippet of a Bleach x Percy Jackson AU)

“You’re a demigod.”

Ichigo blinks. “I know I’m good-looking, but that’s coming on a little strong, don’t you think?”

The girl with the odd violet eyes smacks him upside the head. “Not that kind of demigod, you fool,” she snaps. “I doubt an oaf like you would be familiar with Greek mythology—”

“No, I know a little.” It takes a short second to sink in, and when it does, he bolts up from his chair. “Wait, demigod as in Greek mythology demigod—??”

“Yes.”

“But, but,” he splutters, “we’re Japanese.”

She smacks him again, harder. “Don’t question it, fool!”

(idk what this is but I like it.)

In his dreams, he loses her a hundred, a thousand, a million different ways. To fire, to flood, to a sword through the gut; to creeping disease and the ravages of time. Always right before his eyes, so that he can see the life draining from her; always, always, always helpless.

None of the dreams ever hurt as much as waking up does.

(A really, really old (several years at least) highschool soccer AU fic I started bc Korea lost to Australia in the Asian Cup and I got pissed as hell lmao)

The shrill blast of the whistle cut through the morning air as twenty-two people erupted into simultaneous noises of outrage, but one voice carried clearly over the rest.

“A foul?! Which part?! Any moron could have seen that it was his foot that tripped me over!”

“Not bloody likely!” snarled player fifteen, his face slowly flushing to match his distinctive orange hair. “Look at her! I’m not even sure she’s tall enough to actually trip over my feet! If anything, she’s the one that was underfoot, not me!”

“Underfoot?” The woman’s eyes flashed dangerously as she took a step closer to player fifteen, and despite being a clear foot and a half taller, he stumbled backwards in his haste to avoid her searing anger. “I’ll show you underfoot, you great, big, bullying lout—”

“That’s enough!” Another shrill pipe of the whistle, this time right into the two players’ ears; they jumped back comically, the boy tripping over the ball and landing flat on his backside. The opposing team hid their sniggers behind clean white shirts accented in violet. “Kuchiki, Kurosaki, no name-calling on the field. Kuchiki, last I checked you weren’t the umpire. It’ll be Kurosaki’s free kick. Resume play!”

“I believe in you, onii-chan!” a sweet-looking girl with pigtails called from the stands as the orange-haired striker assumed position; the white-clad team slunk into formation, muttering darkly about the umpire— Mizuiro, wasn’t it? Fucker’s got raisins for eyes— behind his back. Player twenty-three, black-haired, violet-eyed, seething with anger, settled into a defensive stance; her opponent smirked at her lazily.

“Don’t worry, Yuzu, I got this,” he called back to the stands, but his eyes were trained on her.

Bring it, they said.

There was nothing that Kuchiki Rukia did better.

________________________________________________________________

Half time at the annual ‘friendship’ match between Karakura High and Seireitei Academy brought with it a frustrating score of nil-all, multiple yellow cards, numerous fouls and several inappropriate insults hurled across the field. The umpire for the first half had narrowly managed to avoid an angry Seireitei Academy mob, slipping away into the Karakura High stands before blood could be drawn. The game so far had been tight; the two teams were evenly matched, and, as such games tended to go, had been getting increasingly dirty with time.

(Very old Ichiruki sort of camp counsellors AU I was writing based on some of my own experiences with mentoring at camps)

“We are going to annihilate you.”

A perfectly acceptable sentiment in team sports, had it not been for the fact that currently, their teams were made up of borderline terrified seventh-graders on their first highschool camp. Kuchiki Rukia brandished a finger in his direction, and Kurosaki Ichigo rolled his eyes.

“In your dreams,” he retorted, spinning his makeshift paddle in one hand and looking for all the world like a full-grown adult to their coterie of kids. The mischievous gleam in his eyes, however, could only belong to a teenager, and a reckless, headstrong, seventeen-year-old one at that. “Bring it, Queen midget.”

“For god’s sake, you’re leading kids. Do you have no shame?” Ishida Uryuu interjected from the side, rolling his sleeves up methodically and pushing his glasses up his nose. Behind him, Inoue Orihime smiled apologetically, ushering yet more seventh graders along behind her. Rukia and Ichigo looked at each other.

“Not really,” they both replied, before turning to their frightened looking protegees.

