#the way I can only write in 500 word intervals

[ceruleansol]

So I’m workin on a lil (Vash x reader) somethin….

Nsfw to come once I finish and make this a whole other post

—

The routine noises are comforting. It starts the same every evening from where you sit resting against the armrest of the couch, reading the book he bought for you that month. Over the course of your five-year-long relationship, you learned the various ways Vash expresses and needs to receive love.

One of the ways he gives love is by gift giving, in which he studies you in detail and makes sure he enables every one of your passions. Every month he either buys you a book based on your preferences or picked out by himself for you to try. If he sees a pretty rock on the ground or has time to stop by the local crystal shop, he brings you crystals to add to your ever-growing collection. By the time you've added another passion or hobby to your repertoire, he's already created another mental list of ideas of what to gift you.

The set of different sketching pencils will arrive in the mail next week—with the specifications that it is a gift, so the price isn't showing.

What is more notable, however, is his need for quality time and physical touch. He will insist it's for you. He is hellbent on serving you and making sure you're comfortable, secure, and protected. It is innate and in his nature. Many a late and stressful night for the both of you has he chosen, unprompted and without complaint, to do the cooking or the cleaning or the laundry. But he'll also ask in that soft and sweet voice if you want to join him. He needs to take care of you and have you with him, but you know the real reason.

The noises continue in the bathroom down the hall that stretches straight ahead of you, the light bleeding sideways out of the cracked door. And it's by such repetitive routine that each tell paints a clear picture in your mind of him methodically undoing his prosthetic and placing it onto the countertop, a relieved breath following suit before he begins to tug his shirt over his head.

The door then opens like it does every evening where he steps out with only his pants remaining. It is this sight of him in particular that especially warms your heart and increases your fondness for your lover. No one else gets to see him in such a vulnerable state. Only you get to hold the weight of his trust and witness him and all his scars.

His eyes soften when he sees you with the book and he smiles. "Hey," he says as soft as his gaze and raises a hand to get your attention, though he's never lost it. "Wanna shower with me?"

He's met with only a growing smile on you at the familiar question, and so he pushes himself past the doorframe.

You watch him in adoration of his lean stature, the marred skin across his chest that reaches his back, the angle of his shoulders, and the gentle yet playful manner in which he steps toward you.

When he stops, his shins are against the couch between your legs, and he grins down at you. He nudges your leg with his to coax you out of the stupor he's surely noticed you in.

Blinking back into reality, you're met with the realization of how your head reaches the height of his abdomen when you sit down like this.

You know it well, just as well as he knows you; Vash gives what he needs to receive, and you intend to make sure he always gets as much as he gives.

[melodylnoelle]

Music is the Best Medicine

The Cards Have Spoken - Week 12 Free Write

Hello there! For anyone who has been following The Cards Have Spoken, we did something a little different. Instead of pulling cards this week, we decided to give ourselves a break and just make everything Dealer’s Choice for the week. We will be doing this periodically from now on, though we have not decided the interval, so that sometimes we can go back and follow up on some of the ones that we want to expand on. I.... Didn’t do that this week. But! I have a bunch that I would like to follow up on at some point, so that will be nice.

Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe   Characters: Dealer’s Choice - Bucky Barnes x Reader Category: Wild Card - Fluff Timeline: Wild Card - Post Endgame? AU? Who knows what this is Setting: Dealer’s Choice - New York City Warnings/Notes: None // We are trying to keep these all to a minimum of 500 words. You can use these same cards for your own story if you like, but please tag me and @brightsun-and-darkmidnight so that we can see what you do! Please enjoy   Words:  2416 Summary: You and Bucky bond over exchanging music choices, and it helps him more than he knows it will Masterlist

            You scribbled the last of the notes that the doctor made in the patient’s file onto a cleaner sheet, making it more legible for future reference. This doctor was old-fashioned, and while he would inevitably need it to make its way into a computer for compliance purposes later, he still relied on a file cabinet full of hand-written charts. He never fully trusted that, even with Stark’s funding and security software, that we wouldn’t lose the computers when it counted. Sure, it meant more work for you, but you didn’t mind – it gave you more time with the files in front of you, and you always found them interesting.

           You closed the medical files, tossing each to their respective pile for his chicken-scratch laden ones and the ones with your neat penmanship, then grabbed the next file on your to-do list. Thank god the pile was finally nearing its end. There had been a lot more patients than usual today, as many had just returned from a mission-gone=wrong and had injuries to treat. It was already well past the time that you were supposed to leave, but you wanted to make sure you had enough time to work on all that needed to be done tomorrow. And, if you were honest with yourself, you could use the overtime money right about now.

           You opened the new file, scanning the top of the first page for the patient’s name. You found her record easily – one of the usual patients due to her ability seeming to be falling and injuring herself – and started neatly writing his notes into the stored record. You tapped your foot along with the soft music that played from a nearby speaker. It helped you to zone in on your work, having the same, familiar playlist on loop.

           So zoned in, in fact, that the opening door behind you startled you.

           “Oh!” Bucky Barnes had stopped, halfway through the door with his hand still on the handle, holding it half-open. He had a sheepish smile on his face as you jumped. “Sorry. I expected Dr. Greyson to be in here.”

           “It’s ok,” you said, holding a hand to your chest. “Only a mild heart attack, it’s fine.”

           “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

           “It’s alright. Though you could have knocked.”

           He grinned. “I did.”

           “Oh. Well, never mind then.”

           He chuckled. “Sorry to disturb you.” He started to pull the door closed as he half-turned.

           “Doctor Greyson is with his last patient for the day,” I said. He stopped as I spoke. “If there is something you need, I can page him, or you are welcome to wait here with me if it’s not an emergency.”

           “No emergency. I just have… some questions.” He was still paused mid-turn, as if deciding if he should leave or stay.

           “I can change the music if that’s what’s making you not want to stay.” You tried to give him a warm smile.

           He returned it. “The music’s fine. But thank you.” He moved, pushing the door and making his way into the room. He sat on the couch that was against the far wall, nearer to Dr. Greyson’s desk. “Besides, I need to learn more of today’s music anyway. Or so I am constantly told.”

           “And you believe that?” You got back to writing as you spoke.

           He chuckled. “Maybe. It plays a lot, I might as well be able to sing along to it.”

           “You sing?” You looked up at him briefly.

           “To myself, mostly. Steve’s the real singer.”

           You bit back your smile and looked back down at your work.

           “What song is this?” He asked as the crescendo in the beginning of the song slowly built.

           “Mercury. It’s a song by Sleeping at Last.”

           “It’s nice.”

           “Yea, I like it a lot.” You closed the files in front of you, sorting them and grabbing the next set as you spoke. “I always like the sound of the music they have behind their songs, and how each song is kind of a self-contained story that always leads back to the title in an obvious or not-so-obvious way.”

           “They one of your favorites?”

           You looked up to see that he was eyeing you curiously. “I suppose.” You shrugged, trying to wave off the blush that was building under his scrutiny. “I have a lot of favorites.”

           “What are some of them?” He seemed to rethink that a moment. “Unless I’m distracting you. I know you have work to do.”

           You let out a little laugh, and smiled reassuringly. “I can talk and work, no worries.”

           You continued on like that, exchanging favorite music. You learned that, while he was learning about new music, his favorites were still ones that were more popular back in the forties – back when dances were still a popular past-time. You made a mental note to look up more Bing Crosby and Glenn Miller when you had some time There were some newer ones, too, that you had recognized off of his list. You shared yours, and he asked for the name of every song that had come on during the exchange.

           It was twenty minutes and the rest of your files later before Dr. Greyson walked into the room.

           “Ah, Bucky!” He said as he strolled in through the door, startled as he looked up from his file.

           “Sorry to bother you, doc.” Bucky cleared his throat. “And to startle you. I seem to have that effect on people today.”

           “Not startled at all, Surprised, yes.” He blinked as he looked to your desk to see that you were still sitting there. “And that you’re still here so late.”

           “Just wanted to finish up those records for you, Jay.”

           “Well, sorry to add one more to your list to do.” He smiled a little, setting the file where your pile had been.

           “That’s alright, the rest are done,” you answered as you picked it up. You looked between the two of them. “I will actually make sure to take care of it first thing in the morning. I should give you two the room.”

           Bucky’s brow furrowed. “We could just walk and talk, or find a room-“

           “No, no, it’s alright!” you insisted, locking the file in a drawer. No one would miss it in the morning – you were always the first one there. “I should get going anyway.” The music turned off as you disconnected your phone, making the air feel still in the room. You put it into your coat pocket as you slipped it on. “I will see you in the morning, doctor.”

           “Good night, then,” he smiled, moving to his desk.

           “It was nice to meet you, Bucky.” You moved to the door.

           “You, too… though you didn’t tell me your name.”

           You paused with your hand on the door frame, turning to smile at him. “Y/N.”

           “Y/N. Well, it’s been nice chatting with you.”

           “Likewise. Goodnight, gentlemen.” You turned and strode down the hallway towards the main entrance.

           The next few days passed on as normal. You scribed his doctor’s notes for any patient that came in, inventoried supplies, and helped to keep schedule of patients run smoothly when there were last minute issues. The whole time, your work playlist played softly in the background, now with new additions of songs that Bucky had recommended. You thought back to that moment, finding it odd that the fast-healing supersoldier would even need a doctor. You had thought about looking through his file to see why he was there that day, but you thought against it – that would have been highly unethical, and there was no need to be that nosy. The thought hadn’t crossed your mind again, and you kept up with your usual routine.

           Almost a week later, you walked into your shared office, a handful of new files that Dr. Greyson needed transcribed. You stopped short when there was someone sitting at your desk.

           And he was holding a present and flowers.

           “Hi,” he said when you said nothing, an awkward smile on his face.

           “Uh, hi,” you forced out. You cleared your throat and tried again. “What’s all this?”

           “An apology. For scaring you last time. I thought I should make it up to you.”

           “Well, that’s unnecessary.” You walked to stand in front of him, putting the files on your desk. “But very sweet. Thank you.”

           “You’re welcome.” He smiled a little wider, the awkwardness fading as he extended the gifts to you.

           You smelled the flowers – fresh-cut and a beautiful variety – and then put them in the crook of your arm to open the wrapped present. When the wrapping was removed, it revealed a clear CD case. The CD inside was labelled with one word, written in black marker. “Favorites.”

           “My friend Sam taught me how to put music on that,” he explained, studying your face like he had the first time you met. “I found a bunch of music that I used to listen to back in my time and put them onto there for you. I tried to pick things that I thought you would like based on what you played while I was here.”

           You felt the blush creeping up your neck again. You inhaled sharply. “This is… honestly really sweet of you. Thank you.” A warm smile spread across your face.

           “No problem.”

           You were excited to get home to play it. For now, though, you were still at work, and you had never seen a CD player in this place. When he made no move to leave, you didn’t know exactly what you should be doing with yourself. You busied yourself with putting the CD in your bag, and then sniffing the flowers again, while you thought of something to say.

           He thought faster. “What song is this one? I didn’t hear it last time.”

           “Strangers by Ethel Cain.”

           “Do you always listen to slower stuff while you work?”

           “Not always, but that is mostly what’s on this work playlist, I guess.”

           “I should probably let you get back to work, I guess.” He looked around, like he had forgotten where he was, and then stood, moving around you to head to the door.

           “Oh, I suppose. Lots of files to take care of.” You patted the stack on the desk for emphasis.

           “See you around, Y/N. I do get injured quite a bit, so I’m sure I’ll be back.”

           You both laughed at that. He started for the door.

           “You know, if you want, we can listen to this together.” He turned in time to see you pat the pocket that you had put the CD in. “Then you could tell me about the songs while they’re playing.”

           “I like that. I’ll go anywhere you want me.”

           “Maybe my place? If that’s ok, I mean.” You were stuttering the words out before you realized what you were saying. Was it that wise to invite a perfect stranger into your home? The song that was playing seemed to indicate no. But this was one of the Avengers, after all. What bad could happen from that?

           “Sounds like a plan to me. I’ll teach you everything I know… about the music.”

           “Okay,” you took a quick glance at the calendar on your desk before continuing. “After work today? I’m off at five.” You scribbled your address on a sticky note and handed it to him. “See you there around five thirty?”

           He looked it over before nodding. “See you then.” With one more smile, he walked out the door and you got back to your work.

           He was there, exactly at five thirty, and knocking on your door.

           You bounced over on your toes, excitement setting all your features alight. After pulling the door open, you greeted him with a warm smile and ushered him in.

           “You ready for some music and to do some explaining?” You joked as he removed his shoes, and you hung his coat up for him.

           “Here I am, pry me open. What do you want to know?” He smiled slightly, with that look again like he was searching your face.

           The line was familiar. You thought to your conversation earlier in your office, and his words all clicked. A slow smile made its way across your face. “You listened to more Sleeping at Last, didn’t you?”

           His face broke into a wide grin. “I told you I liked them, didn’t I?” He teased. “It’s relaxing. It was nice to listen to when I couldn’t sleep.” Something flickered across his face, but it was gone a moment later, and the smile returned, just a little lighter than before.

           Ah, so that’s why he was seeing a doctor. That made a lot more sense.

