Summary: Werewolves aren’t meant to be messed with, but unfortunately, you don’t really have a choice.
Warnings: nothing much in this part, though that will change later
Word Count: 2,218
A/N: It’s been like 2 weeks since I last posted something? Idk, but my focus has been very out of whack lately, and finally I had the motivation to write. Unfortunately, it isn’t one of my ongoing things, but this is what happened and I’m glad to be expanding my masterlist. I wrote this is about an hour or two and didn’t really feel like editing, so sorry for any mistakes. Enjoy.
You tapped your pencil against your desk in a steady rhythm, the sound of your professor’s voice droning on in the background. You couldn’t bring yourself to pay attention today.
Your eyes wandered to the other side of the classroom where the floor-to-ceiling windows revealed the view of the sunny courtyard beyond. It was a nice day for autumn, and you would much rather be spending it outside than in this stuffy classroom. Unfortunately, there were still thirty minutes left of class, and then you were going to head to the library after to study.
And, as it usually went in this class, your eyes wandered to the boy sitting next to the windows.
You didn’t know what it was about him, but somehow he always caught your eye. Never once had you spoken to him – or even heard him speak, for that matter – but he was absolutely captivating. You’d never really gotten a good look at his face, but from the glimpses you caught he was extraordinarily handsome. He was tall as well, but other than that, you knew only one thing about him: his name.
Guys, just a short thing:
I love my music! It tells the truth! John is not cheating (at least it’s not his fault!!!)
Because the “cheating” theme is a variation on “targets” from TBB!!!
I knew it sounded familiar, because of the high flute notes, rarely used by Price and Arnolds! But also the background sound and ‘rhythm’ is similar!!!
JOHN IS A TARGET!! SOMEONE SENT E IN HIS WAY!!
[That’s the second part! Because “targets” is also the main theme for the circus in TBB and for Shane, who was sent in their way by M.
… the side notes of “target” (and therefor of “cheating”) always remembered me strongly of some aspects of the Mycroft theme “security cameras”…. so what would be the consequence? M. = Mycroft? And therefor Mycroft also the one who sent E.? Don’t know for sure, that’s what coming up when listening to the soundtrack…]
But most important: John is the target in this whole cheating shit…
❝ We won’t ever see each other again. ❞ ❝
Stop pretending to be calm. ❞ ❝ Let’s go watch a movie later. ❞ ❝
I don’t wanna let you go like this. ❞
❝ Stop for a moment. ❞ ❝ It’s raining. ❞
❝ It’ll be dangerous if you go now. ❞ ❝ There’s a lot of time. ❞ ❝ Just one more day. ❞ ❝Just one more hour. ❞ ❝ Just one more minute. ❞ ❝ It’s the last time I’m seeing you, please. ❞ ❝ Do you have to go today? ❞ ❝ Can’t you go tomorrow? ❞ ❝ I don’t wanna let you go. ❞ ❝ When will you be back? ❞ ❝ I’m scared of getting far away from you. ❞
Dumb & Dumber:
Let’s get dumb. ❞ ❝
I don’t have class. ❞ ❝
I don’t hide anything. ❞ ❝
There’s no time to breathe. ❞ ❝
Let out your wild side. ❞ ❝
Of course you hate me. ❞ ❝
Dance, dance like you’re crazy. ❞ ❝
Oh baby, is anyone there?