“Besides, you guys want to win too, don’t you?” Rukia asked, flashing a grin that was all teeth. There was a short silence.

One brave soul nodded.

________________________________________________________________

Peer mentoring as a concept had existed for a while now in education; it developed leadership and organisational skills for the mentor, helped younger students settle into the rhythm of school life with minimal discomfort and fostered a sense of unity and mutual respect throughout the school. A beneficial arrangement all around, many schools had soon adopted the procedure of assigning an older peer mentor to a group of younger students. Karakura high was no exception; their ten-week peer mentoring program in which students in their twelfth and final year of schooling each mentored a group of roughly five seventh-graders was generally acknowledged to be the best leadership program around for miles, and looked stellar on any resume, reference letter or college application one cared to write.

So there was no way in hell that Kurosaki Ichigo and Kuchiki Rukia, two of the most promising students of the 2015 graduating class, was about to pass that chance up.

(Old hichiruki oneshot set straight after the fullbring reunion)

He’s taller.

Kuchiki Rukia is used to being small; used to having men and women tower over her day and night, used to fighting and defeating people and monsters that far outstrip her in size. Her lack of physical presence is something she is long accustomed to, such that she barely gives a passing thought to size differences between her and her opponents these days. People who are taller and bigger than her have long since ceased to unnerve her, given how she has been positively diminutive all her life—

So then why am I so acutely aware of the fact that he’s taller than me?

Not just taller than her, no; taller than before, specifically. Silently, Rukia berates herself; human males grow, it’s not as if she didn’t know this. Did she think Ichigo would forever remain the angry fifteen-year-old she had first transferred her powers to? Of course it was natural that he’d have gained a few inches since she’d last seen him, but for some reason, the fact that he is notably taller and broader than when she left him is really hitting home at this moment.

Maybe it’s because of his proximity to her. Suddenly flushing, she realises how close they are standing; attempting to hide her flaming blush (it’s ridiculous, this is Kurosaki Ichigo, why would she be blushing—), she coughs and takes a deliberate step away from him.

.

.

.

“I’m not your princess.”

He cocks his head at her, like a disturbing, overlarge bird. “No?” he hisses, eyes glinting in the half-dark. He grins a grin that’s all teeth, and his tongue curls out and runs across his bottom lip. He slams a fist into his palm as though he’s figured something out. “Queen, then. There, that fits better, anyway. You’re not some timid bitch under someone else’s rule. You only bow for the King, don’t you?”

“I’m not your Queen either,” she says steadily. Her voice does not betray her inner turmoil, and for that she is thankful. “And I don’t bow to anyone—“

The hollow snorts. “Tell that to the King,” he says, getting up from the bed. Rukia smothers her instinctual reaction to take a step back.

(Ichiruki Snow Queen AU, version 1: Ichigo dies in the war with Yhwach, Rukia singlehandedly ends the Thousand Year Blood War, goes insane with grief, turns the Seireitei into a desolate icy wasteland and flees to the snow fields with Ichigo’s body, which she encases in ice and basically becomes a hermit ice queen protecting the corpse of her loved one. Several hundred years later, a reincarnated Ichigo comes to the Seireitei, wonders why everything is so shitty and cold, and decides he’s going to go give this ‘Ice Queen’ a piece of his goddamn mind. He likes summer, ok?)

The thousand year blood war ends like this:

Kurosaki Ichigo falls, blood spurting from a wound that not even Inoue can close. Unohana, who might yet have saved him by dint of accumulated centuries of medical knowledge, lies a lifeless corpse in the bottommost floor of Muken. Urahara is too far away on the battlefield to implement any of his clever schemes, and his father is god knows where, doing god knows what. Aizen watches his demise with passive eyes. Yhwach swings his broadsword, and blood trails from its edge in scarlet droplets – scatters on the soil like rain. He laughs, Kurosaki Ichigo falls, and dooms the entirety of the Seireitei to fall with him.

Yhwach laughs, because he can see it now, his victory, his victory, Soul Society his to rule and a realm of endless carnage that would ensure he never lose the light– but all those eyes and that almost infinite power of his could not have shown him what came next.