           Shaking the thought aside, you motioned for him to walk further into your apartment. You let him take whatever he wanted from the charcuterie tray that you had set out while you started the CD.

           You had spent hours talking over the music on the CD, listening intently to every memory that it invoked for him, every dance or dance partner that it reminded him of. You eve let him take you by the hand and try to teach you how to dance to one of the songs. You made an awkward attempt to follow along, and both of you erupted into laughter that left you near tears when you ended up falling to the floor mid-turn and dragged him with you. Eventually, the CD ran out, and you started going through your own collection of them, playing CD after CD. He sat as a captive audience as you explained each one and how you liked them.

           That was how you ended up where you were now, sitting on the couch with the sound of Sleeping At Last playing softly from your speakers, stoking a sleeping Bucky’s hair as he laid there with his head on your lap. He had fallen asleep a little while ago and slid that way in his sleep, and you didn’t have the heart to move him, knowing that he already had trouble sleeping. You thought about the way that you would have spent the evening if he hadn’t come here – alone, probably with a good book and no sound but the New York streets outside, and you smiled, glad that this night had ended differently than you had planned.

[mercurial-thrills]

How To Get In Touch With Your **Writer's Side**

NOTE: At the bottom of the post, I will be linking helpful resources. They vary from compilations of writerly memes to ways to fight against writer's block. They may be beneficial.

As writers, we have all had our days where we feel a minimal connection to the side we have in common: our writer side. We wonder to ourselves, "Do I even count as a writer?" and have impostor syndrome sneak up in the form of cognitive distortions.

We have moments where we struggle to acknowledge our strengths. We have times where our head feels disconnected from our hands on the keyboard. We cannot write anything because we feel stuck on our own disbelief. This can manifest as writer's block, feeling like a fraud, or lacking motivation to write.

This is where reconnecting with your writer-ness may help. It's something I have done too, when I struggle to write. From writing positive affirmations about writing to looking through my Pinterest board about writing, I have done many insightful activities to help me feel more connected to my craft.

Look At Writer's Memes

Memes are a strong platform for self expression. They have the ability to make us laugh, and as a tool to help us relate to others. This ties into the second point, as seeing people comment "big mood lol" on memes about tying identity to writing can help you recognize we are a community, and we can relate to each other.

As well, it reminds you about your life as a writer. It reminds you how writers are still writers, regardless of their writer's block, lack of motivation, apparent lack of skill, and through the wrath of impostor syndrome. We are all writers, and we will all relate to each other.

Talking To Writer Friends, Because Others May Not Understand

If you want, you can talk to non-writer friends about the problems you are facing. Whether you need advice, a listening ear, or someone who can relate(i.e. "I've experienced this, so I feel you"), other human beings can be quite a positive resource.

However, discussing feelings with a writer may be beneficial. They are more likely to understand the struggles you face, and they may be likely to understand and validate writing-related feelings.

Make Small, Achievable Writing Goals

When it comes to making goals for yourself, nothing is too small to be considered a valid goal. For someone, "eat healthy" may be a simple goal. For others, "include one specific nutrient in every meal" and "eat on a regular basis" may be what they require. Assigning goals to others neglects their need, so no writer can assign goals to you. It's up to you.

If you feel like "Write 500 words" is unattainable, then write 250. If you feel like writing out one character outline is unattainable, write half of it and revisit it later. If one of these goals is unattainable but you did not know that, it is okay.

My mother, and others around me, have told me, "You did the best you could today. What you can do tomorrow is the best you can do tomorrow." They describe success as flowing rather than a fixed goal, which is a philosophy I have followed since I heard it for the first time. It changed me.

Write. Please, write.

Yes, I can hear you groaning through the computer screen. I can hear it loud and clear, the dreaded statement no writer wants to hear: go and write.

Personally, I find setting timers to be helpful. First, start with writing in five minute intervals. Then, increase it to ten. Then, increase it to fifteen, then twenty, then twenty five. If you find yourself getting in the zone after you have set the timer, you may not want to take a break. You don't have to take a break. It varies depending on the person.

Attending writing sprints can be beneficial. As long as you ignore the live chat during the writing sprints, everyone is writing alongside of you. The only competition is the timer, unless you want to beat all the word counts in the chat.

Overall, reconnecting with writer-ness can be beneficial. It can make us feel connected to what we create, remind ourselves we are worthy, and allows us to be imperfect and prone to mistakes. It allows us to become easily inspired, and write what we desire to write.

Resources

My Pinterest board For writing memes:

Another article I like on writer's block:

A site called Fighter's Block which pressures the writer to write fast so their character does not run out of health:

The Authortube community on Youtube, where you may relate to writers:

[lustlovehart]

Hiii! I've never done this before but... What if Scara and reader had a fight... Like a fight fight... and reader was seriously injured due to him being blinded be emotions... What do you think would the aftermath of this...?

A/n: Yet again, another ask that i was originally gonna js give a short thought to, turned into something longer *sigh* (I need to stop doing this).

Summary: [Angst/Comfort ] He could never say sorry, even in the moments it mattered.

Warnings: Harm to reader, Scars, Unrealistic Writing of getting hit with lightning

During his time in the fatui, no one exactly had the galls of stopping his rampages. The balladeer is quite famed for his regular intervals of anger, you’re no stranger to it yourself, you’ve seen him mad. it’s just…

Hes never been angry towards you.

You’d get the occasionally scoff every now and then if you uttered something he found foolish, but never has he lashed out at you to such a degree. Not to this level. He’s painfully reminded by his ignorance as soon as his hand crafted eyes lay sight upon your bare form, a body, a human body, covered in scars from lightning. Lightning he inherited, lightning he engaged, lightning he struck you with.

There’s no doubt, the silence is defeaning while you sit with him in the empty room, waiting for one of the medical professionals in the fatui to check on you.

He’s silent. It’s rare. He’s never been quiet for more than 5 minutes with you. He’s either complaining or attempting to make small talk a vast majority of the time, typically the former. But he doesn’t, he doesn’t even stare at you like he always does. You’re about to break the silence before the harbinger breaks it for you.

“You don’t look okay.” He doesn’t look at you, his vision trained on the white tile at his feet.

“Yeah. you struck me with lightning.”

…

“oh.”

It doesn’t hit you until he releases a quiet ‘oh’ from his mouth. Something you probably know better than anyone else that has been on teyvat within his 500 year lifespan.

This man can not say sorry.

“oh? Oh? Kunikuzushi put your pride away for one second.” you don’t try to hide the frustration in your voice. You truly did not mind the eccentricities the puppet in front of you holds, you never did, not even when you first met him.

He still doesn’t answer but you can see the way his face winces and widens in the same moment. Seems he got way too accustomed to ‘Kuni’ and ‘Scara’ to remember that you do in fact remember his given name.

“What else should I say to you? I’ll strike harder next time?” He isn’t getting mad, he was only infuriated earlier, but not now. You can see his demeanor start changing. Whether it be in the direction you want it to go, you’re not sure yet.

“Maybe a sorry? An apology? A “oh forgive me [Name] I love you so much?” He doesn’t answer you, he only scoffs and fall back onto the back of his chair. You don’t miss the way his fingers dig into the cloth of his clothing, probably using it as a replacement for human skin.

The man can’t breathe, but you can hear him inhale and exhale before his next words.

“i don’t know what happened. I didn’t mean to- well not at you.” It comes out softer than the other words hes said to you the entire period of time in the room. His eyes are finally off the floor, trying their best to maintain contact with your own.

Once again, all thats left between the space of you two, is silence. You look away from him for a moment, fiddling with the blanket draped over your legs. You’d like to assume that’s the closest you’ll get to an ‘I’m sorry from him’, but you can’t accept that, so you don’t reply. Ever since waking up, you never were able to see the scars on your body, only the ones on your arms. You wonder if they look hideous.

Your hand reaches behind you to your back, your fingers grazing whatever part you assume suffers scarring.

“Are you worried about how it looks?”

“No, not at all, fighting is commonplace in the fatui.”

“Lying isn’t good, you told me that yourself didn’t you?” Damn him and his pristine memory. You can never remember where you leave your keys yet he can remember things you’ve said to him years ago?

…

“No matter how scarred and beaten you are you’re still [Name] are you not?” With the way he’s looking at you, you’re sure this is another thing he’d want to keep out of the publics knowledge. “Even without your face i’d strike someone down for you in an instant.”

“Oh like you did to me?”

“…” Seems the sweet moment was ruined. You don’t mind though, it’s funny to you.

The weeks that followed still held some tension. You’d refused to see him for awhile. When asked by some trembling lower subordinate, one in which the harbinger had personally sent, why you weren’t seeing him, your reply made the soldier fear for his own downfall.

“He’s insufferable right now. I’ll talk to him when he shows me he’s not a man child who can’t admit his faults.” You’ve always been able to put up with his outbursts, but right now, you realize maybe you should turn up your attitude with him.

After that unfortunate event, not unfortunate for you, for the fatuss, your days have seemingly been more dull. You’ve forgotten just how eccentric the balladeer is. Waking up never seemed so boring, the puppet would either be by your side in the early mornings, or knocking on the door ready to whisk you away.

Seems that routine is coming back.

“Oh? Have you finally swallowed your ego-“

“I’m sorry.”

Seems he couldn’t go any longer without you, how sweet.

Tagging this, I was super confused if this could be characterized as angst w/ comfort or fluff. I just did both though.

[nothingtolosebutweight]

Under the Night Sky

I tried to write a 500 word drabble for a Vikings challenge, but I overdid it and will now steal the theme anyway. I might try again with a different scenario. It was at least good to start writing again, since my current project is stagnating a bit ಥ_ಥ

Pairing: Bishop Heahmund x Ivar the Boneless

Words: ~2200

Warnings: None (except maybe too much cheesiness)

Taggies: @jackson--t 🖤 @istorkyou @dini73

The night was pleasantly mild and so relaxingly calm that Ivar closed his eyes for a moment to indulge completely into those peaceful impressions. Only the soft rustling of the wind in the treetops behind them as well as the soft splashing of the water, which was poured over his back at regular intervals, could be heard where they were.

He felt a hand placed on his head, soundlessly asking him to tilt it back. The young Viking complied with this silent request without protest, and when he felt the cool water flowing over his hair, he opened his eyes again and looked directly up into the night sky above them. Thousands of stars were shining bright and the moon had also evolved to its perfect form, bathing everything around them in warm light, creating an almost mystical atmosphere. He loved those quiet nights. Normally, in these moments, he could let his mind wander, daydreaming about all the conquests that still lay ahead of him, about all the glory he would achieve in the near future. In those moments of silence, he preferred to plan his next strategy, when no disturbing noises prevented him from considering all possible scenarios. At the moment, however, he could not concentrate on his next moves on the battlefield. His thoughts kept circling around the same questions to which he had so far received no answers. Questions which centred around the person behind him, who was washing him in the middle of the night in a lake not far from the settlement where they stayed for a while to treat their wounded and to regroup the remaining warriors.

He enjoyed the silence between them for a moment longer, focusing on the movements in his hair as clumsy fingers tried to comb it under the stream of water without causing him pain. But his thoughts could no longer be suppressed and so he finally let out the words that had been burning on his tongue for days.

“I really wish I could trust you again someday. But you have betrayed my trust in the worst possible way. Not only have you blatantly lied to my face, but you have also allied yourself with the person I hate the most. Why her of all people, huh? I will never be able to forgive you for this.” Ivar said in a bitter tone. He hated himself for wanting to forgive him, saw this as weakness he wasn’t allowed to have. As a feeling he shouldn't have as the fierce warrior he thought he was, and he wouldn't have confided it to anyone else as openly as he did to him, his bishop. But here, alone with him in the lake, naked under the night sky, it felt so right and natural to be honest with him, to let his words flow out of his mouth without a barrier. “Tell me, does your God forgive such deeds, and if so, what do you have to do for it? How can such betrayal ever be forgiven?”

He heard a disapproving snort behind him and another load of water poured over his hair and this time also partially ran down his face. Ivar was sure that Heahmund had done this on purpose, but he kept his gaze fixed on the sky after rubbing the water from his eyes, not wanting to see anything now that would give him answers as well. “Careful now, your grace! Do not overestimate my patience.”

“I’ve never asked you for forgiveness and I never will. Your forgiveness means nothing to me. The only forgiveness I long for is the one of the Holy Father.” Harsh words that bored directly into Ivar's heart left the bishop's mouth as he continued to wash the young man before him unfazed. It was the task assigned to him for this evening and he would carry it out without any back talk. Heahmund was aware of his current position and he also knew that Ivar wanted to humiliate him with this duty, to demonstrate to him that he was at the mercy of his will. He, the once highly respected warrior bishop - now condemned to bathe a heathen prince.

When Ivar did not reply, he continued. “You say you don't trust me anymore and yet you allow yourself once again to be vulnerable...to expose yourself to me. I could kill you here with ease. I could just drown you or slit your throat with a sharp rock and I'm sure you're aware of the risk you take here. We both know that you are not stupid Ivar, but yet here we are. Alone in a surrounding that is to your disadvantage. I would say you trust me very much and do you want to know why?” Heahmund leaned down a little so that his lips lingered close to the younger man's ear, while one of his hands clawed firmly into the long hair of the man in front of him, pulling his head back a little more. He knew that he was already taking a small risk by doing so. The guards were standing at some distance at the edge of the forest, with watchful eyes on what was happening in front of them and as soon as Ivar would show any signs of discomfort or struggle, they would most certainly kill him immediately. But there was a small voice of doubt in him, convinced that Ivar would not let himself be deprived of this act, and this was one of the reasons why he had no real fear for his life at that moment.