My heart is lonely. ❞ ❝ Don’t look at me like that. ❞ ❝
Shout out. ❞ ❝
I just wanna get drunk. ❞ ❝
From my head, shoulders to my toes.❞ ❝
You look like a penguin. ❞ ❝
What’s good is good. ❞
❝ The sky is spinning. ❞ ❝ My head is hurting. ❞
❝I know your heart isn’t with me. ❞ ❝ Baby please say nothing. ❞ ❝
It wasn’t me. ❞ ❝
Be more honest with yourself.❞ ❝
It’s not like you will pay attention. ❞ ❝
It’s okay to go. ❞ ❝
I’ll only accept that. ❞
❝ Don’t worry about me. ❞ ❝ Just go. ❞ ❝ I’ll let go of the hand that I held before I change my mind. ❞ ❝ Don’t regret it. ❞ ❝ Don’t be sorry to me. ❞ ❝ We weren’t fated. ❞ ❝ I don’t know how it’ll be for you, but every night will be gloomy for me. ❞ ❝ I’m dumping you now. ❞ ❝ It was messed up from the beginning.❞ ❝ I’ll hope for the happiness you couldn’t have with me.❞
You’re my type. ❞ ❝
Even if you don’t say anything, I have a feeling. ❞ ❝
From your head to your toes, everything. ❞ ❝
When I look at you, I want you so bad I go crazy. ❞ ❝
I think about you. ❞
❝ It all looks so pretty to me. ❞ ❝ Why did you come now? ❞ ❝ There is no flaw anywhere. ❞ ❝ You’re perfect. ❞ ❝ We’re getting closer. ❞ ❝ Can I ask you something? ❞ ❝ I like it babe. ❞ ❝ I really like you. ❞ ❝ Even when you yawn sometimes, it’s my style. ❞ ❝ We have a good connection. ❞ ❝ Every time you call my name, I can’t stop smiling. ❞ ❝ You know that I love you. ❞
What’re you doing? ❞ ❝
We’re not picky. ❞ ❝
We don’t try to act cool. ❞ ❝
We’re having fun, what other reason do you need?
❞ ❝ It’ll be a compliment. ❞ ❝ Come and get it. ❞
The music is playing, everyone is humming along. ❞ ❝ Tonight, get ready to die. ❞
❝ Time is like looking at gold like it’s a valueless stone. ❞ ❝ Don’t act like a hotshot. ❞ ❝ I know you wanna play. ❞ ❝ This isn’t a chance that comes every day. ❞ ❝ If you miss it, you might regret it. ❞ ❝ Don’t regret the things you’re gonna regret before you regret it. ❞ ❝ There’s no meaning. ❞ ❝ We’re a bit delinquent. ❞ ❝ Turn up the volume. ❞
❝ I’m scared. ❞
❝ Is hanging out with my friends for the first time in a while such a big crime? ❞ ❝ Your attitude says that everything I say is wrong. ❞ ❝ It’s making me uncomfortable. ❞ ❝ You only think about yourself. ❞ ❝ It’s always my fault. ❞ ❝ I don’t know why you’re crying. ❞ ❝ I can’t take it anymore. ❞ ❝ What did I do wrong? ❞ ❝ Tell me, what’s wrong this time? ❞ ❝ What do you mean, nothing? ❞ ❝ I’m tired of fighting. ❞ ❝ Let’s stop this now. ❞ ❝ You won’t believe what I say anyway. ❞
❝ Can’t I see that beautiful smile again? ❞ ❝ I give you love, but I’m only getting scars. ❞ ❝ Where did our good times go? ❞
When she was younger her mother always told her that heartbeats are supposed to sound like the beating of a drum, the cadence of a poem, the sound of tender lips and soft kisses.
When she was younger her father always told her that heartbeats are supposed to sound like shattering glass, dashingly broken, claw marks on delicate flesh.
Why, if that’s the case, is it that with him her heartbeats sound like the thrumming rhythm of waves that break against the cliffs, flooding the shores to wash everything away?
The first time Gabriel heard McCree sing, it was under the stars in their little Blackwatch caravan. The agents were gathered by the fire, swaying and laughing as McCree tapped his drum to an rhythm that sounded ancient. He spoke words none of them understood, but they felt it, the raw emotion and happiness he soothed them. The fire became warmer, their spirits softer. Rest was easy that night. Before he knew it McCree was curled at his side, humming gently. They slept well that night.