It is not Kurosaki Ichigo he has to worry about. It is a tiny shinigami, not even worth making the special war potentials list, barely a foot soldier before her promotion to lieutenant a year prior to the battle. She is the one who ends the thousand year blood war, she and her zanpakutou spirit and the mindless energy that comes with the severance of a fate ordained by a higher being than he could have ever imagined.

For if the Soul King evades his prophetic eyes, what hope does he have of perceiving the fabric of destiny woven by a power greater and more terrible than ten Soul Kings combined?

The moment he felled Kurosaki Ichigo was the moment he sealed his mortal fate. The last thing Yhwach sees before frost encases him is a blinding pillar of white annihilating half of the Seireitei.

(Ichiruki Snow Queen AU, version 2: Sode no Shirayuki gets jealous of the ‘unbreakable bond’ between Rukia and Ichigo, and also she thinks that Rukia’s kind, giving heart is basically barring her from true greatness, so she blankets the Seireitei in an eternal winter, erases Rukia’s memories and kidnaps her to some ice castle on the edge of a cliff, so she can train her to be the Queen of the universe that Shirayuki knows she can be. Ichigo, predictably, is having None Of That Shit, thank you very much.)

Winter comes upon the Seireitei without warning that year.

Softly, quietly, almost without anyone noticing, the first snow comes, blanketing the eaves of the nobles’ and the commoners’ houses alike, the cold winds starts stealing into the alleyways and shakes the last of the autumn leaves off the trees, creeping frost scurries along the pavement, filling their cracks–

and slowly, imperceptibly, the unfurling of something colder than the winter, pale violet eyes blinking open, waking to the world it observes with dispassionate detachment before deciding–

something was wrong.

.

.

.

She looks out the window, to the blizzard just starting up outside; he is still there, waiting in the snow.

“Who is he, Shirayuki?” she asks later, when it is just the two of them and any cries of her name— Rukia, Rukia— are drowned out by the wind whipping through the corridors. “He burns like the sun.”

The tiniest furrowing of Shirayuki’s brow, an almost imperceptible tremble in her hands— but then she blinks, and it is gone.

“I know not, and I care even less,” she says, face smooth and cold. “The sun is no friend to the snow, Rukia.”

(...Some kinda timeskip!feels, I suppose?)

It’s been 17 months, not that he’s been counting.

Or maybe he has; and who would blame him? After all the shit that happened to him two winters ago, the peaceful life he’s living now seems almost like a dream. He lives in constant fear—

Fear?

— fear of it disappearing, like so much smoke through his fingers, so is it any wonder he keeps count, to this day? You know, kind of like those joke signs about workplace safety. It has been X days since our last nonsense. Yeah, that’s definitely what it was. Every day that he adds to his mental tally reassures him—

does it

— reassures him, and one day there’ll be so many days that he’ll have lost count. One day the days that he’s had to count will outnumber the days that he hasn’t counted, and he looks forward to that day with a reverence bordering on fanaticism; he can’t wait till he can do away with the tally altogether, until he’s secure enough in his normal

mundane

life that he no longer has to count every new day like an

disappointment

achievement. Because that day will come, he tells himself, gritting his teeth, curling his hands into fists, that day will come when he no longer leaves his windows open at night and leans into the cold snap of the frost; that day will come when he doesn’t jerk away from butterflies and look the other way when he sees Inoue or Chad or Ishida running down the corridors, skipping class. The tally is only one part of it, the easiest part of it all; and that day will come when he can take it down from his mental walls and throw it in the trash. But for now, for now—

Seventeen months and a day, since he last saw spirits. 

[drippeddaily]

Album Of The Year 2017 #19: Death Grips - Steroids EP

Album Of The Year 2017 #19: Death Grips - Steroids EP

Artist: Death Grips

Album: Steroids (Crouching Tiger Hidden Gabber Megamix)

Listen

Youtube

Soundcloud

Spotify

Background by /u/vulcan24

I originally had this background written as a thousand-plus word epic detailing the release and sound for each of Death Grips’ projects. Then immediately after finishing I realised anyone who cares enough about them to read that probably already knew most of it anyways, so I’ll try keep it brief. Saying that, if you’re interested in the band and want a concise recap then shoot us a PM. But enough self-promo, let’s get to the good stuff.