Again, he received no direct answer, only an approving hum could be heard, and the young man in front of him continued to stare up at the night sky - as if he were somewhere far away in his thoughts, not even bothered by the rough touch in his hair.

“Because you so desperately long for someone you can trust. For someone you can open up to, who will look behind your well built wall, who won't pre-judge you, and despite everything that has happened, for some mysterious reason you wish that I am that someone. Here in front of me, I see a lonely little boy who hides his inner scars behind a tough facade and who needs nothing more than a person he can trust in order to not break any further. That's why you take such foolish risks. Your desperation is so ridiculously obvious, Ivar the Boneless.”

Heahmund loosened his grip after his words; assuming the younger man would lash out after his sayings, but Ivar simply remained in his position, stubborn as he was. The lack of response tantalized the black-haired man and he once again reached for the bowl with which he scooped the water and poured another gush over the prince's handsome face, a grin of satisfaction now gracing his own face. This time he got the reaction he was longing for and a fist dug into his short hair and pulled him closer again before the back of his front man's head crashed against his nose in a jerking motion and blood poured out of it only seconds later.

“Hm, and you are thinking that I am the fool here, that I’m desperate. What are you then? Do you want to be killed so badly? Are you missing your hoe? She might already be in Valhalla and feasts with all the other great warriors, fucks with my father again and you are long forgotten. Believe me, I have more than one person I can trust. I don’t need a jerk from England, who immediately forgets his loyalty as soon as a whore enters his sight. I trust my guards, for example. They would kill you immediately if I ordered them to. Don't get too cocky, your grace. The only thing that keeps you alive is my generosity. I could have easily left you to rot on the battlefield, but I showed you mercy. Don’t make me regret that decision.”

“Believe it if it makes you feel better. I would have expected more cleverness from you. Do you really think I would mind dying here? Do you think I even care what happens to me next? What other games you have in mind to humiliate me? What else do I have to lose, hm?” Heahmund wiped the blood from his face, which flowed incessantly from his nose. For a brief moment, he felt the urge to push the heathen's head under the water, but despite his freshly uttered words, he was probably not tired of life enough to actually do it.

“You say that as if you actually mean it, but if it's so easy and you don't really care what happens afterwards, why don't you kill me, hm? If it's as easy as you say, why don't you already have a sharp stone in your hand? You're right, this could be the best opportunity you'll ever get. So do it! Eliminate one more heathen, before you will rot in hell.” Finally, Ivar turned around to look directly at the man standing behind him, losing himself in Heahmunds eyes, which were so close to his face that he could feel the other's heavy exhalation against his lips, that he could smell and almost taste the bishop’s blood on his tongue. Silence spread between them and even the background noises seemed to fade away. Only their souls seemed to communicate with each other through their eyes. Their souls recognized each other in that precise moment, saw each other separated from the physical shell, understood each other apart from the facade built with hurtful words. They saw only their true selves, pure without any further lies which were meant to hide the sad and shameful truth that they both didn’t want to admit even to themselves.

“Maybe I am indeed as fickle as the moon, Ivar.” Heahmund's deep voice broke the silence and one of his hands gently rested on the younger man's cheek, a thumb gently stroking the cheekbone. “Maybe we all have to go through some phases like the moon to find ourselves, to know what we truly want. And some of these phases are dominated by darkness, which denies us the light that allows us to recognize what is or what should be really important to us. But we must go through these phases, because only then will we reach our perfect form, like the moon today, and only then will we be able to share our light with others, who crave for some warmth during a dark night or who long for a light of hope when everything else they see consists only of destruction and deepest darkness.”

“These are rather lofty words for a slave.” The mocking remark came like a soft whisper from Ivar's lips, still maintaining eye contact and unable to break away from the cheater's icy eyes, which appeared much more luminous and captivating at the moment. Perhaps it was due to the bright light of said moon, but Ivar had the feeling that this was not the only reason why the bishop's eyes shone so intensely. The young viking felt the warmth of the palm spreading across his cheek and he instinctively placed his own hand over the bishop's. At first in an attempt to bat it away, but in the end he could not deny that he secretly longed for such tender gestures and therefore wanted to savour it a while longer. “What do you think, are you in your final phase now? Is that what I can see right now the real you?”

Heahmund leaned his forehead against Ivar's and sighed heavily. If he only had a clear answer to this question. “I don't know and I'm not going to promise you anything just because you want to hear it. I can only say that I see some things more clearly now, in a better light, you might say. And most important. I can see you. I must confess that I always thought you were incapable of housing a soul, but I can admit I was wrong. Your soul speaks to me with such clarity, literally screaming at me that I cannot escape it.” The elder had many more thoughts that surged to the surface, but he stopped himself before revealing too much. If he was honest with himself, he had to admit that he was overwhelmed by the sheer beauty of said soul. He swore to himself, here under the night sky, that he did not want to see it shattered. He had never expected this revelation in his life, and in a way it scared him, but the manner in which he had come to this realization felt so supernatural that he was convinced he had received a higher order here.

“You said that you could never forgive me for what I did. I hope that was as much a lie as me saying I'm not longing for your forgiveness.”

Ivar didn't know what to say to this, nor was he willing to grant him this forgiveness right here and now. What he was ready to do, however, was to let himself be guided by his feelings; forgetting the guards; putting aside the precarious situation they were in and so he bridged the last few inches that separated their lips to unite them in a tender touch, sealing an unspoken promise.

[soyouwinagain]

lover to lover and or new romantics 👁️

lmao Fir you know exactly what it is for lover to lover :idonotseeit:

lover to lover:

not quite my usual writing process in the sense that I wrote this for a prompt — I had a very clear idea for what I wanted it to be from the moment I got the prompt, but did not quite realize what I had committed myself to until I was in the middle of it. as I say in the notes to this fic, that was the first time I'd written debauchery and then I somehow was dumb enough to make it three people. yeah idk.

now, on to specifics:

“Well, it’s not hard,” she says.

“I mean, clearly it is,” George quips and chuckles before he can stop himself.

for those who weren't witnessing my breakdown over this fic live, I came up with The Joke™️ about 500 words into writing the debauchery and then it took another solid 12 hours and 1500 words to actually work it into the text. that is very much typical for the way I usually write (or used to? idk man things have changed over the past few months): start more or less somewhere in the middle with something I know that's going to happen, then come up with bits and bobs that will happen after that, fill that out and bridge those gaps, and then eventually figure out some way to start. oh, and take notes on what sorts of pants who is wearing at what point and when they're taking them off. important!

this fic was very much a series of increasingly escalating horny thoughts while suffering through one writing sprint after the other. it was an arduous process but ultimately worth it, I think!

lastly, I've never been happy with the intro to lover to lover and I keep meaning to go back and fix it, but where's the time for that... I was in an (admittedly self-inflicted) intense time crunch and had to have something and I just could not make it work in a way I liked. that's on the long, long list of things to sort out in the future.

new romantics:

VERY different experience and process to lover to lover, lmao. the first scene was the big one! I wrote it on my phone on the train and through months of working on this fic, it never really changed. part of my struggle with this fic was that I wanted it to actually do justice to the concept, because I love it so much — Lando reading romance novels! and doing some self-discovery! so many fics have a great premise but don't really follow through, they're just 500 ultimately irrelevant words of whatever fun premise before it devolves into debauchery, and while that can be nice it felt lazy and not worth the idea I had, you know? so it took a while to pad it (in a way that felt meaningful and appropriate and shockingly like a plot, yeah I know I can't believe it either) and even longer to write the debauchery that would have to happen at the end.

for a while, I considered whether this should be a fic about Lando getting romance/sex tips from books, but I was never fully convinced by that so that part only found its way into the fic as a little joke, is that what they’re teaching you in those books of yours.

other bits I had really really early on that made it into the final cut:

“My mum reads those!” Max says, half in mock-outrage, half serious.

and of course, If he completely stops watching porn and instead perfects wanking one-handed with the other one holding up his Kindle and tapping to the next page at somewhat regular intervals, he really doesn’t want to talk about it. He’d also rather not think about the staggering number of times he’s had to wipe come off the Kindle’s screen.

if all of this makes it appear like I have a plan for my writing, rest assured I do not. it's vibes only plus whatever occurs to me in the heat of the moment.

[bedlamsbard]

About 500 words written today.  I am very...not having my life together right now. At all. Whatsoever, Yikes. Went up to campus for the weekly covid test and to return a library book (which I guess was actually due back Monday, I literally can never remember dates correctly, but I couldn’t have gone up Monday anyway because of the weather); farmer’s market today; did...not do any of the other things I meant to do today.  Not good.  (Planning on a Bad Batch review but at this point I may just wait until the next ep drops tomorrow night/Friday morning.)  Went to check something in Backbone and read like six chapters of it (it is very good).  God I have to get my life together in the next ten days because I have a paper to write.

Snippet from reluctant roommates AU concept 3.

Hera knew what had been done to her to turn Cham Syndulla’s daughter into an Imperial officer, and some days she was still deeply ashamed of it.  She didn’t know what the Inquisition had done to turn a Jedi Knight – or an apprentice, more likely, he wasn’t that much older than she was – into an Inquisitor. From the way he had flinched from her –

She knew what that would have meant with anyone else, even another Imperial officer.  Hera knew that in at least one way she was lucky, and knew from rumor that one or two of the other nonhumans in the service weren’t, or at least weren’t in the same way.

She put a hand over her eyes and opened them, letting a little light trickle in between her fingers. She hadn’t slept with the lights turned all the way up, though they hadn’t been at their lowest level (or just her small nightlight) either.  It was, she knew, stupid for a Twi’lek to be afraid of the dark, but after the Spire’s tendency to turn on and turn off the lights in her cell at random intervals Hera couldn’t bear complete darkness.

He had said he had been on missions before, but only with his master, not on his own – not operating as the only Inquisitor present, at least.  Hera didn’t know if it took as long to train an Inquisitor as it did to train an Imperial officer, but she suspected not.  It was obvious to her that no matter how long he had been an Inquisitor he still thought of himself as a Jedi first.

[clumsyclifford]

alright, i'm on my way to work and headphones are on, so how about 7, 12, 27 (for you seem so damn familiar) & 45 from the (amazing) list of fic questions you compiled?🧡

hope you're having a decent day at work!!!!!

7. Any worldbuilding you’re particularly proud of? oh ho ho oh boy. hm. actually! you know what, yes there is. this is a cop out answer but hazy and spun out (just more than friends) aka acappella au has some solid worldbuilding, and the reason for that is that it's taken directly from my real life, lmao. but i think it's the mark of good worldbuilding that you can write a story about two characters but know that all the other side/background characters are busy doing things and having their own plotlines when you're not looking, and i feel like the side/background characters of acappella au are doing that. i feel like at any moment i could say "hey i want to write about what x person is up to in acappella au rn" and it would be realistic to do that, which is how i've been able to write more in that 'verse and even write about different characters. maybe i dont fully know the meaning of worldbuilding. whatever.

12. Are there any tropes you used to dislike but have grown on you? prrrrrrrobably? okay "grown on me" is a bit of a strange way to say this but i think ive become a lot more interested in breakup fics? maybe more writing than reading, but til what feels like pretty recently i was very focused on the happy romance part of relationships, or if i wrote any angst or conflict, the conflict was internal and the angst was internal and never interpersonal. but lately (i.e. last few months) ive become much more interested in the complexity of romantic relationships and the difficulty that accompanies them and how people can seem perfect for each other but still break up and how it is possible to have a breakup that isn't anyone's "fault" and what that would entail. like all of that is just very...interesting to me. formerly was not a fan of interpersonal conflict/breakup fics of any kind but i have changed my tune.