The first time Jesse heard Reaper sing, it was the dead of night, in a small town in the middle of nowhere. An ex-Blackwatch agent called him for help, that The Reaper was coming for him. The howls chilled McCree to the bone, he could feel his heart in his throat, thumping harder the closer the eerie calls became. He didn’t realize he was paralyzed, curled in a corner crying until the sound had stopped, until Evans was a dead husk in the room next door. All he could feel was the pain the song wrought. Fear, sorrow, and pure burning fury.
first in this week’s line up of [SLURP] music, a theme for Claire!
with SLARPG’s new protagonists, i wanted to create themes that would speak to each of the characters’ personalities. @ponett described Claire as someone who means well, but whose know-it-all tendencies can make her seem intimidating, bossy, and even reckless. nonetheless, she believes she’s doing the right thing and really wants to prove she’s a good friend.
with this track, i hoped to capture Claire’s awkwardness and know-it-all-itude while still keeping an optimistic vibe to the song. the odd rhythm (7/4 time!) keeps things just a beat shy of symmetrical to represent Claire’s tendency for good intentions falling through. meanwhile, her brainy qualities come through as a super patternistic arrangement: each instrument plays very strict and mathy-sounding rhythms and melodies in each section.
i geeked out a lot while making new tracks, which made me think of how something magic happens when you get to nerd all over your passion—and since Claire’s nerd passion is witchcraft, it seemed fitting to let some of that rigid mathiness loosen up and bring in some mystical vibes with smooth sax action (saxion???), to end on a note that ultimately says “this is what i love.”
also, lots of cowbell LOL
very very excited for the next theme coming up—i’ll be posting it in a couple days. stay tuned!
He takes a slow, deep breath, trying to slow
the beating of his heart. Its soft thudding sounds seem out of rhythm with the noises
of a forest at night - the melodious hum of the crickets and the birds’ last chirrups
of the day - as he attempts to clear his head and listen to his own thoughts.
Every time he closes his eyes the image of her
this afternoon ghosts before his closed lids. There were autumn-leaves in her
hair when she finally returned to camp a few hours back; he’d been looking for
her, against his better judgment, and attempting to avoid raising the
suspicions of their companions and the Inquisition’s many helpers who are
travelling with them. He had found himself unable to stay away, and even though
he’d had no clear idea of what to talk about when he would eventually find her sitting under a tree or working to help
with the many tasks at hand, he’d still kept looking.
But he hadn’t found her. She had left the camp
and walked off by herself, where to he didn’t know; when he asked where she’d
been, a tinge of annoyed impatience in his voice - betraying just a little too
much of his eagerness - she simply smiled, her eyes downcast, and an irresistible
blush creeping up her cheeks, and didn’t answer.
But no opportunity to talk to her again
presented itself for the rest of the day; and so, when night was falling and he
found himself unable to sleep, he got up out of his uncomfortable and too-cold bedroll
with an irritated huff and left the camp quietly, but not without slowing down
his agitated steps almost imperceptibly when passing her tent. He’d hoped that
his restless heart might still as the world around him stilled, the trilling
chirps of birds replaced by night-time’s perfect silence. He thought he might
be able to wallow undisturbed in his boyish infatuation, a little ways away
from the crowded camp.
But unlike so many times before when he found
refuge in nature’s stillness to search his own mind in peace, he now realizes
that there’s no such peace to be had here either.
The last traces of a late summer day’s sunset
have vanished on the horizon now, and the silvery shadows cast by a few wispy
clouds that are drifting along the twinkling canvas of the midnight sky are dancing
through the branches of the trees and over the mossy forest ground.
But Solas almost doesn’t notice the beauty he’s
surrounded by; the only beauty his longing mind seems to recognise anymore is
hers. The nightingales’ tuneful song seems to urge him on, telling him to
listen to the flutter of his heart; He struggles with the uneasy confusion of
not knowing his own mind and its relentless and uneven beating makes him fidget
constantly with unrest. He finds that the soft tingling of wet grass against
the back of his hand, which is hanging limply down his side, is distracting
him; as is the gentle pressure of cold hard stone against his lower back. There’s
a tension in him he hasn’t felt in a long time, and it takes him several long
moments of staring at the stars above, his brow creased slightly with
confusion, to figure out what it is.
He gives another exasperated and irritated sigh,
trying to keep himself from even thinking it.