Death Grips burst onto the underground music scene in early 2011, with the release of a self titled EP. They then followed this up with a mixtape, Exmilitary, later that year. The group's sound was raw, but far from amateurish, showcasing a unique style of all-out violent aggression, both sonically and lyrically.

Drummer Zach Hill, the only named member at this point, provided explosive backing rhythms reminiscent of classic hip-hop like Public Enemy, as well as his math-rock days in Hella. Atop this cacophony was Stefan Burnett, better known as MC Ride, whose cryptic passages were delivered with the force of a punk singer and the impact of N.W.A. Finally there’s recording engineer Andy Morin, whose role in the band is still largely unknown.

Despite appearing practically out of nowhere, Death Grips were producing some of the most forward thinking hip-hop and Exmilitary is still an enthralling listen going on 6 years after its’ release. In the time since then, the band have continued to showcase seemingly endless amounts of creativity coupled with a penchant for wild experimentation. They’d go on to release album after album of boundary pushing experimental hip-hop, constantly evolving their already unique sound and style along the way.

Drawing influences from all over the musical map, highlights include The Money Store’s futuristic urban soundscapes, and the cyberpunk rock territory covered on Jenny Death. It seemed that no matter where they went, Death Grips were constantly covering new ground, diving head first into these concept and ideas with striking results. It’s no wonder many of these releases are already considered modern classics, whose influence can be felt on the current state of hip-hop in the short time since their release. But more on that later.

As of this year, the band have put out 7 studio albums (including Exmilitary) and 2 instrumental releases. That isn’t even counting their experimental rock side project The I.L.Y’s, or the excessive amount of touring and visual art in between. In just 6 short years, Death Grips have traversed more musical ground than most bands could in an entire career. With this also came a constant barrage of confusing social media gambits, sending dedicated fans scouring the darkest corners of the internet with the promise of hidden information. It’s something the band (and their fans) have become notorious for, and falls in line with the themes of digital paranoia which repeatedly pop up in their music.

In one of their rare interviews Stefan mentions they aren’t into 'lateral movement', a phrase which only becomes more applicable as their career unravels. It’s incredibly rare to find a group which is so prolific yet so sonically hyperactive, bouncing between sounds and styles to reinvent themselves on each successive release. I’ll apologise if it sounds like I’m gushing in this recap, but I honestly believe it would be foolish not to place Death Grips among the most important acts of the 21st century given their accomplishments thus far. They’ve proven themselves musical explorers, gently prodding at the boundaries of not just hip-hop, but experimental music as a whole.

Review by /u/vulcan24

Which brings us to the current year. May 22nd marked the surprise release of Steroids (Crouching Tiger Hidden Gabber Megamix), a 22 minute long sound collage-no wait it’s a mix, or maybe an EP? Whatever you want to call it, fans were greeted with dense passages of distorted sounds, twisted tunnels deftly forded by Ride’s verses. On first listen it’s the sound of pure chaos, the feeling of being pelted with a volley of musical ideas from close range. None of the seven (or is it eight?) tracks were named, leading fans to refer to them by refrain alone.

I’ll follow that trend in this review, beginning with "My Whole Life"; Stefan’s guttural screams seem to dodge the beat left and right, a siren raises in the background as if signalling an air raid. Once the skies clear there comes a rare moment of respite, taking the form of a near-spoken word passage atop ghostly ambience. The peace doesn’t long before we’re thrust into a wall of erratically contorted sub-bass. The following twenty or so minutes sees the trio work their way across swathes of musical ground, circumnavigating through digital hardcore, punk, trap, and EDM in the form of gabber.

Yet it feels almost arbitrary to hurl these genre tags at Death Grips, as the finished product feels so unique to them. Yes comparisons can be made here and there, but all in all these influences are funnelled and condensed into something far greater than the sum of their parts. This is especially true for Steroids, which is by far the bands’ most stylistically hyperactive work, undergoing complete transformations often from bar-to-bar, rarely providing anything to serve as a transition. I’d also go so far to say that it’s their most challenging listen to date. Much of the 22 minute runtime is spent working to maintain a level of gripping mania hell bent on overwhelming the listener.