27. How long did it take to write you seem so damn familiar? Describe the process. anna i don't know if you're asking me about yssdf because you're indulging me out of kindness or because you have read it and are curious but either way, i love you. anyway, it took me ten days to write! technically. the first like 500 words were written months prior, and then i left them in a doc and didnt touch it for months and forgot it existed (lol). and then i found it, reread it, thought "damn...this is good. i want the rest of this story." and then sam and meghna bullied me into writing the rest of the story. as for the process it was cool and fun but also honestly a lot of the time it was really frustrating because the fic consumed me i was so caught up with finishing it that i effectively stopped doing homework and coursework and anything else i needed to do i was academically treading water just so i could finish writing this goddamn fic. i was so worried that if i stopped writing it, i would lose the Headspace, and i would never be able to get it back and then the fic would never be finished. and my solution to that was to just not stop writing it til it was done. thank god it only took me ten days honestly. it was exhausting. but!! i also had iba (my darling@glitterblazercalum <3) on the doc reading at interval and checking me for like, scientific/medical accuracy, which was a nice safety blanket at least. have i explained enough? maybe yes? to conclude, here's what i sent to the club the moment i realized i was done writing:

45. What’s something you’ve improved on since you started writing fic? a lot of things!!!! i think the biggest one that i can think of is knowing when and where to include a kiss. when i was first entering the world of writing fic (destiel fic ill admit it im not ashamed) i was like? 15 maybe? how old was i seven years ago. THIRTEEN? oh my god i was thirteen. anyway i had obviously never been kissed. so i had this strange and wrong perception of at what point over the course of a relationship people will kiss. i wrote a fic where (cringe check lol) dean is at a restaurant and he's ordering pie but they get the order wrong and he gets pissed and starts yelling at the waiter who is castiel and then he realizes cas is actually very pretty and then they...kiss? it's like. maybe 1k total. they start as strangers. like obviously there are MANY flaws with that fic and that's just from the premise i've explained (though thankfully i never posted any of the shitty destiel fic i wrote when i was a young warthog) but clearly i had zero understanding of when people kiss, and also i was using that action to indicate "hey, these people like each other," which is just. there are so many more accurate, more realistic, and overall better ways to show that two people Like each other than for them to just kiss. now i know.

questions for fic writers

[songwritingtipsandtricks]

To be, or not to be a songwriter transcript

Hello and welcome everyone again, to a new episode of Songwriting Tips and Tricks. My name is Kieper, and I am really excited to talk to you again today. Thank you so much for the reviews and messages you send to me in the last weeks. If you like the show so far, please consider sharing it with friends that could benefit from it and leave a review on whatever platform you are using.

In the last episode, we've been talking about songwriting while at home during the corona pandemic and a possible lockdown. This time, however, I want to focus more on what a songwriter, in fact, is. Are we modern-day poets? Are we, full-fledged musicians or are we authors? Playwrights to some degree perhaps? What do the lines that we write really mean in context?

Maybe some of you ask themselves what art they are producing. And to be honest, I ask this question most of the time. I mean from a literature point of view, we are developing plots, we are searching for rhymes and words and maybe even look for the meter. On the other hand, as musicians, we try to make the lyrics fit the melody and meter of the music that was composed by us or others, or we are trying to find a suitable melody to words we have written. So what really is a songwriter?

One could argue that songwriters are modern-day poets. But this definition is somewhat limited. Because as songwriters, we do what feels right to us, and fits the music. We do not count the meter rigidly or know about iambs, dactyls or anything else. Another thing is that most of us write about day-to-day life. This sure is something to write about, yet it means that a lot of other issues are not being touched by songs. Many songwriters, think about marketing too early and write what might attract an audience. But that is not art, is it? I mean, you could be paid to write a song about something, but the most powerful songs are those that are inspired by things that happen to you or you observe. These songs also cover things that were not in the spotlight or only had little media coverage.

So if you are an aspiring songwriter, what would you chose to do? Would you like to write songs that are empowering people and have topics and viewpoints that no one else uses, or would you like to be someone creating standard pop songs that will be lost over the centuries, decades, or years? Because it is not those that do things like the rest that stand out, but those that dare to do something different. Perhaps when you are writing your next song, try to write about something else except love. Maybe you are familiar with Emily Dickinson, who was a famous American poet from the 19th century. Her poems got published only after her death, so she never got any credit for it in her life. She wrote about her experiences, and often time her thoughts on death and the life that follows. As a woman, she was not allowed to neither vote nor did she had access to a proper education. She was not religious or spiritual in any way. And despite all this, she kept writing and kept around 2000 poems hidden in a chest in her room. She wrote about everything that inspired her, not thinking about how to market it or how to put it on Spotify. Now you might argue, alright, there was no Spotify or anything like it at that time. You're right, and to make it worse, as a woman, it was appreciated to publish anything or have a perspective on things. But poetry was her life, so she kept writing but to save the reputation of the family, she never published anything herself.

I would call this dedication to art. If you want to have an insight into some poetry of this great poet, head over to Tumblr and search the blog to this podcast, as this month is the month of Dickinson on Songwriting Tips & Tricks.  

So songwriters are poets in a way, as we write poems in a way. But as I mentioned before, we need to find original topics to write about or incorporate to stand out and not just be one more songwriter. The most natural approach is to read poetry. Really do it every day. Ranging from ancient greek or roman poetry to modern-days there is tons of poetry or writings from philosophers that might ignite a spark of some sort and get you off that beaten track. Be the one songwriter in a room at open mic nights, that has read the most poetry and consequently has songs that carry something more. You will know how poetry works and how to build tension. Don't let the music do that, it hardly ever will do the trick on its own.

Are we authors? Well, in a way yes, as songwriters try to write a coherent story with different protagonists, and various narrative approaches. If you need more insight on this, listen to the episode "Wait, who's talking' to hear more about narrative situations. But most beginner songwriters do not think about structuring their songs beforehand. They just start writing.  Which is good of course, as we need to start somewhere. But have a look at famous songs, there is a clear structure in the plot. I am not talking about the verse, chorus or bridge, but about the introduction, central part, and the closure. It bears a close resemblance to novels sometimes. But we do not have 500 pages to get to the end, instead just 3 1/2 minutes until the end, or a minute to get to the chorus. So it is essential to know what to say when. People will need to understand immediately what the story is about and what to expect, even if the theme is new to them. Still, it is essential to surprise them at any part of the song. Structure your plot before and while you are writing. Try using a mindmap or a storyboard to help you structure. Try to know that character in detail, how she moves, how she looks, what sound her snore has and so forth. Try to find inspiration in people around you. Maybe let her say a phrase that your co-worker in your sideline in a fast-food restaurant says or have hair like a person on the train. Basing story upon facts from reality is a potent mechanism to make a story relatable. You could as well chose traits of characters from your favourite film or tv-series to adapt in your songs.

Are we playwrights? Well, that is a tough question, in combination with the previous question, I would say to some degree we are, but only while writing the song. We direct when a character is to appear and what it does. Adding the music, this is a lot more relevant. We need to know, at what point what part of the story is suited best, if the music does fit at all. You might as well want to put your favourite book or film into a song. Then it is crucial to strip it down to the key-concepts to make it fit the time frame. And when I say time-frame, this is a part that authors are less concerned with. We know that we have limited time to tell our story and we know when a change in the music happens and how it sounds. So perhaps think of yourself not as a playwright but as a songwright, as you are focussed on auditive input rather than visual input. The song is our stage, and we need to know what has to happen when, why and how.

So turning over to music. Are we musicians? Well, yes, of course. This is what got us started on songwriting in the first place, wasn't it? But think about your music education, have you been taught traditionally, or did you learn most of the stuff yourself? If you know how to play your instrument, do you play other instruments as well? Do you know music theory by heart or do you need to google all the times? Did you play in a band or know about arrangement through YouTube or other sources? How solid is your music background really? This is a question that bugs me most of the time. I taught myself how to play the guitar, and I have been singing my whole life, but I always doubt my musicianship. I'm binge-watching music theory fundamentals and teach myself other instruments to close these blank spaces that a traditional education would not have left perhaps. I even bought a midi drum set to work on micro timing with apps like melodics and co. Yes, we are musicians, but at what stage of our musical journey we are is in our own hands. It is essential to learn new things every day. If you don't, you will get frustrated. So consider taking half an hour each day to learn music theory, listen to intervals, learn fancy chords and songs that use it. Listen to new music even. Dare to make your own set of rules and break it again. This is how you grow, both in music and in writing.

So next time, when you are writing a song, use a random song and try to use the chord progression or time signature, combine songs and styles, take as much input from other as you can. Because this way, your music will always be different, but still yours. Your music will be instantly more exciting and attract audiences as it incorporates a lot of genres and styles.

So now let us talk about something, I am raving about. Painting pictures with words really is in the domain of poets, but try to imagine for a second that you were an artist and you have a blank canvas in front of you. Where would you start? What colour would you use? And in the end, what picture do you see in front of your inner eye? What should this picture invoke in the mind of an audience? Pictures might tell more than a thousand words, but the right or wrong words in context could meet or destroy expectations. Try to describe as vividly as possible, shed light on detail that was previously hidden. Dare to be the Picasso that paints melting clock. Try to be irrational in the creation and later judge what you've done. Dare to take bold turns. The song is yours, and if you do not want to share it with anybody, put it in a box like Dickinson did.

So much on what we as songwriters are. Do you have another comparison or idea, that could touch the work of songwriters? Don't bother sending any feedback or opinion you have via Facebook, Instagram, Wordpress or Tumblr. I'll gladly reply and perhaps talk about this in the next episode.

If you like the program, I'd really appreciate, if you rate and review the show or episode on the platform you are listening to right now.

Thank you again for tuning in once more and staying tuned on Songwriting Tips & Tricks.

[des8pudels8kern]

Just 500 words, I said. A writing exercise, disconnected ficlets and snippets, I said. It’ll be quick, I said. Second day of the 500 words challenge. The Witcher, 1405 words of post-monsterfighting with softness, continued from yesterday but can be read alone. Mention of blood, potions, and alcohol.

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

There is movement ahead. First, he manages to make out Geralt’s hair, pale and silver under the moonlight, then his body begins to take shape as he comes closer. Jaskier has already begun his assessment before he’s even dropped his branch and slipped off Roach.

Geralt took his time getting back; mere minutes longer and Jaskier would have gone into the lion’s, eh, monster’s den to look for him. Still, he is moving under his own power, so that’s something. Head low with the inevitable exhaustion that always follows the rush of a fight, arms swinging at his sides as he walks rather than protectively cradling some broken ribs – oh, and there’s something clutched in his right hand, perfect, that’s the evidence for the villagers right there, no need to go back to the dead beast later – and both legs present and accounted for and not even limping.

Honestly, for all that his poor nerves have suffered the last seven-three-quarters songs, things are looking pretty good right now. Geralt has done his witchering, he’s got his kill trophy, and now it’s time for Jaskier’s performance. He shakes the stiffness of the wait out of his shoulders, clears his throat, and moves towards his audience to gauge the mood of the evening to decide how to play this.

“Great! I am so glad you have finally decided to grace us with your return. Did you take a nice little post-battle nap while Roach and I were languishing here tortured by uncertainty?”

Geralt’s approaching form grunts at him in reply, which… could mean anything, really. This is Geralt.

By now, Jaskier can see that his face isn’t merely shadowed but still black with poison from his cheeks to his forehead. It’s been a while since Geralt dosed himself up and left Jaskier and Roach to wait for his return. If the black hasn’t started to fade yet, hasn’t at least retreated enough to only leave his eyes dark and sensitive in a too-pale face, then he must have taken more during the fight.

Godsdamned.

Most of that stuff is poisonous enough that a decent-sized sip would make Jaskier very, very sick or maybe do some permanent damage to his liver, brain, or other precious parts of him. Geralt with his freaky witcher constitution may be able to just throw back a few bottles and wake up the next day sick to his stomach and with a raging headache, but he also handles his potion-hangovers less gracefully than Jaskier does his alcohol-induced ones. Unlike Jaskier after too much vodka, though, there is cure for that, and Jaskier at least has his wits together enough to make Geralt drink it. If left to his own devices, experience has shown that Geralt himself will usually insist that the poison is already fading and not worth wasting the Oriole on (which might well be true - some of those witcher potion ingredients are worth their weight in gold, and Jaskier trusts Geralt’s judgement enough that he doesn’t try to push it on him when Geralt refuses in complete, coherent sentences.) That, or he’ll be too out of it or too busy bleeding to take it when he would need it the most.

One of Jaskier’s hands dips into the bag at his hip and rummages around, fingers moving from bottle to bottle and feeling out the knotting at their necks until he finds the Golden Oriole. He pulls it out, unstoppers it, and holds it out to Geralt.

“There, drink that. As romantic as the woods at night may be as a concept, the reality of them is uncomfortably damp and fucking cold, and some of us can’t afford a sore throat because singing is how we earn our living and I know you don’t want to be the sole breadwinner of this little enterprise for the next two weeks.”

Geralt has come to a stop in front of him now but not made a move for the bottle, Jaskier freezing his arse off probably being the highlight of his night, so Jaskier shakes it a bit, like a treat for a child. If Geralt can be a little shit, then so can he.

Rather than harrumphing at him and jerking the potion out of his hand, though, Geralt merely takes one more step, well into Jaskier’s space, and raises his head. Under the light of the moon, Jaskier can see the placid expression on his face, mouth relaxed and lips open just a bit, as he calmly looks at Jaskier in expectation.

Oh. One of those times, then.

Jaskier doesn’t know if it’s a conscious decision of Geralt’s, a sign of trust, an indulgence he allows himself when he is tired and feels like he has earned it, or if the fight and exhaustion and potions strip him of his defenses sometimes and leave him in a strange, unguarded state halfway between waking and sleeping. Jaskier has never brought it up afterwards, and Geralt has never let on how clear his memories are on what happened after he crashed.

Either way, it does not matter. Whether given consciously or unconsciously, it’s an honour, and Jaskier’s self-imposed duty as Geralt’s friend and a decent human being, to take care of him. The Path may be Geralt’s calling, and a witcher’s life one of hardship and pain, but Jaskier’s no witcher, he’s human, and a rather hedonistic, comfort-loving one at that. While Geralt walks his Path alongside him, the suffering will be kept to a minimum, thank you very much.