This is ridiculous. He is even older than the
ancient trees he is surrounded by, older than this forest, older than the statue
on whose back he is reclining - and far, far older than the soul he is contemplating
now. He should know every last corner of his own mind far better and more
completely than any other living being could say of themselves. He has seen countless
ages pass, the rise and fall of civilisations - all of which were sworn to
outlast the centuries and didn’t; but he is still here, still enduring the
constant struggles and the numberless blows that life deals out each day. He
was there to witness each and every one of mankind’s unsteady, ever-changing
ideas of how the world works come and go and come again more times than he can
count. None of them ever achieved a sense for what they’re made of or what they
were once meant for. None of them even came close to the wisdom he was born into.
But with a resigned sigh he finds that he has
to admit to himself that, apparently, the thing he knows the least about is his
Here he is, a man so old the humans he lives
with now could hardly even grasp the concept, and at the same time a love-sick
whelp; he ponders all the things he has achieved, remembers all the corners of
this vast world that he has travelled, the wonders he has seen in the next - an
old soul, a dreamer suddenly so uneasy he cannot find sleep, of all things.
Instead, the memory of her, who should be so insignificant
compared to all that he has seen, haunts him even to those parts of his own
mind that he thought he knew best. It is absurd.
Maybe this rather arrogant assumption of superiority
is precisely what is keeping him from understanding himself. He may be old,
wise even, a soul that has grown, steady and smooth, intent and deliberate; but
becoming that man has also cost him dearly. He never really lets the idea
surface and work its way to the forefront of his mind - not fully - but it
always lurks beneath; that distant memory of a man that isn’t called a god or
branded a traitor. And isn’t it this man’s nature to want this? To feel like
this? To want to love and be loved in return - and he finds that he can answer
this question. He can accept that beneath the layers of hurt and beneath his strong
sense for the fulfilment of his duty there are still the yearnings of a living,
breathing being. And as the thought settles on his mind, the tension leaves his
body, washed away by how he has reminded himself of a part of him he had long
Suddenly, the soft tickle of the grass against
his skin doesn’t bother him anymore, and he relaxes the muscles in his back to
mould against the statue’s back rather than struggle against its gentle
He takes another deep breath, calmer than
before. And as he does, he notices the sweet and earthy smells of the forest in
the warm night air. A sense of calm spreads from within and makes him feel that
he and Nature are equals again as he revels in its beauty. The nightingale’s song
doesn’t seem so irksome anymore, and suddenly he can’t remember why it bothered
him before. Its languorous melodies speak of devotion, of tender aches and
restless, joyful anticipation - an ode he would dedicate to her.
He can feel her here, sense how close she is. She
is in the air around him, in the trees, the way the stars twinkle back at him
from high above and the smell of wet grass that clings to the night. Something
is coming. But the thought of what that something is doesn’t seem so
threatening anymore, doesn’t seem to lurk in dark corners or hang heavily in
the air, looming, like a coming storm. His restlessness changes into something
sweet; a yearning he hasn’t known for a long time.
He misses her.
And as he grants himself this honesty, all at
once the way forward seems clear. He still can’t know for certain how she might
react to his fumbling attempts at making her see his love and whether she will
accept him - he does not dare to
hope. He cannot phrase this jittery feeling in such a way that she might
understand his meaning without it losing the subtlety he means to preserve so
as to not overwhelm with his words. But maybe she can tell by the way his voice
sometimes stumbles nervously, or how he always needs something for his hands to
hold onto when his knees feel shaky when they speak - his way of trying to keep
However he is going to do it, whatever they are
going to talk about - he will go to her, he has to see her. Now.
He swings his legs lightly to the side and gets
up from where he has been reclining on the back of the statue of a wolf raised
in the middle of a clearing; and he walks off, back to camp, a new spring in
his step, without looking back. If he had
looked back, the sight of the now abandoned clearing and its lonely, stony
occupant on whose back he has been lying for most of the night reminding
himself of his feeling nature, might have reminded him, instead, of another
part of him, a different part; the part that could easily wreck his new found
resolution to give in to the gentle beatings of his heart, if the thought of
her hadn’t swept it out of his head for now.
But Solas keeps his
eyes fixed ahead to where he can see the golden glow of the still burning
campfires dancing between the tall trees. It’s almost morning now - she might
be up already - and a mist begins to envelop the still dark pines as a new day