Though fans have split this release into separate tracks, I feel it would be a disservice not to listen as a whole given its’ nomenclature as a 'megamix'. What’s more, these brief sonic barrages are arranged to flow together, building up a sense of uncertain momentum which explodes towards the end. I mentioned earlier the short spoken interlude between the first two segments. It's practically the only time in the whole mix where you’re not being constantly assaulted by flurries of wild ideas. After this piece Steroids doesn’t let up, constantly building, destroying, then reforming glitched-out soundscapes at breakneck pace.

Perhaps the most tangible point of reference to hip-hop comes with the track sandwiched right in the middle, "Come and Go Whenever". Cued in by some mumbly grunge rock, the track breaks into a menacing sample with what can only be described as ‘rattling hi-hats’ twittering away in the background. A bell sample signals the drop and Ride earns his title as an MC, punctuating complex flows to the banger beat. It’s where Steroids comes closest to ‘normal’, and even then it’s enough to scare off most traditional rap fans. Not letting up energy, a distant ‘Hi!’ ushers in a rapid onslaught of math-rock drumming. Electronics morph in the background and Stefan’s pitch-shifted yelps almost merge into the off kilter beat. It feels insulting to call this an interlude because it’s as manic and fleshed out as any other moment in the mix. It also works as a spotlight for Zach’s frenzied live drum work.

Next comes "Black Body", which delves further than ever before into the cyberpunk aesthetic explored on releases such as Jenny Death. Alternating between an understated flute sample and passages of schizophrenic rage, the tension continues to ramp up and escalate the descent into madness. I’ll use the word cyberpunk again to describe this moment, which might come off as corny but in my mind there’s nothing more apt. Stefan's manic vocals are layered over themselves and filtered repeatedly to create a musical grotesque only capable of existing in the digital age. It’s utterly chilling, making it hard to resist being pulled further into this misanthropic world.

Closing things out is a track which effectively releases all the built up energy into an explosive finish. The trio continue to delve deeper into futurism with an array of eclectic electronic samples ricocheting around in the background to form a beat. For all of Steroids' variety, it sustains a remarkably affecting atmosphere the entire way through, building upon pre-existing themes of paranoia and mayhem. Ride screams and it’s echoed to infinity atop the warping sample, scattershot synthesisers fire arrays of sound into the ether and it slowly fades out. It seems underwhelming to end such a chaotic collage with a fade-out but really anything else would feel too abrupt.

The gabber influence is something I’ve neglected to mention thus far, and that’s for a reason. High tempo BPMs and thumping kick drums litter this mix, yet the third section, "Bald Headed Girl", is the only time they stick out as an obvious weak point. It feels to me like Death Grips lean too far into their influences here, creating something unintentionally grounded in reality. There are still redeeming qualities like Stefan’s glass-eyed delivery of the hook, or the rapid v-drumming, but overall the track comes off as decisively less impactful than its’ surroundings. Perhaps it would function better as a standalone piece, but when placed into context this batshit insane the sound comes off as just slightly too tangible.

Overall however, this project is an incredibly strong release, easily standing up to any of their full lengths in terms of experimentation and creativity. It feels like Death Grips fill the 20 minute runtime by constantly jumping from strength to strength with no attention span for anything in between. This seems a fitting time to return to my comment on them influencing modern hip-hop, something this mix feels incredibly removed from.

Consider artists like Denzel Curry or XXXTENTACION (bless his soul), who are only recently starting to experiment with the same industrial sound palettes Death Grips exhorted mastery over nearly 5 years ago. It only makes sense that the band’s current work sounds incredibly futuristic and far from the same styles they helped influence, because where else would they be? When you’re this far ahead of the competition there comes a point where you have to stop being an arbiter for the future, and start going where no one else will.

So that’s what this mix really exemplifies to me, free sonic exploration completely unrestrained by boundaries of genre or style. Death Grips are smashing together their menagerie of influences in ways which no one else has and pulling it off with complete aplomb. This EP sounds like nothing else I’ve ever heard before and yet I love it, which is a phrase I find myself repeatedly returning to with this band’s music. It’s a terribly entry point to their extensive catalogue, but a rewarding one to be sure. I’d class it as their brightest moment thus far since their faux-breakup a few years back, above double album epic The Powers That B. It feels odd writing this for a hip-hop subreddit as even that box seems too small to confine what the band are doing at this point.