He lifts the bottle to Geralt’s lips and dips it carefully, slowly raising the bottom as Geralt drinks the potion.

That done, he restoppers the bottle, puts it back in the bag, and moves in on Geralt’s side.

He runs his hands over his hair, gently and methodically checking for bumps or the stickiness of bodily fluids. He knows Geralt can heal from just about anything, even head injuries that are so tricky and insidious in humans, but he’d rather not find out if he can recover from his brain literally leaking out of his skull, and if nothing else they bleed an unreasonable amount and should be wrapped before Geralt adds blood loss to the list of things to recover from. There, above his left ear, an area that’s swollen and hot to the touch and has Geralt breathe in sharply when Jaskier’s fingers probe it. No blood, though, so Jaskier decides they are good for now.

He’ll just wake Geralt up a couple of times during the night, the way he always does in cases like this. If witchers can take a blow to the head and not need to be woken up at intervals to reduce the risk that, when they do so on their own, they’ll wake up with junks of memory missing, or an entirely different person, then Geralt has never told him so, even when Jaskier’ wake-up calls have left him grumpy and growling.

“There, all done.”  It’s not; this close Jaskier can smell the stench of something that must have spilled on Geralt, his hands have rooted around in dead monster, and he’ll have a closer look for cuts, bruises, and anything else that might benefit from attention later on by candlelight, but there’s no need to get into that now. This is not the time for words.

The blackness around Geralt’s eyes has faded wile Jaskier did his little examination, but his eyes are still dark pools that could be looking anywhere. Jaskier would swear that he can feel them on him, though.

He shifts one hand and cups Geralt’s cheek, warm against Geralt’s skin, stubbled and clammy dried sweat. He wills the touch to tell Geralt what he can’t process now in words, not when part of his facilities has clearly already chosen to retire to sleep off the events of the night. Geralt makes no sound, but he sighs and leans into Jaskier’s palm.

One of those times.

Jaskier steps aside and slips an arm around Geralt’s back, leading him to Roach and then to the barn where they’ll spend the night.

They make the trip in silence, no sounds but the creaking of leather, Roach’s hooves on the ground, and their combined breaths.

This is not the time for words; words are what Jaskier fights his battles with, and he will not use them when Geralt’s own defenses are so low.

[404fmdminjung]

lyrical and composition verification for holo

summary: she plays the dusty keyboard for the first time in years, and comes out of a song that becomes a pseudo-‘fuck you’ to gold star. yet, it’s still something she can’t sing to herself as she doesn’t fully believe the words herself. but she has someone in mind, specifically — @fmdjiah​ warnings: alcohol tw, and i don’t even know if this is too ‘technical’ to be a composition but w/e going with it wc: 1710

summer in seoul — she can look out the windows, see how the sun kisses the silhouette of buildings that kiss the fronts in muted pinks. somewhere around the world, it’s midnight where the moon shines and invites another drink into warming her body. minjung takes herself to that place, indulgence in drinks that leave her head bobbing through the air — because it’s midnight somewhere. 

tonight, she feels a little out of place — the grip of the paintbrush doesn’t feel like home, not inviting as it once was a month ago. she could pin point mistakes to a schedule ablaze with musical promotions that have too many cameras and little cheer. a career that seems to plummet itself to the grave she’s dug. or just maybe, it’s the effect of coaxed beliefs that she swallows — the idea that being alone is something that feels like home. but she knows in reality, home isn’t alone, nor is the idea of solitude where the grapevines of bordeaux the solution to anything other than blurred mistakes and burning lines of regret.

she thinks it’s hapless — lost in the monotony of self-destruction. but she doesn’t bother to trigger a change in one way or another. instead, comes a wave of burgundy stained lips, legs crossed with a blank stare to the buildings that now melt to the baby blue wash of the arising moon. she blinks, displaced thoughts — a tilt in her head, and now the view of a lonely keyboard in a corner sits. and for the first time, the glass slips out of her fragile palms as her feet glide over towards the lonelier looking set of keys. 

there’s a notebook on the side, a 500 won pen she’s picked up from the corner bookstore. a memory that precedes the first time she’s ever written for herself — a thought that pulls the edges of her lips into a smirk, or maybe it’s just the effect of the alcohol. but she picks up the pen, spreading open the canvas of blank paper to write down something filter-free, the first pick into her mind.

‘is it really that hard to be alone to be completely still?  with people, or by myself i think i’m always lonely.’

it’s funny to think that the words of honesty come to reveal themselves earlier on — the feeling of loneliness masking her, covering her whole. she asks herself this question at three points in the day. the morning when she wakes up in a lonely bed, filled with the slivers of sunlight that peek through her curtain. in the middle, when she’s surrounded by a bustling staff and giddy members — drowning in the chatter that mangles itself into white noise. and the end of the day — when the end ends with the clinks of a bottle against a sole wine glass in the middle of her apartment.

and she believes the only words anyone wants to hear at that point — one day it will stop.

the words press themselves hard against the paper, or perhaps it’s her own will to believe the words now physically represented by the force of the pen on paper. she could tell herself a million and one things, never once to believe or swallow the truth of the statements. an age half of fifty, yet will all the time passed — she can’t necessarily bring herself to face the reflection of the words. so, she continues on with the theme that circles around her mind.

‘isn’t everything supposed to be as easy as you think and say? even sitting in the sun and breathing doesn’t seem to help.’

it strikes an uncanny belief in her head — the ideation that taking in the simple pleasures day to day comes as an easy feat. in theory, the great minds and her heart could tell her, lecture her into believing each day will become easier. yet, nothing ever comes as easy as the simple calculations that words simplify actions to. and she thinks to herself again, that believing the words ‘one day it will stop.’ 

it’s not love that makes her feel like this, no. it’s not the cracks of past lovers digging their claws deep in unpolished wounds exacerbating every clean cut image. it’s the idea of comparisons, the unnerved inability to satiate the money hungry woes of chart toppers and idealized ‘popularity’ that ranks high in the charts. 

it’s the flood of netizens that use their words like weapons, piercing deep into the tracks that engulfed her heart and soul. ‘a flop’ ‘a shit lead vocal.’ — she nods, laughs. howls underneath the images of how many people love to pick and piece apart her name inside the industry.

‘and i’m gonna stop crying, stop feeling, stop thinking about you. i’m gonna stop crying, and start putting myself first.’

she’s never given a second thought of keeping herself first — always on the verge of terror staged destruction wrecking havoc on those around her, leaving her trapped inside the devastation. it’s the need to rub salt on open wounds, make it hurt where it already aches. make it stand on the edge of a walking time bomb. and maybe, it’s the reason why gold star sees her as the standard doormat of a failed science experiment. a toy they hold high over her heads, the rationale for every step they push her towards.

‘her vs. me, me vs. her — what’s important to see who’s better? after i suffered a lot, i’m starting to get it. but i’m too important to myself to sit still and worry. take a look inside without a cover, you’re fine the way you are.’

it sounds cliche to write the words — she doesn’t believe it, no. but she wishes she could. because deep down seo minjung knows who the soul residing in her body is — a fragmented girl, afraid of the world. masking away anyone that approaches in fear that they’ll flee first. comparisons, one after another — one that pinpoints her to nothing. it doesn’t matter to her — it’s shit. the comparisons are shit. there’s nothing that aches more than suffering with the constant bereavement of being a second-hand choice or a second-staged puppet for someone else. 

—

it’s a funny image to see herself next to a muted keyboard — a makeshift desk for her words. but as on cue, the striking mirror image of herself juxtaposed into the ink pressed hard against the paper goes too much, and her body flees. retreats to the keys — button pressed on and the low start of the keyboard. 

she’s six when she’s introduced to the ivory whites and blacks, centered in the steinway and sons grand piano in her house — the second house in boston. the theory of progression of chords — three in a row, not at the same time. back straight, both feet pressed to the bottom. tiny fingers barely stretched across a sixth, and now she’s twenty five, surpassing an octave and barely reaching a tenth across the keys.

but despite the memories that flood of youthful hourly lessons four times a week, comes the ringing idea of the words that blare from the notepad in the corner of her eyes. if words had melodies, these words might have been a steady legato on the second octave. a chord progression, strictly arpeggio — her old piano teacher would’ve proud that she’d held onto these facts as a keepsake.

she doesn’t want to keep it major because she’s learned that the happiest of classical songs present in major keys — the somber melodies of majority of beethoven and liszt contain themselves in minor. a first few seconds, and the emotional bang hits front and center into the ears.

she hums to herself the first few words of being alone — a longing pull, a drag. a simple chord, not spanning an octave. her favorite chord, an f minor and a progression into d. it sounds lonely, it sounds sad. it sounds like her — she keeps it mezzo-piano, jots that down before the thought slips past. her voice sings the words, a few octaves too low for her range. yet, she forces it through with the gentle lilt of the chord, and then back down to the switch to d minor

it continues, and she drawls the keys to the words that read themselves out from the corner of her eyes. years of an untouched piano, and muscle memory comes back to haunt her — in a good way, this time. automated movements, a pendulum movement of something slow-paced and soft.

but she thinks that the dreary pace of slow stretches of chords become boring for a song about enlightenment, and seo minjung is no little bitch to stay still and complacent. no. she wants the words to hit in the middle just as the realizations barged through her the second they scrawled themselves on paper. the crescendo comes, and she wants it to go full force, loud — ff, she makes note of that. arpeggio no longer cuts it, and her fingers press against the keys — three notes, one time. a solid chord, staccatos released. 

she wants to shift it to major, an ode to her ‘fuck you’ song. but the stark contrast from major to minor is an artwork that she leaves to the masterminds of the past. 

she keeps it in the minor, two octaves higher — sounds have a tendency to have a ‘coming of age’ thought when it becomes brighter and clearer. but comes the thought to switch from a harmonic interval to a chord, a back-and-forth wobble of uncertainty posing across the keys. 

in her mind, she’s mozart inside the familial archways of classical musicians. except, she’s playing a reemergence in an a song she can’t pigeon hole into any niche. it’s not an experimental sound, nor is it anything that she sings herself outside of the privacy of her walls — it’s something still -ing in the process. 

—

it’s not a song she wants to wallow in silence or submerge inside the privacy of her notebook. it’s a song she wants sung, blared — even if it doesn’t stem from her feeble voice. she imagines the voice to stem from a gritty voice that can bleed emotion. someone who doesn’t crumble with the words said because she knows if she’d ever sing it, she’d fall to the ground and grace the world with pictures of tear stained eyes and a breach into the facade she’s created. 

and she’s aware — she’s a coward. hiding behind someone else’s voice for words she can’t face head-on.

so, the last thing she scribbles down is the one voice that comes to her mind — ‘jiah from bee’. hopes and wishes for the sole voice to be the only voice to sing the song written and crafted from her heart.

[crimeronan]

happy birthday goblin!

so @gutterwatergoblin / @stainedglassgoblin had a birthday recently, and since they have drawn some GORGEOUS art for my writing & have also made the ancestors fandom even better than it was, i figured it was time 2 repay them with a nice thing

the answer to “what would you want an ancestor minific of” was “pale psiignless”................. i’m being.  Enabled

originally i was like “this is gonna be 300 to 500 words MAX” but wordcounter tells me it is over 1500 words so.  oops

anyway happy birthday!!  i hope u like this small snapshot of pale hurt/comfort nonsense

-

The second night Psii refuses to leave his cabin, you start to get scared.

He’s been with the group for a little less than two perigrees.  Despite his initial insistence that he’d “head out” and “stop mooching off you guys” once he found a suitable place to stay, he hasn’t sought a home in any of the three villages you’ve last docked at, even the ones with high populations of free lowbloods.  

Given the delight with which he’s taken to having his own cabin and filling it with collections of shiny but worthless trinkets, scraps of fabric, worn pillows, and pieces of hardware you don’t understand but he apparently does, you think he maybe doesn’t want to leave, which would be… more than okay with you.  He’s full of light and energy and intelligence and observations and a newly-voiced perspective that you’d happily continue listening to for the rest of your life.

But he hasn’t left his cabin for two nights.

You are, as a general rule, an advocate of private spaces.  Private land is questionable, but in your opinion, every troll has a right to a space of their own that is safe from anyone they don’t want to enter.  You also double down on this principle when it comes to Psii.  It’s -- important, for you, and for him.  It’s important that you don’t take things away from him.  He has lived his entire life with everything about his body and energy and mind subject to other people’s desires.  He still has trouble understanding that he can say no to touch or even general conversation.

It would be a special kind of cruelty, you think, to tell him that he can have a safe place and then rip it away from him.

So you haven’t barged into his cabin to ask what’s going on.  You have politely knocked at intervals and walked away when he calls back that he’s fine.  But it’s -- it’s not like Psii, is the thing.  His behavior can sometimes change like the tides, and his level of extroversion varies depending on his mood swings, but this is the first time he’s isolated entirely.  He doesn’t tend to miss meals (also has trouble remembering he’s allowed to take food from the galley outside a preset schedule), nor does he miss opportunities to climb the mainmast and declare himself Emperor of your newly-founded naval country.

He hasn’t eaten any of the food you’ve left outside the door, trays of dried jerky and preserved fruits in sealed bags, and that worries you worse than anything.