Believe it or not, this is the first time I’ve ever written about Death Grips’ music despite being an avid listener for years. I don’t really have a reason for this, but maybe it’s because breaking apart their art in this way makes it lose some magic. It’s remarkably impressive how consistently the group have been able to envision and execute a unique artistic concept with great success. I truly believe there’s something special in every one of their albums, and they’re all worth a listen if you’re a fan of interesting music.

So if you’ve made it this far into the review and are still unfamiliar with Death Grips’ catalogue then here’s my advice; ignore this review, ignore the background, ignore their social media, and please, for the love of god, ignore the fans. Despite the rich context surrounding it, Death Grips’ music stands on its’ own, it stands up to scrutiny and rewards repeated listens. Start chronologically and listen through the band’s catalogue, everything you need to know to enjoy it is already contained within.

Favourite Lyrics

There haven’t been any official lyrics released at this point and MC Ride’s scattershot delivery makes it hard to discern individual lines but I’ve done my best.

"Your innocence save your hopes I just roll the dice and I’ve been like this for my whole fucking life my whole fucking life’s your whole fucking life"

-My Whole Life

"Ghoulishly I fear, paralysis my souvenir"

-Shit Like This

"At the time didn’t recognise myself ‘till I was petrified but half the time I’m not myself so most of the time I don’t question why will need to testify but best I can do is buy some time spend my time folding time even met myself one time"

-Black Body

Discussion Questions

The band have said they are working on a new album, do you think the sound will be influenced by Steroids, or something else entirely? Where would you like them to go?

Am I right about the band’s influence on modern hip-hop or was it going to head this direction anyways? Why?

What do you believe mainstream rap can learn from experimental releases such as this one?

How do you rate the band’s progression thus far, pre and post breakup?

Do you prefer this release as a whole or split into individual tracks, why?

Tomorrow’s writeup is for Jidenna - The Chief, done by /u/dropthehammer11

Artist: Death GripsAlbum: Steroids (Crouching Tiger Hidden Gabber Megamix)ListenYoutubeSoundcloudSpotifyBackground by /u/vulcan24I originally had this background written as a thousand-plus word epic detailing the release and sound for each of Death Grips’ projects. Then immediately after finishing I realised anyone who cares enough about them to read that probably already knew most of it anyways, so I’ll try keep it brief. Saying that, if you’re interested in the band and want a concise recap then shoot us a PM. But enough self-promo, let’s get to the good stuff.Death Grips burst onto the underground music scene in early 2011, with the release of a self titled EP. They then followed this up with a mixtape, Exmilitary, later that year. The group's sound was raw, but far from amateurish, showcasing a unique style of all-out violent aggression, both sonically and lyrically.Drummer Zach Hill, the only named member at this point, provided explosive backing rhythms reminiscent of classic hip-hop like Public Enemy, as well as his math-rock days in Hella. Atop this cacophony was Stefan Burnett, better known as MC Ride, whose cryptic passages were delivered with the force of a punk singer and the impact of N.W.A. Finally there’s recording engineer Andy Morin, whose role in the band is still largely unknown.Despite appearing practically out of nowhere, Death Grips were producing some of the most forward thinking hip-hop and Exmilitary is still an enthralling listen going on 6 years after its’ release. In the time since then, the band have continued to showcase seemingly endless amounts of creativity coupled with a penchant for wild experimentation. They’d go on to release album after album of boundary pushing experimental hip-hop, constantly evolving their already unique sound and style along the way.Drawing influences from all over the musical map, highlights include The Money Store’s futuristic urban soundscapes, and the cyberpunk rock territory covered on Jenny Death. It seemed that no matter where they went, Death Grips were constantly covering new ground, diving head first into these concept and ideas with striking results. It’s no wonder many of these releases are already considered modern classics, whose influence can be felt on the current state of hip-hop in the short time since their release. But more on that later.As of this year, the band have put out 7 studio albums (including Exmilitary) and 2 instrumental releases. That isn’t even counting their experimental rock side project The I.L.Y’s, or the excessive amount of touring and visual art in between. In just 6 short years, Death Grips have traversed more musical ground than most bands could in an entire career. With this also came a constant barrage of confusing social media gambits, sending dedicated fans scouring the darkest corners of the internet with the promise of hidden information. It’s something the band (and their fans) have become notorious for, and falls in line with the themes of digital paranoia which repeatedly pop up in their music.In one of their rare interviews Stefan mentions they aren’t into 'lateral movement', a phrase which only becomes more applicable as their career unravels. It’s incredibly rare to find a group which is so prolific yet so sonically hyperactive, bouncing between sounds and styles to reinvent themselves on each successive release. I’ll apologise if it sounds like I’m gushing in this recap, but I honestly believe it would be foolish not to place Death Grips among the most important acts of the 21st century given their accomplishments thus far. They’ve proven themselves musical explorers, gently prodding at the boundaries of not just hip-hop, but experimental music as a whole.Review by /u/vulcan24Which brings us to the current year. May 22nd marked the surprise release of Steroids (Crouching Tiger Hidden Gabber Megamix), a 22 minute long sound collage-no wait it’s a mix, or maybe an EP? Whatever you want to call it, fans were greeted with dense passages of distorted sounds, twisted tunnels deftly forded by Ride’s verses. On first listen it’s the sound of pure chaos, the feeling of being pelted with a volley of musical ideas from close range. None of the seven (or is it eight?) tracks were named, leading fans to refer to them by refrain alone.I’ll follow that trend in this review, beginning with "My Whole Life"; Stefan’s guttural screams seem to dodge the beat left and right, a siren raises in the background as if signalling an air raid. Once the skies clear there comes a rare moment of respite, taking the form of a near-spoken word passage atop ghostly ambience. The peace doesn’t long before we’re thrust into a wall of erratically contorted sub-bass. The following twenty or so minutes sees the trio work their way across swathes of musical ground, circumnavigating through digital hardcore, punk, trap, and EDM in the form of gabber.Yet it feels almost arbitrary to hurl these genre tags at Death Grips, as the finished product feels so unique to them. Yes comparisons can be made here and there, but all in all these influences are funnelled and condensed into something far greater than the sum of their parts. This is especially true for Steroids, which is by far the bands’ most stylistically hyperactive work, undergoing complete transformations often from bar-to-bar, rarely providing anything to serve as a transition. I’d also go so far to say that it’s their most challenging listen to date. Much of the 22 minute runtime is spent working to maintain a level of gripping mania hell bent on overwhelming the listener.Though fans have split this release into separate tracks, I feel it would be a disservice not to listen as a whole given its’ nomenclature as a 'megamix'. What’s more, these brief sonic barrages are arranged to flow together, building up a sense of uncertain momentum which explodes towards the end. I mentioned earlier the short spoken interlude between the first two segments. It's practically the only time in the whole mix where you’re not being constantly assaulted by flurries of wild ideas. After this piece Steroids doesn’t let up, constantly building, destroying, then reforming glitched-out soundscapes at breakneck pace.Perhaps the most tangible point of reference to hip-hop comes with the track sandwiched right in the middle, "Come and Go Whenever". Cued in by some mumbly grunge rock, the track breaks into a menacing sample with what can only be described as ‘rattling hi-hats’ twittering away in the background. A bell sample signals the drop and Ride earns his title