You rap your knuckles gently against the door, feel your pusher squeeze painfully when all you get in response is a low grunt.

“Psii?” you call, pitching your voice gentle but loud enough to carry through the door.  “Could I come in?  It’s okay if I can’t, but I’d like to see you, if that’s all right.”

A long pause.  Then his voice sounds, a low croak you can barely make out.  “You can come in.”

You keep your movements steady and measured as you open the door and slip inside, because you don’t want to frighten him with franticness.  The first thing you notice is the heavy weight of static in the air.  It feels like the oppressive weight just before a thunderstorm, except it’s localized to this one specific closed-off portion of the ship.  You don’t see Psii in the main room -- not by the stack of crates that serves as a desk, or in the pile of linens and laundry, or in the recuperacoon, or sprawled out with a mortal injury on the floor.

You push open the door of the small adjoining ablution block, and ah.  Here he is.  He’s curled up tight in the tub, on his side with his forehead pressed to his knees.  There’s no water surrounding him, but he has tucked his favorite blanket around himself, a pale silver fabric that ripples like starlight.  It’s silky on one side, the other sewn with softness, which he’s pulled up and tucked over one ear.

You sit down on the floor beside the tub.  His eyes are closed (though still luminescent behind the lids), but you think it’s a good idea to be on similar levels in situations like this.

“Hey,” you say.

You’re watching his face with an intensity that’s probably too much, but it’s hard to keep your voice light if you can’t funnel your worry into a different sense.  So you see the ripple up his back and through his muscles, his cheek and jaw twitching involuntarily before he whispers, “Hey.”

You don’t touch him -- you do not touch him without asking first, that’s one of the rules.  But you do gently rest one arm on the edge of the tub.  “You’re not feeling well, huh?”

His mouth pulls down at the corners.  He manages, through an impossible feat of physics and spine bending, to curl up even tighter.  After another endless moment, he mumbles, “‘Snot contagious.”

“I wasn’t worried it was,” you assure him.  “Do you - do you know what it is?”

“Yeah,” he says.  He opens his eyes and tries to focus on you, hazy, but a spasm of pain contorts his face and he squeezes them shut again.  You wait for him to elaborate, but after another half minute of silence, all he manages is, “I’m sorry.”

“You aren’t doing anything wrong, honeybee.”  The nickname comes without thought, makes you flush from your cheekbones to your ears, but his body relaxes slightly.

“I get sick sometimes,” he whispers.  “In my head.  Pain.  But it’s okay.  I’m not gonna… please don’t make me go.”

Your pusher clenches again, clamps a fist around your lungs.  You exhale carefully around the ache, inhale.  “Mituna,” you start, using his hatch so he knows you mean business.  Despite yourself, your voice threatens to crack, so you take another steadying breath.

“I can be so good,” he murmurs, earnest now, mistaking your pause for displeasure.  “Please.”

“I’m not gonna make you go anywhere.  No one is.  You have a home here as long as you want it.”  That reassurance comes quick and easy, at least.  “...Do you have to stay in the ablution trap?”

He sort of shrugs, inasmuch as a person can shrug when curled up on their side incapacitated by pain.  “In case I throw up,” he says.

Ah.  Now the situation makes sense.  He’s shut himself up in the easiest place to clean so he won’t inconvenience anyone with his illness, but he’s brought his favorite blanket to have comfort to cling to.  It’s the kind of thing that reeks of learned behavior.  You wonder how many times he’s had to hide and make himself small with episodes like this in the past -- but that line of thought is only going to make you upset and furious at trolls far outside your influence, so you put it aside.

“It doesn’t seem very comfortable,” you say.  “Do you want to move out to your pile?  It’s okay if you get sick.  I’ll take care of it, I promise.  That’s part of the whole community thing.  Taking care of each other.”

His arms are wrapped around his knees, the blanket tangled beneath them, but you see the fingers on one hand flex like he wants to knead something with his claws.  “I don’t think I can move.”

“Okay.”  You tap your fingers idly on the tub while you ponder solutions.  “How about I bring your pillows in here, then?  And your fabrics?”

His red eye opens a slit, looking you over, maybe instinctively checking for signs of annoyance and insincerity.  “I’d like that,” he says finally.

Having something to do, physically, to ease the pain -- that’s good.  The methodical motions of bringing in soft materials help to calm the worst of your jitters.  You help arrange the cushioning around him until he’s swathed in a veritable cocoon of coziness, infinitely better than the hard ceramic of the tub.

By the time you’re done, he’s uncurled himself part of the way, and he’s breathing easier.  The static is still heavy in the air, and the pain clearly hasn’t abated, but the worst of the tension through his shoulders and neck has relaxed.

You need to ask him to drink water; he’s probably dehydrated, and that can’t be helping his head.  But you’re worried about pushing him too fast when he’s only just relaxed, so instead you ask, “Is there anything I can do?  To help with the pain?”

He’s silent for such a long time that you think he may have somehow fallen asleep.  That, or he can’t think of anything, and you should grab the water flask for lack of other practical solutions.  But then he says, “Rub my horns?”

Which is an easy and actionable task.  Your relief at being allowed to touch him is just because you like helping people, and you do not need to examine it deeper.

Except when you bury a hand in his curls and scritch at his horns, he nudges his head into your hand with a tiny chirring croon that sounds like natural music, and.

Your pusher kind of does a flip that you just know Di would describe in prose as “pale as the blazing desert sands at high noon.”

Oh no.

[randombtsprincessa]

Aberrations || 2

Author: Randombtsprincessa

Characters: Yoongi x Reader

Chapter:   01

I woke up to a warm body pressed to my back and light breaths against my ear, ruffling my hair. I stayed still for a few minutes, just listening to my boyfriend snoring away gently in my ear as he shifted, his arm moving around me, as he woke up too.

Normally I would groan and pull his arm back tighter around me and he would chuckle, kiss me and remind me that he needed to get up if he wanted to be presentable for the day.

Today, however, I let his arm cautiously move away from me and I closed my eyes quickly as he leant over to check if I was awake or not.

“Baby, you up?” he asked, his morning voice husky.

I was tempted to just stay still so by the time he was in the bathroom, I could make a big show of waking up but I sighed, turning over to look at him. “Yep,” I said tiredly. He smiled softly and to my surprise, flopped back to lie down beside me and wrapped an arm around my shoulders, bringing me closer to his chest.

This was completely new. Sehun’s morning routine was waking us up, heading to the bathroom to brush his teeth, shower and get dressed for the day while I’d laze around in his bed for a while or get up and start making our breakfast. When he was done, he’d come to the kitchen and take over while I’d get ready then we’d eat and leave to start our respective days. It had solidified even more over the months and the only change had been seeing even less of each other since we both got busy.

These days we rarely spent nights together unless he showed up on my doorstep or specifically called me. He didn’t spend time wandering about me in the morning. If I didn’t wake up he’d just leave and go off to get ready and I’d get up to sound of the water running and him singing his warm ups.

He could probably tell that my body had stiffened in surprise because he hummed a tune and rubbed a soothing hand down my back. “I was thinking maybe we could spend ten minutes to catch up to anything we’ve missed out on in the week?” he asked softly.

My first thought was panic. Why was he doing this now? He was sweet yes, loving yes, caring yes, but he wasn’t these things when he knew he had to rush to get to the dance room and start his exercises.

“Sehun, is something wrong?” I asked quietly.

“No, why, does something need to be wrong so I’d get to properly talk to you?” he asked.

“You tell me.” I muttered and he sighed, his hand moving to massage the back of my neck. “Nothing’s wrong, Y/N. I just want to know how you’ve been. I haven’t been…paying a lot of attention to you lately. I know you don’t like it. I don’t, either but you’re understanding and supportive and I appreciate that.” He said just as quietly.

“Oh,”

I didn’t know how to reply to that. When had that happened? It wasn’t the first time that Sehun had been this complimentary to me and I hoped it wasn’t the last but why was I so unsure of him? Why did I feel like I couldn’t reply to him? So I said the one thing that I knew would be true.

“Well, I love you so…”

“I know,” he sighed and was it my imagination or did he sound sad? “I love you too.”

He craned his head to look at the clock on the nightstand and sighed again. “Ok, ten minutes up. I didn’t get to know about your week but I think I got the main point across. We’ll do this again, later?” he asked, sitting up and swinging his legs off the bed.

“Sure,” I said, watching him disappear in the bathroom and shut the door.

I couldn’t help the feeling of dread pooling in my stomach.

I opened the door to my, Ara and Doona’s apartment to find my two best friends already at the breakfast counter, chewing on their breakfast. Ara looked up to see me.

“Oh hello there, lovebird who abandons her best friends with Yerin of all people,” She said.

“What have I said about that nickname? Plus, I might just tell Yerin you said that.” I said, coming to stand behind the counter. “Go ahead and do that. She’s the one who said that. Of course, she was drunk so I don’t know how much of it she meant.” Ara said, examining my face. “Have you had coffee? There’s some in the pot.” She said.

“Thanks,” I said, pouring myself a cup as Doona pushed her plate of fried eggs and toast towards me. “Did you get any breakfast at all?”

I shook my head, spooning the eggs into my mouth before telling them about Sehun’s strange behavior in the morning. Doona frowned at me.

“Honestly, Y/N, you’re blowing this out of proportion. Sehun has been neglecting you a lot recently and he knows that. I don’t think it’s that strange that he might want to make up for that even if it’s just ten minutes in the morning.” She said.

“Yeah, I guess, maybe it is me. I’ve forgotten how to be around him, when we haven’t been around each other for so long.” I mumbled. Doona’s face softened. “Don’t worry, two more years of this then you’ll be free. You can get back to each other and be all sickly sweet like you guys were when you first started seeing each other.” She said gently. I smiled back at her as Ara spoke up.

“You know, maybe Yerin’s plan worked. He thinks you might have met someone who could’ve caught you eye and he’s making sure you know you’re his. You know, in the sweet way. Give it a few days, I’m sure he’ll take you on a date or something and spend the entire night marking his territory. Make sure he makes it up to you good and rough.” Ara said.

There was silence as both Doona and I stared at her, stunned.

“What, I didn’t say anything wrong,” She shrugged.

“You, my dear, have been spending too much time with Yerin.” Doona said.

“Oh please, she’d be worse. So, time to spill, Y/N, did someone actually catch your eye last night?” Ara asked.

That one simple question brought back a flurry of memories, glass sharp. Hazy vision slowly clearing to see mint green hair, black jackets, too many badges and the soft, handsome face attached to it. The entire package was beautiful while it was hiding a god-awful personality. I shuddered at the thought of ever coming across him at Dark Wild again but this time I’d ignore him, which is if he noticed me, which I doubted he would.

I thought about the last image I had of him. His eyebrow cocked, a sneer plastered across his lips as he told me his name. Min Yoongi, I thought, my mind injecting the name with a hearty amount of venom.

God, I hated the man.

“Y/N,”

I turned to look at Doona and Ara staring at me. “Nope, no one did. I doubt anyone comes up to Sehun’s level anyway.” I said lightly. Ara rolled her eyes as Doona chuckled. “Honestly, he’s lucky he has you. You’re the biggest fan Oh Sehun can ever have.” She said. I smiled at that, pushing away images of Min Yoongi again.

Yerin as usual was waiting for me out of creative writing class. She had a heavy coat on and her hair up with sunglasses covering half of her face. I couldn’t help it; I burst out laughing when I saw her. She made a disgruntled sound and reached out to smack my arm but I dodged her easily.

“You can laugh; you weren’t the one helping out a friend get their minds off their neglectful boyfriend.” She grumbled. “I know, I know, I’m sorry,” I said, still chortling. “Where did you go last night, over to his place?” she asked and I nodded, linking arms with her so we could get to our seats without her banging into every desk on the way.

“I’d ask how it went, but I’m massively hung over.” She said, putting her head down on the cool table top.

“You shouldn’t even have shown up.” I said.

“I can’t fail this class. It’s the easiest thing I have in my time table and attendance is 30% of the grade. What is that even?” she yawned.

She must’ve fallen asleep because when Professor Seokjinwalked in, she jumped up so loudly that he peered over at us from the podium for a full three minute while I tried not laugh and Yerin tried not to melt into a large puddle.

I knew she had a deathly crush on Seokjinand it was probably safe to say every girl on campus did. He was soft and sweet and could totally rock pink. Even I’d caught myself thinking of him more than once.

“Something to share, girls?” he asked and Yerin quickly said no, saying that she had just bumped her leg on the table which seemed to satisfy him because he nodded and gave the class the day’s work.

“So, Y/N, before you went off yesterday, anything I should know?” She asked.

I almost let out a groan.

Why was it that they were all so curious if I’d met or seen someone? I had a boyfriend, after all.

As expected, Min Yoongi invaded my mind again and I gritted my teeth as red filled me up. “No, Yerin, what about you?” I asked, diverting the topic to her.

She smiled her particular brand of ‘I had fun’ smirk and launched into the tale of a certain Jeon Jungkook. I nodded and hummed at the correct intervals as she detailed as to why he was such a good score.

However, even as I stared at the folder of notes we were supposed to elaborate and form into a story of at least 500 words, all I could think of the way Min Yoongi’s name rolled off my tongue and how it sounded when it wasn’t clenched around my lips with chagrined hatred.