as an MC, punctuating complex flows to the banger beat. It’s where Steroids comes closest to ‘normal’, and even then it’s enough to scare off most traditional rap fans. Not letting up energy, a distant ‘Hi!’ ushers in a rapid onslaught of math-rock drumming. Electronics morph in the background and Stefan’s pitch-shifted yelps almost merge into the off kilter beat. It feels insulting to call this an interlude because it’s as manic and fleshed out as any other moment in the mix. It also works as a spotlight for Zach’s frenzied live drum work.Next comes "Black Body", which delves further than ever before into the cyberpunk aesthetic explored on releases such as Jenny Death. Alternating between an understated flute sample and passages of schizophrenic rage, the tension continues to ramp up and escalate the descent into madness. I’ll use the word cyberpunk again to describe this moment, which might come off as corny but in my mind there’s nothing more apt. Stefan's manic vocals are layered over themselves and filtered repeatedly to create a musical grotesque only capable of existing in the digital age. It’s utterly chilling, making it hard to resist being pulled further into this misanthropic world.Closing things out is a track which effectively releases all the built up energy into an explosive finish. The trio continue to delve deeper into futurism with an array of eclectic electronic samples ricocheting around in the background to form a beat. For all of Steroids' variety, it sustains a remarkably affecting atmosphere the entire way through, building upon pre-existing themes of paranoia and mayhem. Ride screams and it’s echoed to infinity atop the warping sample, scattershot synthesisers fire arrays of sound into the ether and it slowly fades out. It seems underwhelming to end such a chaotic collage with a fade-out but really anything else would feel too abrupt.The gabber influence is something I’ve neglected to mention thus far, and that’s for a reason. High tempo BPMs and thumping kick drums litter this mix, yet the third section, "Bald Headed Girl", is the only time they stick out as an obvious weak point. It feels to me like Death Grips lean too far into their influences here, creating something unintentionally grounded in reality. There are still redeeming qualities like Stefan’s glass-eyed delivery of the hook, or the rapid v-drumming, but overall the track comes off as decisively less impactful than its’ surroundings. Perhaps it would function better as a standalone piece, but when placed into context this batshit insane the sound comes off as just slightly too tangible.Overall however, this project is an incredibly strong release, easily standing up to any of their full lengths in terms of experimentation and creativity. It feels like Death Grips fill the 20 minute runtime by constantly jumping from strength to strength with no attention span for anything in between. This seems a fitting time to return to my comment on them influencing modern hip-hop, something this mix feels incredibly removed from.Consider artists like Denzel Curry or XXXTENTACION (bless his soul), who are only recently starting to experiment with the same industrial sound palettes Death Grips exhorted mastery over nearly 5 years ago. It only makes sense that the band’s current work sounds incredibly futuristic and far from the same styles they helped influence, because where else would they be? When you’re this far ahead of the competition there comes a point where you have to stop being an arbiter for the future, and start going where no one else will.So that’s what this mix really exemplifies to me, free sonic exploration completely unrestrained by boundaries of genre or style. Death Grips are smashing together their menagerie of influences in ways which no one else has and pulling it off with complete aplomb. This EP sounds like nothing else I’ve ever heard before and yet I love it, which is a phrase I find myself repeatedly returning to with this band’s music. It’s a terribly entry point to their extensive catalogue, but a rewarding one to be sure. I’d class it as their brightest moment thus far since their faux-breakup a few years back, above double album epic The Powers That B. It feels odd writing this for a hip-hop subreddit as even that box seems too small to confine what the band are doing at this point.Believe it or not, this is the first time I’ve ever written about Death Grips’ music despite being an avid listener for years. I don’t really have a reason for this, but maybe it’s because breaking apart their art in this way makes it lose some magic. It’s remarkably impressive how consistently the group have been able to envision and execute a unique artistic concept with great success. I truly believe there’s something special in every one of their albums, and they’re all worth a listen if you’re a fan of interesting music.So if you’ve made it this far into the review and are still unfamiliar with Death Grips’ catalogue then here’s my advice; ignore this review, ignore the background, ignore their social media, and please, for the love of god, ignore the fans. Despite the rich context surrounding it, Death Grips’ music stands on its’ own, it stands up to scrutiny and rewards repeated listens. Start chronologically and listen through the band’s catalogue, everything you need to know to enjoy it is already contained within.Favourite LyricsThere haven’t been any official lyrics released at this point and MC Ride’s scattershot delivery makes it hard to discern individual lines but I’ve done my best."Your innocence save your hopes I just roll the dice and I’ve been like this for my whole fucking life my whole fucking life’s your whole fucking life"-My Whole Life"Ghoulishly I fear, paralysis my souvenir"-Shit Like This"At the time didn’t recognise myself ‘till I was petrified but half the time I’m not myself so most of the time I don’t question why will need to testify but best I can do is buy some time spend my time folding time even met myself one time"-Black BodyDiscussion QuestionsThe band have said they are working on a new album, do you think the sound will be influenced by Steroids, or something else entirely? Where would you like them to go?Am I right about the band’s influence on modern hip-hop or was it going to head this direction anyways? Why?What do you believe mainstream rap can learn from experimental releases such as this one?How do you rate the band’s progression thus far, pre and post breakup?Do you prefer this release as a whole or split into individual tracks, why?Tomorrow’s writeup is for Jidenna - The Chief, done by /u/dropthehammer11