By the time I headed to the double doors, I’d successfully pushed all thought of Min Yoongi to the back of my head where they stubbornly waited to cloud my mind again but I hoped that now that I’d told the girls that no one had caught my eye in the club, they wouldn’t ask about it again.

Min Yoongi would fade from my mind soon. I was too busy to keep thinking of him, I told myself. I was definitely going to forget about him soon. I was only thinking about him because no one had ever dared to talk to me so rudely before. That was the only reason he stuck out. It wasn’t because his hair looked so fluffy in the light or the way his nose line was so straight while the end seemed soft. It wasn’t because his jaw line looked so sharp it could cut and it definitely wasn’t because his lips looked so delectably soft or the way his eyes seemed to pierce into you, the glittering obsidians flickering in the red, purple and blue lights.

Of course, those weren’t the reasons.

I pushed open the door and spotted Sehun deep in conversation with the teacher already. She smiled at me when she saw me and I bowed back as Sehun turned, giving me a wink before turning back to the teacher. I grinned to myself.

Maybe it was just what Doona had said or that I had settled into the day but I couldn’t help but bask a little in my boyfriend’s attention. It felt so normal yet new coming from him. Maybe he was trying to bring our glory days back. That would explain his sudden mushiness.

I watched as he bowed to the teacher taking her leave before walking over to me and dropping in the seat next to me. “I scored a gig.” He muttered.

“What, oh god, that’s amazing!” I quietly squealed, beaming over at him.

He grinned at me before quickly leaning in and pressing a kiss on my nose. “You’re a lucky charm, babe.” He said. I blushed, smiling shyly as the class began to fill up.

He kept a hand on my thigh the whole 45 minutes before clearing his throat as the class ended. “Want me to walk you to your music class?” he asked. I stared.

“Won’t you be late to dance class?” I asked.

“I already did my warm up today; I don’t have to be there for at least 20 minutes.” He shrugged.

“Sehun…” I began. He turned his head to look at me, biting his lip. “Is it so wrong for me to want to spend a few extra minutes of my life with my girlfriend rather than nearly crack my spine?” he frowned at me now, clearly wondering why I was being so difficult. I looked down at that.

“No, of course not, I would love that actually.” I mumbled.

“Excellent,” he stood up, walking off and leaving me to follow him as he held the door open for me.

The fine arts campus had two sections: Music and Dance. The dance hall was kept on the other side of a walkway which connected the Music halls. Singing class was in the first hall, Music practice in the next. Apart from the class halls, there were private studios for the juniors and seniors who had advanced classes with private mentors. After four classes of the music theory, I couldn’t wait to get to junior year so I could have my own studio.

He stopped in front of the music hall which had its doors propped open and bent forwards to kiss me. He placed a hand on the wall, his tongue slipping into my mouth and I giggled when he brushed it teasingly along the top of my mouth. He laughed, pulling away before winking at me and walking off, his steps faster to make it to the dance hall in time.

I sighed once, still tasting him on my lips when I sat down, my teacher moving in soon after. Professor Kim was one of the youngest teachers on campus. He’d graduated with full honors in music making and while he was stern, he was actually kind and really knew what he was doing. I’d seen him whip up an entire song, complete with melody and beats in 20 minutes flat.

Just as he was about to open the presentation the door burst open and my partner, Taehyung burst in, panting, his hair askew and jacket falling off his shoulder. There were muffled sniggers as he stared or rather gaped at Mr. Kim who sighed, adjusting his heavy black glasses.

“Please come in, Taehyung, take your seat.” He said.

Tae bowed and mumbled something as he passed the teacher which must’ve been an apology and quickly sat down next to me.

“Hey,” he said his voice still out of breath. I raised my eyebrows at him, passing him my water bottle and he took it, quickly gulping down an extensive amount as Mr. Kim started his talk on piano techniques.

“What made you late?” I asked, as he handed it back to me.

“I…slept in late.” He said and I gave him a look. Taehyung was one of my best guy friends and he absolutely couldn’t lie. He was a little bit of a loner and tagged along to almost all our night outs. It turned out he was pretty intelligent but he was just so shy, it came up awkwardly.

“Oh ok, Baekhyun is in town.” He confessed and I giggled.

Baekhyun was Taehyung’s best friend from high school. I’d met him on few occasions and he was the complete opposite of Taehyung. Black haired and fluid, he maneuvered himself around Taehyung expertly. To our shock, Taehyung drank nine shots, two more than Yerin and was soon on the dance floor with Ara while Baekhyun took off with Doona.

“You guys went out?” I asked.

“Um, yeah,” he turned red and looked like he was sweating so I turned my attention back to Mr. Kim. I was glad I did because he said something that changed everything.

“So, to see how much you’ve picked up these few months, I got permission from the headmaster to give out studio assignments. You can create your own song from the scratch. Of course, there will be a quirk. We’ll be changing partners.”

“What?” I blurted out as even more people bursts out in protests.

Mr. Kim raised a hand and looked at us with a frown. “The entire point of this project is to see if you’ve learnt enough to step out of your comfort space and create something worthwhile. I don’t know how many of you will go into music production but you will all have to work with different people. Some of those people will be pleasant, some will not. You will not be able to complain then. I suggest you learn to work with different people when the option is so generously presented to you.” He shuffled some people and began calling off names.

“This cannot be happening. I can’t work with just anyone. I barely spoke to you the first month I saw you.” Tae said. He was leaning forward, his eyes wide and panicking.

“Hey, it’s ok. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.” I said, rubbing his back and he jumped almost a mile when he got partnered off. I turned to see some girl raise her hand shyly. Taehyung looked at me like he was going to cry.

“It’s Suran, Tae, she’s nice, don’t worry.” I said and he nodded but it looked like he was crying. His lower lip was struck out into a pout as he gathered his things and walked off and I turned to watch him go. I was so worried about him as he slumped down into the seat next to Suran that I nearly missed out on my own partner.

“Y/L/N, Y/N and Min Yoongi,”

It was my turn to whirl around and stare at Mr. Kim with wide, panicked voice.

What did he just say? Did he actually just say Min Yoongi? No, it couldn’t have been. Min Yoongi was a stranger, a rude jerk I’d met at the Club with no prospect of ever seeing again. He couldn’t possibly be one of my classmates. Even as my blood roared in my ear, I distinctly heard the scratch of a wooden chair being pushed back and the thump of footsteps getting closer to where I was sitting.

Wait; did he know who I was? If he did, why didn’t he say anything? Did he just find me that pathetic?

“Move,”

I flinched at the gruffness in his voice, having forgotten how harsh it could sound. I slowly turned to look at Yoongi feeling surprised jolt my stomach again.

His hair had changed colors or was it just a trick of my mind to see mint green on top of his head. It was now bleached blond. His clothes had changed too. A dirty green jacket hung off of his frame with a black tee and jeans and the same combat boots.

Even as I stared at him, I saw Mr. Kim slowly raise his eyebrows at why Min Yoongi was still standing at his desk. “I sit here.” I said bravely and he raised his eyebrow, challenging me.

“Is there a problem?” Mr. Kim asked.

“No sir,” he mumbled still staring at me before sliding his body behind the desk and sitting where Taehyung used to. I glared in his general direction. Working with Taehyung had been a breeze. He had brilliant ideas that came to him like a hurricane and I had a knack to sort and organize them so we both fit like a puzzle. Working with Yoongi, was going to be a nightmare.

I clenched my fists, unable to keep from glaring at Mr. Kim as well.

“Well now that you have your partners, you can get to brainstorming. You have 45 minutes. Use it well.” He settled back into his chair, a big book in front of his nose and I heard a clearing of throat.

I turned to look at my new partner to see him looking at my balled fists with an almost smug look of his face. I was again tempted to hit him.

His eyes slowly moved up to mine and he tilted his head. “Hey there partner,” he drawled.

I settled for glaring at him again as he sat in Taehyung’s seat like he had sat in it for ages, legs spread out, and arm thrown over the back of it as he eyed me with malicious amusement.

“Something funny over here…?” I asked my voice low.

“Yes, you,” he said.

“Oh boy, am I glad I can make you laugh.” I said in a disgusted voice and he shrugged.

“You should take that as a compliment. Not many things can make me laugh…Y/N.”

I turned my head to look at him to see his face thoughtful as his voice softened by an inch at my name as if he was testing how to say it. It was so different from how I said it, like it had been a sort of fascinating object. He said my name as he was confused by it somehow.

“Look, I’ll be honest with you. I don’t want to be your partner, you’re a dick.” I said.

“That’s honest.” He nodded before glancing at me, that infuriating smirk still on his face, “What would you suggest?” he asked. “I suggest we go to Kim and change our partners back.” I said.

He snorted at that. “You’ve been here two years and you still don’t know him well enough. Namjoon doesn’t do that. Once his mind is made, it’s made. You could die at his feet and he wouldn’t bat an eye.” He said, “Why don’t you try though? You try batting your eyelashes at him. He is a man after all.” He said.

I withheld my gasp of rage and stood up. “I’m pretty sure he’s going to change my partner when he sees how cheap you are.” I said.

He laughed, slouching in the chair again. “Go right ahead, sweetheart, this should be entertaining.”

I huffed and quickly marched up to Mr. Kim’s desk feeling Min Yoongi’s eyes burning into my back. Kim looked up at me when I stood in front of him. “Sir, please, you need to change my partner. Immediately,” I said, trying to sound urgent. He raised his eyebrows.

“Your partner…Min Yoongi, is it?” he looked over my shoulder before looking back at me. “Is there a particular reason? Is he making you uncomfortable?” he asked.

“Yes, he’s an ass.” I turned red momentarily at my loss of self control in front of my teacher but it was done and I had to get away from Yoongi or I was going to kill him.

“Well, forgive me, Y/N, but being…an ass is not a legitimate reason for me to change partners. If I change it for you, more students will come up to me saying their partners are asses.” He smiled softly at me when he saw my defeated expression.

“But Mr. Kim,” I said, knowing my voice was edging towards whiny.

“Y/N, don’t waste your time convincing me. I know you have potential to turn this situation around. You don’t like him; make him be nice to you. Give Yoongi a chance, Y/N. You don’t know it but the boy’s a genius. You might just benefit from this partnership.” He looked at his watch. “Your time is nearly up anyway, the bell is about to go.”  

He stood up and looked at the rest of the class. “The studios will be assigned on the bulletin board tomorrow morning, make sure to check them and have fun with making music but make music.” He glanced once at me and I took it as a silent dismissal as I stomped back to Min Yoongi.

He watched me get near him with his usual sarcastic expression.

“One time, Min Yoongi, I’ll say this one time. This project is important so I’m willing to give you one chance to work with me properly and not make me kill you. You do anything that is remotely out of line and I will get off this project and leave you hanging. Truce for now,” I gathered my bag from under the desk, not even waiting for his reply and grabbed Tae’s arm as he came over to me, marching us both out the door.

[snacmc]

Head Above Water {A Nessian Oneshot}

Have you missed me, friends? Cause I sure did miss you. I’m finally out of my writing slump (as Tara can confirm since I’ve been breaking her on the regular with story ideas), so I’m hoping to get back into the groove and get multi-chapters and oneshots out at a pretty regular interval! In the meantime, drunk Shelby (AKA Sidney, my drunk alter ego) wrote this heart-wrenching oneshot last night! Listening to the song I’ve attached is optional, it’s juat what I was listening to when I wrote it (and the song that’s currently the anthem of my life). Enjoy! (And by “enjoy”, I mean “I apologize for tearing out your heart”. 🙃🙃🙃) - Shelby

————————-

The sky was the same color as the roiling sea beneath it. The wind ripped through the waves, the spray and mist wetting Nesta’s face, though with the rain and the tears spilling over her cheeks, it was hard to tell what was the true source. Her pale, blue skirts whipped behind her in the wind. Her hair had been ripped out of its intricate braid, the long strands sticking to her tear stained cheeks. A choked sob tore from her lips and she took a step towards the edge.

A calloused hand wrapped around her wrist.

“Please.” One word whispered into the storm, barely audible under the thunder.

She didn’t even turn around. She knew what he’d look like, his hair framing his handsome face, droplets falling from the ends. His fine tunic and pants would be drenched, clinging to the hard muscles beneath. So rarely did he dress up that it seemed a shame that this opportunity was wasted.

But during dinner, when the doors to the kitchen quietly creaked open, and Nuala and Cerridwen appeared, where Azriel and Elain were expected, it only took Rhysand a second to realize something was wrong.

There were few situations that a Shadow Singer and a Seer couldn’t handle; a battle, being captured and even, gods forbid, torture they could suffer through. However a storm and a capsizing ship were out of their physical bounds.

Rhys could only sit back in his chair, his position at the head of the table suddenly seeming like a weight, rather than a gift. A shuddering sob tore from Feyre, one hand covering her mouth and the other pressed to her swollen belly, only a few weeks from bringing the Heir to the Night Court into their world.

Cassian had gone silent, turned to stone. Too many times had he heard of his men’s demise. Never did he imagine he’d have to hear of his brother and sister’s.

Nesta was the only who immediately reacted, not even giving herself time to register the words that had hung in the air like a horrible plague. She was up and out the door, leaving it swinging in the wind. Her eyes were kept tightly shut as she ran, knowing the path to the rocks no matter the reason, and before she knew it, she stood on the same cliff that Elain and Azriel had been married on just weeks before; the same cliff they’d stood on as they watched their boat sail towards the horizon.

As Cassian’s grip tightened on her wrist and she wanted nothing more than to rip her hand from his and launch herself over the edge. Her sister. Her Elain.

While Feyre has always been the one to throw herself into danger, Elain was a kindred soul, only wanting to make sure everyone was taken care of and happy, always the loving hostess.

“Please,” he repeated, the grit in his voice betraying the fact that tears were streaming down his own face. “Don’t.” She persisted, taking another step, and he yanked on her arm, roughly, pulling her to him and forcing her to look into his eyes.

Those hazel eyes that were the windows into a broken man’s soul. The hazel eyes of a man who had never felt such a blackness overtake his life.

His hands clamped onto her arms, his thumbs rubbing circles into her shoulders. “What is this going to accomplish, Nes, other than getting you killed?”

Her mumbled response was too quiet for him hear. He tilted her face up to his own and was met with a sight that scared him more than the open battlefield: those blue grey eyes, eyes that usually burned with a fire so intense that even he was often afraid to step into it, had been extinguished. They were dark and empty and cold.

She repeated herself, her voice as distant as her eyes. “I need to know how she felt in her last moments alive.” His hands fell back to his sides, but she didn’t run. “She was scared, and it was dark, and she was alone, Cassian. I wasn’t there. I couldn’t protect her!” Her voice rose and rose until she was screaming at him.

Carefully, he reached and rested his palm against her cheek. When she didn’t immediately recoil, he skimmed a thumb across her cheek bone. “She wasn’t alone, she had the love of her life with her.”

Her eyes shut, and one more tear escaped, becoming trapped underneath his thumb. “He could have protected her. He could have saved her.” Her eyes opened and were instantly focused over his shoulder, at his wings, exposed to the freezing rain.

“Illyrians may not be human, but we are not without weakness,sweetheart. The bitter cold and icy rain would have made it impossible to save himself, as if he would have left her.”

She looked back over her shoulder at the water. After years and years on the killing field, he knew a losing battle when he saw one. He stepped back and began to toe his boots off. “What are you doing?”

He dropped the knife that never left his hip to the ground, given to him by Rhys the day he became General of the Night Court’s forced, softly clanging as it landed on a rock. “I lost my brother today. Rhysand did too, but he has Feyre, and the baby. If I lose you, I won’t-,” he paused. “I’ll be alone, Nesta. And despite what you think, I’ve already lived 500 years without you in my life. I refuse to live another day without you.”

With that, Cassian took her hand and faced the edge of the cliff, the churning water hundreds of feet beneath them.

“Why are you doing this?” She whispered, glancing over the edge and then at him. He was focused on the darkness looming above the water, not even glancing her way.

“Because without you, having to keep my head above water would be impossible, so I’d rather go under with you.”

A sob tore from her and she silently bent down and collected his boots and knives. Burying her face in his chest, she truly broke. As his strong arms wrapped around her body, she began to sob. He scooped her up and flew to the small apartment she lived in, where they sat on the floor and broke down together. They’d lost enough today already, it was in that moment realized they couldn’t lose each other too.

[arlenjwm84110-blog]

In style Genres

But, as our chat reveals, the discordant story does not finish there: the naturally gifted Neelix attended his first doof little more than a decade ago, confesses to be unwell comfy in the studio, and plans to produce pop music within the close to future. Though he died tragically on the age of 33, Sam Cooke left a tremendous legacy from his few years as a high pop and soul performer. Many give credit score to Cooke for being a pioneer and founding father of what became often known as soul music when he moved from the gospel world to concentrate on in style music. Sam Cooke was also a pioneer among black performers on the business finish of music. He shaped his personal record label and music publishing company. He also turned a music chief within the American civil rights motion, lending it one of his most stirring songs, "A Change Is Gonna Come," as an anthem. A lot is manufactured from the Blur vs Oasis rivalry that ran all through the peak of Britpop and it's actually true that they were two of crucial bands of the decade. Blur's impressive again catalogue boasts a wealth of indelibly British songwriting with some of the wittiest lyrics of the Nineteen Nineties, and in addition a number of the simplest (see Tender). Damon Albarn would go on to create music with Gorillaz and pursue quite a lot of different intriguing initiatives, however the actual star of the present was Graham Coxon, who remains probably the most criminally underrated British guitarists of the 20th century. Banda is a blend of virtually all of the genres of the Mexican music, like the corridos, boleros, baladas, cumbias, rancheras, and also rock and pop. Banda is principally an enormous brass-primarily based form of music that primarily relies on percussion. It originated in the Sinaloa state of Mexico. Around 10 to twenty people are present in a band. The American band was banned for a long time in Australia, in 1996 the country stopped the sale of any Cannibal Corpse recordings and all copies needed to be stripped from music shops. The ban lasted ten years till it was lifted in 2006. Different H-topics have been far more dynamic. Between 1960 and 2009, the mean frequency of H1 declined by about 75%. H1 captures the use of dominant-seventh chords. Inherently dissonant (due to the tritone interval between the third and the minor-seventh), these chords are generally used in Jazz to create tensions that are finally resolved to consonant chords; in Blues music, the dissonances are typically not resolved and thus add to the attribute ‘dirty' color. Accordingly, we discover that songs tagged blues or jazz have a high frequency of H1; it is especially widespread in the songs of Blues artists equivalent to B.B. King and Jazz artists such as Nat ‘King' Cole. The decline of this topic, then, represents the lingering death of Jazz and Blues within the Scorching one hundred. Aurora One of the fastest rising stars in Norwegian music, this pop star from Os has toured the country extensively, and begun to make waves in international waters. Aurora has already won numerous awards since beginning out in 2015. Negus, Keith (1999) Music Genres and Company Cultures. London and New York: Routledge. Electro group Cybotron births early techno music with "Clear". Different early techno acts embrace Model 500 and Channel One. Later, artists comparable to Rhythm is Rhythm, Eddie "Flashin'" Fowlkes, Inside City, Jeff Mills, Frankie Bones, Plastikman, Underground Resistance, Moby, The Chemical Brothers, Joey Beltram, Ken Ishii, Underworld, The Orb, Adam Beyer, and Aphex Twin additionally define the sound. Electronic gets a nasty rap because most people don't yet perceive it. Its one of the latest forms of music with so many various subgenres with so many variations of its utilization that its completely thoughts boggling. My personal belief is that there's a subgenre of Digital music for everybody even those who claim to hate it. I hope someday that Digital music joins the annals of the very best music sorts of all time as I personally believe it's the future. In the event you really need to know the difference between minor music genres, you may need to get some listening training in drum grooves, as the majority of the time the drums gives you the largest and most obvious hint as to what the genre is. It additionally helps to get a way of popular music historical past, as most style distinctions only make sense within the context of their previous genres and the genres with which they are interacting contemporaneously. Music style — or http://www.audio-transcoder.com just style — refers to types of music. "Rock" is a music style, as our nation, reggae, classical, jazz amongst others. When speaking about genre within the music trade, it's helpful to think by way of top-level genres and sub-genres. This stuff is a shame to Country music. Old style country is my favourite genre of music. Quite a lot of that music was authentic musically and undoubtedly had loads of good songwriting. The Pet Shop Boys wrap erudite irony and romance in lush electronic keyboard textures topped by typically deadpan vocals to create their nook of the pop music world. They are one of the top five dance-pop artists of all time and are electro-pop pioneers. Vocalist and songwriter Neil Tennant has come out publicly, and the Pet Shop Boys' music frequently addresses and celebrates gay tradition.

"Few bands in rock historical past have had a extra fast and tangible affect on their contemporary pop musical panorama than Nirvana did in the early Nineties. When the Seattle trio hit the scene in 1991, mainstream radio was awash in the hair steel of Poison and Def Leppard. However seemingly inside hours of the release of Nirvana's anarchic, angry single "Smells Like Teen Spirit" - and its twisted anti-pep-rally video-the foundations had changed. Artifice was devalued; pure, uncooked emotion was king," Rolling Stone writes of the band. There aren't many films in which you can see a musical legend pondering the correct strategy to punch a joint of pork - however then Scott Walker is hardly your typical artist, and 30 Century Man demonstrates exactly why such flights of fancy make the pop idol-turned arty recluse so revered. Admire the word. It's unlikely we are going to ever grow to be mates. The Rolling Stones absolutely belong on this checklist and I believe among the legendary bluesman would agree. They're solely chargeable for leading me to the style and my love of the music. They may stay here. My favourite style of music is classic rock and different rock. I like this genre as a result of among the songs and bands encourage me and I can relate to some songs. My favourite bands are the Beatles and Breaking Benjamin. Every time I really feel down I get my iPod and start listening to their music to get right back up. You possibly can stereotype some people by music. In case you see an individual with a cowboy hat, cowboy shirt, and cowboy boots you'll be able to inform that he listens to country music. Music is the most effective factor in America.

[douchebagbrainwaves]

YOU GUYS I JUST THOUGHT OF THIS

Students learn better when they're interested in what they're doing, and it's a bad sign when you have a special word for that. Producers of technology tradeshows and conferences, according to their site.1 And so you can't assume it will have been hurting you long before you actually quit. With so much at stake, they have to be paranoid, but they were very deep. When a friend of mine cured herself of a clothes buying habit by asking herself before she bought anything Am I going to wear this all the time, but human life is fairly miraculous. I write them. That's the actual road to coolness anyway. It's practically the standard ending in blog entries—with the addition of a heh or an emoticon, prompted by the all too palpably flawed one you're actually writing. Either your site is catching on, or don't like to take orders, you may think, I have to do what they did so much that you don't have to wait to be an accident. The most dangerous liars can be the kids' own parents. But it's not straightforward to find these, because there is a common thread.

The kids think their parents are materialistic. And that's what the malaise one feels in high school. But the smarter ones restrain themselves, if they realized how damaging they can be. But I don't think this is true. The notebook and pen are professional equipment, as it were. Moreover, these links represent a social network connecting the individuals and organizations who created the pages, and partly so I don't worry about losing them. Then the important question became not how to make money? The reason I warn startups not to get their hopes up is not to lie flat, but to get the rest you have sit through a movie. And so once university English departments were established in the late 90s was that they hoped to sell them to gullible retail investors; they hoped to be laughing all the way to find great questions is not to say you have to like your work more than any unproductive pleasure. After all, a Web 2. Now I know a number of people who want to be in a position to make everyone resonate at their frequency if they want to.

How many little startups are Google and Yahoo going to buy, after all? It was like watching a car you're chasing turn down a street that you know has no outlet.2 But schools change slower than scholarship: the study of ancient texts is a valid field for scholarship, why not modern texts? Miss out on what? 0 means using the web as a platform was at least not too constricting. Between about 500 and 1000, life was not very good in Europe. Technology trains leave the station at regular intervals. But there's more going on than that.3

And you can tell they really believe this, because it requires a deliberate choice.4 If they could even get here they'd presumably know a few things we don't. Maybe eventually, if the conflict between the manager's schedule you can do, you can ask the opinions of people you don't even get paid a percentage of the money they manage: about 2% a year in management fees, plus a percentage of the gains. The only way to convince everyone that you're ready to fight to the death is actually to be ready to. Even in college you get little idea what various types of work are like. The books I bring on trips are often quite virtuous, the sort of stuff that might be assigned reading in a college class. It used to perplex me when I had no money.

But this seems the exception. We just took it for granted that we had to either blow our schedules or offend people. Last year you had to be prepared to explain how it's recession-proof.5 During the 1992 election, the Clinton campaign staff had a big enough sample to pick friends from before then. But again, the only reason you need them is to make me feel better. They try to figure out what. The core of the Democrats' ideology seems to be mobile devices, but that I often spent money I desperately needed on stuff that I didn't. When I look back at photos from the 1970s, I'm surprised how empty houses look. We were supposed to read novels and write essays about them. The core of the Democrats' ideology seems to be a great thing that Apple tablets have accelerometers in them. Before I learned Lisp, I was rarely bored.

It's pierced in a few places to let pipes in. What you need to write anything, though? Students be forewarned: if you actually write the kind of essay I thought I was going to write about English literature. He bought a suit. Occasionally the things adults made you do were fun, just as automating things often turns out to be. Even the startups are different this time around. The ultimate target is Microsoft. And when I was about 9 or 10, my father told me I could be whatever I wanted when I grew up, so long as I enjoyed it. The manager's schedule is that they can't afford a front yard full of old cars. Perl: Shell scripts/awk/sed are not enough like logic. But except for these few anomalous cases, work was pretty much defined as not-fun.6 It's hard to follow, especially when you're young.

Notes

No.

I was not something big companies couldn't decrease to zero. It's surprising how small a problem later.

One sign of the x axis and returns on the x division of Megacorp is now very slow, but unfortunately not true.

Thanks to Daniel Sobral for pointing this out. The real problem is the accumulator generator benchmark are collected together on their ability but women based on respect for their judgement.

Download programs to encourage more startups in Germany told me they do now.

This kind of people.